F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (8 page)

 
          
But
they didn't return. The afternoon dragged into evening, and then the sun was
down. Carole allowed herself the faint hope that they'd forgotten about
Bernadette or had become involved in more pressing matters.

 
          
She
draped her window, lit a candle, and began to pray.

 
          
She
didn't know what time the power went out. She had no idea how long she'd been
kneeling beside her bed when she glanced at the digital alarm clock on her
night table and saw that its face had gone dark.

 
          
Not
that a power failure mattered. She noticed barely an inch of the candle left.
She held her watch face near the flame. Only
2 A.M.
Would this night ever end?

 
          
She
was tempted to lift the bedspread draped over the window and peek outside, but
was afraid of what she might see.

 
          
How
long until dawn? she wondered, rubbing her eyes. Last night had seemed endless,
but this—

 
          
Beyond
her locked door, a faint creak came from somewhere along the hall. It could
have been anything—the wind in the attic, the old building settling—but it had
sounded like floorboards creaking.

 
          
And
then she heard it again.

 
          
Carole
froze, still on her knees, hands still folded in prayer, elbows resting on the
bed, and listened. More creaks, closer, and something else ... a rhythmic
shuffle ... in the hall. . . approaching her door . . .

 
          
Footsteps.

 
          
With
her heart punching frantically against the wall of her chest, Carole leaped to
her feet and stepped close to the door, listening with her ear almost touching
the wood. Yes. Footsteps. Slow. And soft, like bare feet scuffing the floor.
Coming this way. Closer. Right outside the door now.

 
          
Carole
felt a sudden chill, as if a wave of icy air had penetrated the wood, but the
footsteps didn't pause. They passed her door, moving on.

 
          
And
then they stopped.

 
          
Carole
had her ear pressed against the wood now. She could hear her pulse pounding
through her head as she strained for the next sound. And then it came, more
shuffling outside in the hall, almost confused at first, and then the footsteps
began again.

 
          
Coming
back.

 
          
This
time they stopped directly outside Carole's door. The cold was back again, a
damp, penetrating chill that reached for her bones. Carole backed away from it.

 
          
And
then the nob turned. Slowly. The door creaked with the weight of a body leaning
against it from the other side, but Carole's bolt held.

 
          
Then
a voice. Hoarse. A single whispered word, barely audible, but a shout could not
have startled her more.

 
          
"Carole?"

 
          
Carole
didn't reply—couldn't reply.

 
          
"Carole,
it's me.
Bern
. Let me in."

 
          
Against
her will, a low moan escaped Carole. No, no, no, this couldn't be Bernadette.
Bernadette was dead. Carole had left her cooling body lying in the basement.
This was some horrible joke . . .

 
          
Or
was it? Maybe Bernadette had become one of them, one of the very things that
had killed her.

 
          
But
the voice on the other side of the door was not that of some ravenous beast . .
.

 
          
"Please
let me in, Carole. I'm frightened out here alone."

 
          
Maybe
Bern
is alive, Carole thought, her mind racing,
ranging for an answer. I'm no doctor. I could have been wrong about her being dead.
Maybe she survived . . .

 
          
She
stood trembling, torn between the desperate, aching need to see her friend
alive, and the wary terror of being tricked by whatever creature Bernadette
might have become.

 
          
"Carole?"

 
          
Carole
wished for a peephole in the door, or at the very least a chain lock, but she
had neither, and she had to do something. She couldn't stand here like this and
listen to that plaintive voice any longer without going mad. She had to know.
Without giving herself any more time to think, she snapped back the bolt and
pulled the door open, ready to face whatever awaited her in the hall.

 
          
She
gasped. "Bernadette!"

 
          
Her
friend stood just beyond the threshold, swaying, stark naked.

 
          
Not
completely naked. She still wore her wimple, although it was askew on her head,
and a strip of cloth had been layered around her neck to dress her throat
wound. In the wan, flickering candlelight that leaked from Carole's room, she
saw that the blood that had splattered her was gone. Carole had never seen Bernadette
unclothed before. She'd never realized how thin she was. Her ribs rippled
beneath the skin of her chest, disappearing only beneath the scant padding of
her small breasts with their erect nipples; the bones of her hips and pelvis
bulged around her flat belly. Her normally fair skin was almost blue white. The
only other colors were the dark pools of her eyes and the orange splotches of
hair on her head and her pubes.

 
          
"Carole,"
she said weakly. "Why did you leave me?"

 
          
The
sight of Bernadette standing before her, alive, speaking, had drained most of
Carole's strength; the added weight of guilt from her words nearly drove her to
her knees. She sagged against the door frame.

 
          
"
Bern
..." Carole's voice failed her. She
swallowed and tried again. "I—I thought you were dead. And . . . what
happened to your clothes?"

 
          
Bernadette
raised her hand to her throat. "I tore up my nightgown for a bandage. Can
I come in?"

 
          
Carole
straightened and opened the door further. "Oh, Lord, yes. Come in. Sit
down. I'll get you a blanket."

 
          
Bernadette
shuffled into the room, head down, eyes fixed on the floor. She moved like
someone on drugs. But then, after losing so much blood, it was a wonder she
could walk at all.

 
          
"Don't
want a blanket,"
Bern
said. "Too hot. Aren't you hot?"

 
          
She
backed herself stiffly onto Carole's bed, then lifted her ankles and sat
cross-legged, facing her. Mentally, Carole explained the casual, blatant way she
exposed herself by the fact that Bernadette was still recovering from a
horrific trauma, but that made it no less discomfiting.

 
          
Carole
glanced at the crucifix on the wall over her bed, above and behind Bernadette.
For moment, as Bernadette had seated herself beneath it, she thought she had
seen it glow. It must have been reflected candlelight. She turned away and
retrieved a spare blanket from the closet. She unfolded it and wrapped it
around Bernadette's shoulders and over her spread knees, covering her.

 
          
"I'm
thirsty, Carole. Could you get me some water?"

 
          
Her
voice was strange. Lower pitched and hoarse, yes, as might be expected after
the throat wound she'd suffered. But something else had changed in her voice,
something Carole could not pin down.

 
          
"Of
course. You'll need fluids. Lots of fluids."

 
          
The
bathroom was only two doors down. She took her water pitcher, lit a second
candle, and left Bernadette on the bed, looking like an Indian draped in a
serape.

 
          
When
she returned with the full pitcher, she was startled to find the bed empty. She
spied Bernadette by the window. She hadn't opened it, but she'd pulled off the
bedspread drape and raised the shade. She stood there, staring out at the
night. And she was naked again.

 
          
Carole
looked around for the blanket and found it... hanging on the wall over her bed
. . .

 
          
Covering
the crucifix.

 
          
Part
of Carole screamed at her to run, to flee down the hall and not look back. But
another part of her insisted she stay. This was her friend. Something terrible
had happened to Bernadette and she needed Carole now, probably more than she'd
needed anyone in her entire life. And if someone was going to help her, it was
Carole. Only Carole.

 
          
She
placed the pitcher on the nightstand.

 
          
"Bernadette,"
she said, her mouth as dry as the timbers in these old walls, "the blanket
. . ."

 
          
"I
was hot," Bernadette said without turning.

 
          
"I
brought you the water. I'll pour—"

 
          
"I'll
drink it later. Come and watch the night."

 
          
"I
don't want to see the night. It frightens me."

 
          
Bernadette
turned, a faint smile on her lips. "But the darkness is so
beautiful."

 
          
She
stepped closer and stretched her arms toward Carole, laying a hand on each
shoulder and gently massaging the terror-tightened muscles there. A sweet
lethargy began to seep through Carole. Her eyelids began to drift closed ... so
tired ... so long since she'd had any sleep . . .

 
          
No!

 
          
She
forced her eyes open and gripped Bernadette's cold hands, pulling them from her
shoulders. She pressed the palms together and clasped them between her own.

 
          
"Let's
pray,
Bern
. With me: Hail Mary, full of grace
..."

 
          
"No!"

 
          
"...
the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou ..."

 
          
Her
friend's face twisted in rage. "I said, NO, damn you!"

 
          
Carole
struggled to keep a grip on Bernadette's hands but she was too strong.

 
          
"...
amongst women..."

 
          
And
suddenly Bernadette's struggles ceased. Her face relaxed, her eyes cleared,
even her voiced changed, still hoarse, but higher in pitch, lighter in tone as
she took up the words of the prayer.

 
          
"And
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb ..." Bernadette struggled with the next
word, unable to say it. Instead she gripped Carole's hands with painful
intensity and loosed a torrent of her own words. "Carole, get out! Get
out, oh, please, for the love of God, get out now! There's not much of me left
in here, and soon I'll be like the ones that killed me and I'll be after
killing you! So run, Carole! Hide! Lock yourself in the chapel downstairs but
get away from me now!"

 
          
Carole
knew now what had been missing from Bernadette's voice—her brogue. But now it
was back. This was the real Bernadette speaking. She was back! Her friend, her
sister was back! Carole bit back a sob.

 
          
"Oh,
Bern
, I can help! I can—"