Legacy Of Terror

murder spree that eventually left four more dead before the sunrise.
    The third piece concerned a Frenchman who, during the Napoleonic Wars, had been infected with lycanthropy and roamed the night streets of old Paris as a wolfman, preying on innocent citizens. The werewolf of Paris.
    Elaine closed the book and put it down on the nightstand. She was disgusted with John Robert Stoltz, with Anonymous, and with Jerry and Bess as well. Who could ever seriously believe such stuff as that? It was all a lot of baloney!
    She was angry, too, because she now saw what the old couple was trying to tell her, and she felt as if she were in the middle of a huge joke. Stupid. What they apparently believed about these recent events was so childish that she would never have imagined that anyone in the civilized world would actually hold to such notions. Could they honestly be convinced that Amelia Matherly's spirit had returned from the dead, carrying the long-lost knife, and had taken control of one of the family? Yes, they could. They were not merely having sport with a gullible girl. She was not the least bit gullible. But they were!
    She got up, filled with impatient energy, and she paced the lines of the room as she considered what she would say to the old couple in the morning when she returned their ridiculous book. “Here,” she would say, “is your fairy tale collection. I did get a few laughs from it.” No, that was too abrupt, too much like a child's retort. But she would come up with something, something that would make them understand that she didn't want to be bothered with any more such gifts as Recognizing the Possessed…
    She was still pacing when the stone struck the window. It made a sharp, quick crack that startled her. She stopped pacing and turned to the glass, half expecting to see someone on the ledge, peering in.
    There was only darkness.
    A second later, another pebble, perhaps as large as a grape, rattled against the pane and fell back towards the earth.
    Curious, she went to the window and pushed the heavy, amber drapes back even further until she had an unobstructed view of the black grass and the creeping shadows of the monstrous trees. For a moment, she did not see anyone. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, however, she saw the man. He was standing in the deepest shadows at the base of the largest of the nearby willows.
    Just standing there, very still.
    Then he moved.
    Another stone snapped sharply against the glass, directly in front of her face.
    The man dropped his arm and stood still again, looking up at her with a face she could not see.
    Elaine turned and looked at the clock by the bedside. It read ten minutes past midnight. She could not imagine who would be standing outside her window, at such a late hour, trying to attract her attention by throwing stones.
    The man did not move, even now, and he was well concealed by the shadows in which he chose to linger. She could only see the outline of him, dark black against the brown-black lawn. Otherwise, the night obscured even the nature of the clothes he wore.
    She slipped the bolt latch which held the halves of the gatelike window together, then lifted the hook out of the ring at the top. She swung the halves outward, like shutters.
    “Who is it?” she asked.
    He did not reply.
    It had occurred to Elaine that the man standing beneath the window might very well be the killer, trying to attract her attention for some inexplicable reason that only a madman could fathom. Yet she was not particularly frightened at the thought of confronting him like this. Twenty feet of horizontal space and twenty-five of verticle separated them. What could he do at that distance?
    “Who is it, please?”
    The man remained silent.
    She leaned out, trying to get a better look at him, but she could not tell who it was.
    “Dennis?” she asked, taking a chance, making the best guess she could.
    He moved again.
    This time, he did not throw a stone, but a rock as large as a baseball. It struck the stone wall of the house, two inches from the window frame, no more than four inches from her head. It struck with a sickeningly solid, businesslike smack!, then dropped back to the grass.
    Elaine gasped and grabbed for the halves of the window to pull them shut again.
    The second rock struck her shoulder and made her cry out, though fear had leeched the volume from her scream.
    Her arm ached miserably, but she managed to hold onto the gates of the window and swing them in. She