Demon Child

breath. That he fell to the floor, gasping as if he could not fill his lungs. He grabbed at his own neck, as if seeking invisible hands that were slowly strangling him, and he clawed his own flesh until he drew blood. But none of it helped him. His face mottled. His eyes bulged. And then he died.”
        Voices drifted up from downstairs. It was the sound of the twins engaged in some game or other. They were laughing brightly.
        “It could have been a heart attack,” Jenny said, “or a stroke.” She remembered Grandmother Brighton.
        “Perhaps.”
        “But you don't think so?”
        “The doctor who examined the corpse described the dead man's neck by saying that it looked as if he had been attacked by some animal, though none of the wounds were deep enough to cause death.”
        “He clawed himself, you said.”
        “Perhaps he did.”
        Jenny respected her aunt, loved the woman. Yet she worried for Cora's sanity now. This was so little to build a genuine fear upon. Wasn't it?
        “In the past months,” Cora went on, “Freya has suffered from fainting spells. Almost always at night. Her sleep is so deep that she can't be shaken awake, like a coma or trance. We've had Dr. Malmont in attendance quite often. He had been treating her, previously, for a vitamin deficiency. Now he believes, like Richard, that the comas are not connected to that, but to something else, some psychological cause.
        “And they must be right,” Jenny said.
        Cora seemed not to have heard her. “But when Freya sleeps like that, the wolf howls.”
        Jenny's eyes strayed to the red volumes of demonic lore. She quickly shifted her eyes back to Cora. The older woman was plainly distraught now, her face paler than before, her cheeks shrunken. “Richard didn't say anything about a wolf.”
        “He's heard it too. Nearby, sometimes distant. Every time when Freya is in a coma.”
        “You've seen it?”
        Cora shook her head negatively. “Even when it sounds quite close, it stays behind the screen of trees to the west, or over the hills on the north of the house. Sometimes, it bowls for half an hour or more, as if it is in some pain or possessed of great sadness. Other times, there is an ugly, murderous sound to it.”
        “It could be coincidence.”
        “That's what Richard says.”
        “There! You see!”
        Cora was still shaking her head back and forth. “But there is a point where coincidence becomes farcical. Coincidence can't explain the rabbits and the blood.”
        “You're losing me,” Jenny said, smiling, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the gloomy conversation.
        “In the last few weeks, we've found evidence of a wolf on the grounds. We find mangled rabbits by the stables. We found one on our front stoop, in fact. And twice, in the morning after one of Freya's comas, we've found blood smeared on one of the downstairs windows, as if the wolf had stood there at the glass, its bloodied jowls foaming, wondering if it should try to break in.”
        The way Cora said all this, her demeanor in its presentation, left no room for doubt. The events she had described were ones that had transpired. Whether their meaning was the one she ascribed to them, or whether there was some more natural explanation, Jenny could not guess.
        Ordinarily, she would have pooh-poohed any suggestion of the supernatural, of demons and curses and souls departing bodies to take the form of wolves. But these days, she had come to respect the unexpected, the unknown, to hold off disbelief and be prepared for any eventuality.
        Cora seemed to shake off the mood that had possessed her. She smiled, raised a hand to play with her dark hair again. “I'm sorry if I upset you. I invited you here before the worst of these things started, before we found the rabbits and the blood. I want you to have a good summer. You're teaching position will require a fresh young lady with a summer of sun and riding behind her.”
        “I'm sure there's some explanation behind all this,” Jenny said. “Neither Freya or Frank act like possessed children.”
        “They are wonderful, aren't they?” Cora asked. She laughed. “Maybe Richard is right. Maybe I am acting like a fool. I'll have to give it some more thought.”
        She hugged Jenny. “you try to rest now. There are fresh towels for your shower. The television and the radio work. There's a