Demon Child

the dream she had had on the bus only the previous week. She had, in that dream, fled from the cemetery as her invisible pursuer ran after her-and she had run directly into the path of a fast-moving automobile. That might have been an omen, a warning. If she tried to run away from her fear, she would run into destruction.
        But how did you stand up and fight a curse? How did you wage war against demon spirits encased in a young and frightened child?
        Would Walter know? Would he be able to explain a battle plan in that nice, well-modulated voice of his? Would he be able to lead her in the fight and act as a shield when she needed him?
        He would. She somehow was certain of that. Walter would never back down from such an engagement, never even contemplate running away. It would always be best to stay by Walter, a haven in bad weather, the eye of the hurricane which was calm while all else roiled furiously.
        Am I going mad? she wondered. Am I crazy for lying here thinking thoughts like this, for even believing in a curse and werewolves for a single minute?
        No. She wasn't going mad, she decided. She had read somewhere that the madman is always certain of his sanity. When you question your sanity, you're genuinely sane.
        There was an abrupt knock at her door.
        She jumped nearly a foot off the mattress. The little bit of calm which had come back to her was now pushed out of her mind and replaced with the underlying fear that had been there, waiting, all along.
        “Yes?” she called out.
        “Harold, Miss Jenny.”
        “What is it, Harold?”
        “Would you please come downstairs, to the drawing room?”
        “Now?”
        “Yes.”
        “Whatever for?”
        “The police are here,” Harold said. He said it matter-of-factly, as if the announcement were quite ordinary.
        “Police?”
        “Yes, Jenny.”
        “They want to talk to me?”
        “I was told to ask you to come down, that Detective Maybray would like to talk with you.” He hesitated, then finished with, “He says immediately, without delay.”
        “What does he want to see me for? What's happened?”
        “I can't say,” Harold said.
        “You don't know?”
        “I know. But he told me I can't say.”
        “Harold-”
        But she did not finish, because she heard the manservant's footsteps as he retreated down the corridor and down the main stairwell.
        She was sitting up now, tense, her hands fisted just as Freya's hands had been fisted while the child had been recounting her nightmare under hypnosis. The veins of her temple stood out. The veins in her delicate, pale neck throbbed.
        It's coming to a head now, she thought. The whole storm has been building and building toward this one point. If lightning strikes, I know that it is going to strike me.
        She slipped her shoes on, went to the mirror to comb her hair. She noticed crow's feet of exhaustion in the corners of her eyes, the only lines to mar her beautiful face. She didn't have time to worry about that, however. She left her room and went downstairs.
        Twice, as she made her way down the steep risers of the main stairwell, she stopped, clinging to the polished mahogany railing. Her feet seemed to metamorphose into concrete. She just could not go down. She didn't want to go back to her room, though, for that would be cowardly flight. If she could just remain here, poised on the brink of disaster but never having to take the final leap across the threshold, all would be fine. She could stand here, examining the gold print in the expensive wallpaper, the run of the wood's grain under her slim hand. Days, weeks, months and years would pass, and she would be well…
        She shook off the unhealthy fantasies and continued downward…
        She walked the main hall to the curtained arch of the drawing room where she had first had coffee and sandwiches with Cora and Richard and the twins just a week ago. At the archway, she seemed to gain extra strength from some source and stepped through without hesitation.
        There were four people in the room. Harold stood in a far corner, stiff and gentlemanly, his eyes darting quickly around the room, from one of the other three to the next-and finally to Jenny herself. Richard sat in the heavy brown armchair. There were great, dark circles under his eyes. His arms, at first, appeared to be lying