Legacy Of Terror

the book that Jerry and Bess had left on her bed, and she read some more about men and women possessed by the spirits of the dead and guided to do unspeakable things. She hoped that, by reading this nonsense, she could make herself angry again. Filled with anger, she would have no room for fear.
    That was the idea.
    But it didn't work.
    She longed for the morning as she had never wanted anything in her life, and she greeted the pale dawn with childlike glee, watching the slow advance of the sun in awe.
    Soon, it would be morning. Soon, it would be all over with.
    Soon.

Chapter 17
    As a nurse, Elaine had always been fascinated by the ease with which people could overcome adversity which a moment earlier seemed to be suffocating them. Even the weakest people eventually stood up and faced whatever had been put in their path-a serious illness, the death of a loved one-and went on with their lives as best they could, eventually returning to normal. From the common laborer to the fanciful society matron, each human being seemed blessed with this resiliency. As she was, herself. Despite the long days of anxiety, despite the man who had hurt her with the rock, despite the long night of sleepless, fearful anticipation, she fell asleep in the easy chair shortly after dawn.
    When she woke, she did not know where she was. For a long minute, she stared about her, perplexed, looked at the unrumpled bed, at the sun trying to cut through the amber drapes over the window, at the door with its alarm system still balanced precariously on the straight-backed chair. And then she knew where she was, and she was angry with herself.
    She got up, weaving slightly with exhaustion, and stumbled toward the bathroom. She splashed cold water in her face until her eyes no longer tried to slide shut, then looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked sunken, her face pale. There were worry lines around her mouth. It had been a very bad week indeed. And a long and tiring night. She supposed she could not blame herself for falling asleep, and she decided that self-recrimination was only a waste of time.
    Dawn had seemed like such a blessing, a release from the dangers of the night, and she had succumbed to its symbolic safety. Now that daylight had returned and she had recovered some of her energy through the short nap in the chair, she knew the danger remained. The only way it would be dispelled was through her own initiative. Just like everything else in this life.
    The time was 9:07, which meant that Lee would already have departed for the city, Gordon with him. Bess would be washing the morning's dishes and puttering around in the kitchen, while Jerry would either be engaged in dusting the furniture downstairs or attending to some bit of maintenance in the large house. Jacob would be finishing his breakfast tray and perusing the morning paper. Paul Honneker would be- probably-sleeping off some binge he had indulged in the night before. And what of Dennis? Would he be watching the door of her room, waiting for her to come out?
    She remembered that Amelia Matherly had not required darkness to engage in bloody murder, and she knew that Dennis might wield the knife as easily in the light of morning as in the glow of the moon.
    It didn't matter. No matter what awaited her, she could not remain in her room indefinitely. If she did not call Captain Rand before he went off duty this evening, and if the psychiatrist did not manage to induce Celia to remember the identity of her attacker, then she would have to spend another night here, sitting up, tense, waiting for the knife blade to slip through the door frame and pry at the lock.
    She wouldn't be able to tolerate that again.
    She dressed simply, brushed her long, rich hair which fell over her shoulders like silken darkness. She removed the bottles from the chair that braced the door and replaced them on the dresser, taking time to arrange them as she liked them. As she was removing the chair from beneath the knob, someone knocked on the door, lightly but insistently.
    She could not hope to pretend that she was not here. For one thing, her door was locked from the inside, which he would discover if and when he tried it. For another, he must have heard her removing the bottles which had served as an alarm and taking the chair out from beneath the knob.
    “Who is it?” she asked.
    “Gordon.”
    “Gordon?” It did sound like his voice, through the thick door, but she could hardly believe it. She had