Nathaniel (42 page)
Authors: John Saul
It was just after midnight, and Michael was in the parlor doing his best to shut out the sound of his mother’s labor as it echoed through the house. Outside, the wind had begun to rise. He was alone—had been alone for hours as everyone in the house gathered upstairs to help with the delivery. Michael had wanted to be there, too, but his wishes had been denied. It would be easier for everyone, particularly his mother, if he stayed downstairs.
He was lying on the sofa now, staring out the window into the darkness, listening as the wind rose, howling around the house. Then, slowly, in the back of his mind, he felt something reaching out to him. It was a voice, and though the words were unclear, he understood the meaning.
Someone, somewhere, needed his help.
There was something oddly familiar about the sensation. It seemed like something that had happened before, but that he had forgotten about.
Then, as the wordless pleas for help became more insistent, the sounds of the wind and of his mother’s agony began to grow dim. Unconsciously, Michael folded his arms over his chest, then drew his knees up, curling himself into a tight ball.
There was something surrounding him. Something damp and warm, and very comforting. And then, slowly, he began to feel pressure on his head, and the damp warmness around him began to move, producing an undulating rhythm that seemed to rock him gently.
The pressure on his head increased, turning into pain, and suddenly Michael moaned, a soft cry muffled by the damp folds that bound his limbs. The pain sharpened, and he felt as if his head was being crushed. Then the moist strictures of his bonds suddenly tightened around him, squeezing him, moving him.…
“It’s coming,” Ione said. “I can see the top of its head now. Bear down, Janet. It’s almost over—just bear down hard.”
Janet, sweat running off her body to soak into the already damp sheets, groaned softly, and tried to comply with Ione’s instructions. But it was hard—so hard.
Suddenly Michael’s bonds closed tightly around him. He felt as if he were being crushed, and he tried to fight against the restraints, but he had no strength. He screamed now, a long, high-pitched howl of agony.
Shadow, who had been asleep on the floor, suddenly awoke and rose to his feet. He moved to the couch, paused a moment, whimpering, to lick at Michael’s face, but if Michael was aware of the big dog’s presence, he gave no sign. Then, with Michael’s next scream, Shadow turned and trotted upstairs to lie by the door to Janet’s room, his ears laid back against his head, his tail twitching nervously, an odd sound halfway between a whine and a snarl drifting up from his throat.
In the parlor, the terrible pressure on Michael’s head suddenly stopped. He tried to move his body, but couldn’t. And then there was something else.
Something seemed to be twisting itself around his neck, making it hard for him to breathe.
He began struggling, fighting against the new restraint, but he couldn’t get loose, couldn’t throw it off. He could feel himself choking, feel himself beginning to gag.
Then, in the distance, he heard a voice.
“Here it comes,” the voice whispered. “Here comes the pretty baby.” Then: “Once more, Janet. Just once more.”
Suddenly the pressure on Michael’s body increased, squeezing, squeezing him ever harder, and he could feel himself being moved forward.
But with each forward motion, the pressure on his throat increased. There was no air now, and he could feel something strange happening in his brain. His sensations were growing dim, and his pain was easing.
There was a blackness around him, a gathering darkness that threatened to swallow him up. For a moment, he fought the blackness, tried to fight his way into the light. In the end, though, the darkness won, and he gave in to it.
“The umbilical cord,” Ione Simpson gasped. The baby had stopped moving, only its head having emerged from the womb, and she knew instantly what had happened. “The cord’s wrapped around his neck. It’s strangling him. Hard, Janet. Bear down hard. Now!”
With a final effort that was more sheer will than strength, Janet forced the last of her energy into her torso. Her body heaved on the bed, and she cried out in exhaustion and agony. But slowly, the baby moved.
“Now,” Ione whispered. “Now …”
With sure fingers and strong hands, she grasped the baby’s body and drew it forth from the womb. Working as quickly as she could, she cut the umbilical cord away from the child’s neck, then gave it a gentle thump on the back.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, a little harder, then felt for a pulse.
There was nothing.
Her eyes left the baby for a moment and scanned the room. Anna still sat by the head of the bed, her face pale and impassive. Laura Shields, her eyes fixed on the motionless infant, was crying, shaking her head in apparent disbelief. In the far corner, Buck Shields stood, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his entire body quivering with tension.
“Like Laura’s,” he said softly. “It’s like Laura’s.”
Then, though she knew it was too late, and that there was nothing that could be done, Ione tried once more to bring the baby back to life.
Michael opened his eyes in the dimly lit room. Upstairs, he knew, his brother had been born, and he’d helped in the birth. Already, he understood that the odd voice he’d heard in his head a little while ago had been his brother’s voice, and that his brother had needed his help. And he’d given his help, taking on the pain of the birth as he would take on whatever other pain his brother ever felt.
His brother, he knew, was his responsibility. It would be up to him to take care of the tiny child, comfort him when he was unhappy, tend to him when he was sick.
And protect him from evil.
Michael got up from the sofa and started slowly up the stairs. As he approached the landing, Shadow got to his feet, then moved slowly toward Michael, his tail low. He whimpered softly, then licked at Michael’s hand.
Michael opened the door to the room in which his mother lay, and stepped inside.
His gaze roved through the strangely silent room, drifting from one face to the next. Finally his eyes fell on the tiny bundle that was cradled in Ione Simpson’s arms.
“Let me see him,” Michael whispered. “Let me see my brother.”
Ione hesitated, then slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, Michael …” she whispered.
“Let me see my brother,” Michael repeated.
Now it was Anna Hall who spoke. She rose to her feet and moved slowly across the room until she stood in front of Michael. “He’s dead, Michael,” she said quietly. “Your little brother was born dead.”
Michael’s eyes widened, and he backed away from his grandmother. “No,” he said. “He wasn’t dead. I know he wasn’t dead.” His voice began to rise. “I could feel him. I could feel him, and he was alive!”
Turning away from the people in the room, the people he knew had killed his infant brother, Michael fled from the house, out into the night and the shrieking wind. He ran aimlessly, scrambling through fences, stumbling in the fields. At last, exhausted, he collapsed to the ground, where he lay sobbing and panting. Shadow crouched beside him, licking at his face.
He didn’t know how much time passed by, but when he looked up, the night had grown even darker. The wind had ceased. All was silent.
In the distance, there was a soft reddish glow, and slowly Michael came to realize that he was seeing the dying embers of the house that had burned that night.
And then he saw another light, the yellow flame of a lantern, looming in the darkness. He watched it for several long minutes, and when it didn’t move, he began creeping forward, huddling low to the ground, Shadow beside him.
And then, in the darkness, he could see.
There was someone there, working in the dim light of the lantern, and Michael knew what they were doing.
They were burying his brother, burying the brother he knew they had killed, but who was not dead.
As he watched, Michael knew what he must do.
In his own mind, his brother was Nathaniel, and his brother still lived.
Now, it was for Michael to avenge Nathaniel.
A scream shatters the peaceful night of a sleepy town, a mysterious stranger awakens to seek vengeance.… Once again, with expert, chillingly demonic skill, John Saul draws the reader into his world of utter fear. The author of countless novels of psychological and supernatural suspense—all million copy
New York Times
bestsellers—John Saul is unequaled in his power to weave the haunted past and the troubled present into a web of pure, cold terror.
Something is happening to the children of Eastbury, Massachusetts … something that strikes at the heart of every parent’s darkest fears. For Sally Montgomery, the grief over the sudden death of her infant daughter is only the beginning. For Lucy Corliss, her son Randy is her life. Then one day, Randy doesn’t come home. And the terror begins …
A horn honked, pulling Randy out of his reverie, and he realized he was alone on the block. He looked at the watch his father had given him for his ninth birthday. It was nearly eight thirty. If he didn’t hurry, he was going to be late for school. Then he heard a voice calling to him.
“Randy! Randy Corliss!”
A blue car, a car he didn’t recognize, was standing by the curb. A woman was smiling at him from the driver’s seat. He approached the car hesitantly, clutching his lunch box.
“Hi, Randy,” the woman said.
“Who are you?” Randy stood back from the car, remembering his mother’s warnings about never talking to strangers.
“My name’s Miss Bowen. Louise Bowen. I came to get you.”
“Get me?” Randy asked. “Why?”
“For your father,” the woman said. Randy’s heart beat faster. His father? His father had sent this woman? Was it really going to happen, finally? “He wanted me to pick you up at home,” he heard the woman say, “but I was late. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Randy said. He moved closer to the car. “Are you taking me to Daddy’s house?”
The woman reached across and pushed the passenger door open. “In a little while,” she promised. “Get in.”
Randy knew he shouldn’t get in the car, knew he should turn around and run to the nearest house, looking for help. It was things like this—strangers offering to give you a ride—that his mother had talked to him about ever since he was a little boy.
But this was different. This was a friend of his father’s. Her brown eyes were twinkling at him, and her smile made him feel like she was sharing an adventure with him. He made up his mind and got into the car, pulling the door closed behind him. The car moved away from the curb.
“Where are we going?” Randy asked.
Louise Bowen glanced over at the boy sitting expectantly on the seat beside her. He was every bit as attractive as the pictures she had been shown, his eyes almost green, with dark, wavy hair framing his pugnacious, snub-nosed face. His body was sturdy, and though she was a stranger to him, he didn’t seem to be the least bit frightened of her. Instinctively, Louise liked Randy Corliss.
“We’re going to your new school.”
Randy frowned. New school? If he was going to a new school, why wasn’t his father taking him? The woman seemed to hear him, even though he hadn’t spoken out loud.
“You’ll see your father very soon. But for a few days, until he gets everything worked out with your mother, you’ll be staying at the school. You’ll like it there,” she promised. “It’s a special school, just for little boys like you, and you’ll have lots of new friends. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”
Randy nodded uncertainly, no longer sure he should have gotten in the car. Still, when he thought about it, it made sense. His father had told him there would be lots of problems when the time came for him to move away from his mother’s. And his father had told him he would be going to a new school. And today was the day.
Randy settled down in the seat and glanced out the window. They were heading out of Eastbury on the road toward Langston. That was where his father lived, so everything was all right.
Except that it didn’t quite
feel
all right. Deep inside, Randy had a strange sense of something being very wrong.
For two very different families haunted by very similar fears, THE GOD PROJECT has only just begun to work its lethal conspiracy of silence and fear. And for the reader, John Saul has produced a mind-numbing tale of evil unchecked
.
Prairie Bend: brilliant summers amid golden fields, killing winters of razorlike cold. A peaceful, neighborly village, darkened by legends of death … legends of Nathaniel. Some residents say he is simply a folk tale, others swear he is a terrifying spirit. And soon—very soon—some will come to believe that Nathaniel lives …
Shivering, Michael set himself a destination now and began walking along the edges of the pastures, the woods on his right, climbing each fence as he came to it. Sooner than he would have expected, the woods curved away to the right, following the course of the river as it deviated from its southeastern flow to curl around the village. Ahead of him he could see the scattered twinkling lights of Prairie Bend. For a moment, he considered going into the village, but then, as he looked off to the southeast, he changed his mind, for there, seeming almost to glow in the moonlight, was the hulking shape of Findley’s barn.
That, Michael knew, was where he was going.
He cut diagonally across the field, then darted across the deserted highway and into another field. He moved quickly now, feeling exposed in the emptiness with the full moon shining down on him. Ten minutes later he had crossed the field and come once more to the highway, this time as it emerged from the village. Across the street, he could see Ben Findley’s driveway and, at its end, the little house, and the barn.
He considered trying to go down the driveway and around the house, but quickly abandoned the idea. A light showed dimly from behind a curtained window, and he had a sudden vision of old man Findley, his gun cradled in his arms, standing in silhouette at the front door.
His progress slowed as he plunged into the weed-choked pastures that lay between the house and the river, but he was determined to stay away from the fence separating Findley’s property from their own until the old man’s barn could conceal him from the same man’s prying eyes. It wasn’t until he was near the river that he finally felt safe enough to slip between the strands of barbed wire that fenced off the Findley property and begin doubling back toward the barn that had become his goal.
He could feel it now, feel the strange sense of familiarity he had felt that afternoon, only it was stronger here, pulling him forward through the night. He didn’t try to resist it, though there was something vaguely frightening about it. Frightening but exciting. There was a sense of discovery, almost a sense of memory. And his headache, the throbbing pain that had been with him all evening, was gone.
He came up to the barn and paused. There should be a door just around the corner, a door with a bar on it. He didn’t understand how he knew it was there, for he’d never seen that side of the barn, but he
knew
.
Around the corner, just as he knew it would be, he found the door, held securely shut by a heavy wooden beam resting in a pair of wrought-iron brackets. Without hesitation, Michael lifted the bar out of its brackets and propped it carefully against the wall. As he pulled the door open, no squeaking hinges betrayed his presence. Though the barn was nearly pitch dark inside, it wasn’t the kind of eerie darkness the woods by the river had held, at least not for Michael. For Michael, it was an inviting darkness.
He stepped into the barn.
He waited, half expectantly, as the darkness seeped into him, enveloping him within its folds. And then something reached out of the darkness and touched him.
Nathaniel’s call to Michael Hall, who has just lost his father in a tragic accident, draws the boy further into the barn and under his spell. There—and beyond—Michael will faithfully follow Nathaniel’s voice to the edge of terror
.
One hundred years ago in La Paloma a terrible deed was done, and a cry for vengeance pierced the night. Now, that evil still lives, and that vengeance waits … waits for Alex Lonsdale, one of the most popular boys in La Paloma. Because horrible things can happen—even to nice kids like Alex …
Alex jockeyed the Mustang around Bob Carey’s Porsche, then put it in drive and gunned the engine. The rear wheels spun on the loose gravel for a moment, then caught, and the car shot forward, down the Evanses’ driveway and into Hacienda Drive.
Alex wasn’t sure how long Lisa had been walking—it seemed as though it had taken him forever to get dressed and search the house. She could be almost home by now.
He pressed the accelerator, and the car picked up speed. He hugged the wall of the ravine on the first curve, but the car fishtailed slightly, and he had to steer into the skid to regain control. Then he hit a straight stretch and pushed his speed up to seventy. Coming up fast was an S curve that was posted at thirty miles an hour, but he knew they always left a big margin for safety. He slowed to sixty as he started into the first turn.
And then he saw her.
She was standing on the side of the road, her green dress glowing brightly in his headlights, staring at him with terrified eyes.
Or did he just imagine that? Was he already that close to her?
Time suddenly slowed down, and he slammed his foot on the brake.
Too late. He was going to hit her.
It would have been all right if she’d been on the inside of the curve. He’d have swept around her, and she’d have been safe. But now he was skidding right toward her …
Turn into it. He had to turn into it!
Taking his foot off the brake, he steered to the right, and suddenly felt the tires grab the pavement.
Lisa was only a few yards away.
And beyond Lisa, almost lost in the darkness, something else.
A face, old and wrinkled, framed with white hair. And the eyes in the face were glaring at him with an intensity he could almost feel.
It was the face that finally made him lose all control of the car.
An ancient, weathered face, a face filled with an unspeakable loathing, looming in the darkness.
At the last possible moment, he wrenched the wheel to the left, and the Mustang responded, slewing around Lisa, charging across the pavement, leading for the ditch and the wall of the ravine beyond.
Straighten it out!
He spun the wheel the other way.
Too far.
The car burst through the guardrail and hurtled over the edge of the ravine.
“Lisaaaa …”
Now Alex needs a miracle and thanks to a brilliant doctor, Alex comes back from the brink of death. He seems the same, but in his heart there is a coldness. And if his friends and family could see inside his brain, they would be terrified
….
Pity the dead …
one hundred years ago eleven innocent lives were taken in a fire that raged through the mill. That day the iron doors slammed shut—forever. Now, the powerful Sturgiss family of the sleepy town of Westover, Massachusetts is about to unlock those doors to the past. Now comes the time to
pray for the living.
The silence of the building seemed to gather around her, and slowly Beth felt the beginnings of fear.
And then she began to feel something else.
Once again, she felt that strange certainty that the mill was not empty.
“D-Daddy?” she called softly, stepping through the door. “Are you here?”
She felt a slight trickle of sweat begin to slide down her spine, and fought a sudden trembling in her knees.
Then, as she listened to the silence, she heard something.
A rustling sound, from up above.
Beth froze, her heart pounding.
And then she heard it again.
She looked up.
With a sudden burst of flapping wings, a pigeon took off from one of the rafters, circled, then soared out through a gap between the boards over one of the windows.
Beth stood still, waiting for her heartbeat to calm. As she looked around, her eyes fixed on the top of a stairwell at the far end of the building.
He was downstairs. That’s why he hasn’t heard her. He was down in the basement.
Resolutely, she started across the vast emptiness of the building. As she reached the middle of the floor, she felt suddenly exposed, and had an urge to run.
But there was nothing to be afraid of. There was nothing in the mill except herself, and some birds.
And downstairs, her father.
After what seemed like an eternity, she reached the top of the stairs, and peered uncertainly into the darkness below.
Her own shadow preceded her down the steep flight of steps, and only a little spilled over the staircase to illuminate the nearer parts of the vast basement.
“Daddy?” Beth whispered. But the sound was so quiet, even she could barely hear it.
And then there was something else, coming on the heels of her own voice.
Another sound, fainter than the one her own voice had made, coming from below.
Something was moving in the darkness.
Once again Beth’s heart began to pound, but she remained where she was, forcing back the panic that threatened to overcome her.
Finally, when she heard nothing more, she moved slowly down the steps, until she could place a foot on the basement floor.
She listened, and after a moment, as the darkness began closing in on her, the sound repeated itself.
Panic surged through her. All her instincts told her to run, to flee back up the stairs and out into the daylight. But when she tried to move, her legs refused to obey her, and she remained where she was, paralyzed.
Once again the sound came. This time, though it was almost inaudible, Beth thought she recognized a word.
“Beeetthh …”
Her name. It was as if someone had called her name.
“D-Daddy?” she whispered again. “Daddy, is that you?”
There was another silence, and Beth strained once more to see into the darkness surrounding her.
