Mark Edward Hall

This is an especially long chapter. Some of you have said that you want more each week, so I decided to group a few chapters together as one and see how it works. Let me know what you think.

Enjoy,

Mark

Chapter 10

August 12, 1996. Regressive Therapy

“To the best of my knowledge the visions began when I was nine years old,” Doug said, “and I always associated them with that punch Tommy Ricker gave me in the nose. I could be wrong about that but I don’t think so because there is not a conscious memory of anything even remotely similar to those experiences before that day. From then on it seemed that I was in possession of some terrible power of sight, something that would haunt my life for years to come. I tried to dismiss it, I tried to deny it, but every time I became complacent something would happen that reminded me of who I was and of the terrible things I was capable of seeing. Yes, it all began the day Tommy Ricker broke my nose.”

“That’s a very good beginning, Doug,” Dr. Pasternak said in a soothing voice. “Just lay back and relax. I’m going to take you back to that first incident. I want you to tell me in your own words what happened on that day. I want it to be as if you’re there and you’re living it all over again. Think you can do that for me?”

Doug swallowed nervously. “Sure,” he said, “but I’ve already told this story a thousand times. I told the other doctors and the police . . .” Doug’s friend, Portland Police Lieutenant, Richard Jennings was in the room and Doug gave him a helpless stare. “You know the story better than I do.”

“Yes, Doug, you’re right,” said Jennings. “I do know it very well. But considering what has happened, you know, the family you saw die last week, and the child that disappeared, well, I think it’s time we seriously tried to get to the bottom of this issue. Don’t you?”

“She hasn’t disappeared,” Doug insisted. “She keeps telling me she’s in this place called the House of Bones, the same as Tommy and Savannah.”

“I know, Doug, but you don’t know where this place, this . . . House of Bones is, do you?”

Doug shook his head.

“What Dr. Pasternak and I are hoping to do is open a new doorway, bring something through that perhaps you’ve forgotten, some key that might shed a little more light on what actually happens to you during these incidents. If we can do that then maybe we can figure out what’s causing it to happen, and just maybe, if those kids are still alive, we can find them.”

“You guys think I did it, don’t you?” the young man said. “You think that if you can get me under hypnosis I’ll confess and then you can solve the damned case.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” said Jennings. He was sitting across from the couch on which Doug was reclining. “How long have I known you, Doug?”

“About ten years.”

“That’s right. Since you were eight years old, since the time of that first incident. And I’ve never believed that an eight year old boy could do the things that happened to those people. Nobody believes that. What Dr. Pasternak and I are trying to do, is exactly what he said we were trying to do. Deep hypnosis can sometimes dig beneath the conscious mind to areas of the brain that might store forgotten or forbidden information. Now, I think it’s worth a try if it can save those kids. Don’t you?”

Doug’s eyes moved from Jennings to Pasternak and then back to Jennings again. Finally he nodded, staring at Lieutenant Jennings as only one who truly trusts another human being can do. “Okay,” he said, “but I think it’s too late. Tommy and Savannah’s voices faded long ago, and the one last week, well, she’s already beginning to fade.”

“Don’t you think it’s worth a try anyway, Doug?”

“I guess so,” Doug said. “If you think it will help.”

“All right then,” Dr. Pasternak said. “Any time you’re ready?”

The eighteen year-old licked his lips and said, “I’m ready. You can start any time.”

“Now, Doug, I’m going to count slowly backwards from ten, and as I do so, you’ll begin to get sleepy. By the time I get to number three your eyelids will be too heavy to keep open. By the time I get to number one they’ll be closed and you’ll be sleeping soundly and peacefully. Okay, here we go. 10, 9, 8, 7, you’re getting sleepy, 6, 5, 4 . . . your eyelids are getting heavier, 3 . . .”

Doug’s eyelids fluttered then closed and his breathing became steady and rhythmic.

“. . . 2, 1 . . . Now, Doug,” Dr. Pasternak said. “What are we going to talk about?

“The day Tommy Ricker broke my nose.”

“Very good. Try to remember everything, all right? Every little detail.”

“Okay.”

“What are you doing at this very moment?”

“I’m playing with Tommy and Savannah in the front yard of their apartment house. It’s directly across the street from the house where I live with my parents. We moved there when I was two. Tommy and Savannah have been my friends for as long as I can remember. Tommy is nine and Savannah is seven.”

“Are their parents home today?”

“No, they had to work. But Janet’s upstairs.”

“Who is Janet?”

“The babysitter. She’s sixteen.”

“Do you like Janet?”

“Yeah, I guess so. She swears a lot and spends most of her time eating and watching TV. And she smokes. Sometimes her boyfriend comes over.”

“Is her boyfriend here on this morning?”

“Yes. I saw his car come up the driveway. It’s a red Camaro, a really cool car, and loud. When Janet’s boyfriend got out of the car he made a mean face at us kids before going inside. He was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and sun glasses.”

“What’s happening now, Doug?”

“Me and Tommy Ricker are having a fake Kung Fu fight.”

“A fake Kung Fu fight?”

“That’s right, fake Kung Fu fights are one of our favorite things to do. We pretend to be guys like Chuck Norris and David Carradine. But our favorite is Bruce Lee. He’s the coolest one of all. I know he died a long time ago, but he’s still the best, and today I got to be him.”

“How did that happen?”

“Me and Tommy drew straws and I drew the longest one.”

“I see. How do these fake Kung Fu fights work, Doug?”

“We fight each other without actually hitting the other kid.”

“Oh? Can you explain?”

“It takes a lot of skill.”

“Yes, I’m sure it does. Please explain.”

“One of us swings around with a punch and comes real close to the other guy’s face. Then the other boy throws his head back, or to the side and pretends he’s been hit. The punch is usually accompanied by a noise the puncher makes with his mouth which sort of sounds like a fist hitting flesh. We twist and spin and kick out with our feet, again coming as close as we dare to the other guy’s face. These fights can last as long as ten or fifteen minutes. Usually we end our stunt fight by wrestling each other to the ground and laughing.”

“All in good fun, then, huh?”

“It’s the most fun thing we do.”

“But on this day something goes wrong, doesn’t it, Doug?”

“Yeah, I get distracted by something just as Tommy comes around with this monster punch.”

“What distracted you, Doug? Do you remember?”

On the couch Doug’s eyes were closed and his head gave a quick shake. “No. Maybe I saw something out of the corner of my eye, or maybe Savannah said something. I don’t know. She usually stands on the sidelines refereeing. Or it could have been something else. I don’t really remember. What I do remember is how much it hurt when Tommy Ricker’s fist hit my nose. At the instant of contact it’s like this universe of stars explodes inside my head. The next thing I know I’m on my back in the driveway with Tommy and Savannah standing over me, their scared faces blurring in and out of focus.

“‘Hey, Doug,’ Tommy Ricker says, grabbing my arm and shaking me. ‘You okay?’

“When I try to sit up a huge lightening bolt of energy flashes across my vision, accompanied by a slash of pain so brutal, I might have died in that instant. My body convulses then stiffens, and I cannot move as a picture begins forming in my mind.”

“What do you see, Doug?”

“The Ricker’s second floor apartment. I know the place, and there is no question about what I’m seeing. I’m standing in the doorway on the threshold between the living room and kitchen. I can see the kitchen’s sideboard with the sink faucet protruding above it. The faucet is dripping, each drop forming on the rim like a tiny diamond before breaking free and dropping into the sink. I can distinctly hear the drops as they fall slowly into the dishpan: drip . . . drip . . . drip. The sound seems amplified somehow, so much so that it makes my head hurt.

“On the couch in the living room I see the baby sitter with her boyfriend beside her. They’re making out. The television set is on and I can hear Bob Barker’s voice, and he’s saying, “‘Tell them about the prizes, Johnny.’

“But the baby sitter and her boyfriend are not the only ones in the apartment. There is someone or . . . something else there.”

Doug stiffened and tried to sit up.

“Just relax, Doug,” Dr. Pasternak said, placing his hand on Doug’s chest and gently easing him back down onto the couch. “Whatever it is can’t hurt you. Remember, you are under hypnosis and merely recalling those events. You’re not really there, even though it seems like you are. Okay? Are you ready to go on?”

Doug nodded his head as tears squeezed out between his closed eyelids and ran down the sides of his face.

“All right then, what do you think you see in the Ricker apartment besides Janet and her boyfriend?”

“Some sort of swelling. I don’t know. I don’t actually see it at first, but I can feel it.”

“A swelling, Doug? What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not sure. It’s like a bubble or something. That’s all I can think of, and it’s trying to suffocate me.”

“Suffocate you?”

“Yeah, it feels like that. Like it wants to suffocate me.”

“All right then, go on, Doug. Tell me what’s happening now.”

“Well, in the far corner of the living room, behind Janet and her boyfriend, I think I see it, and it’s not a bubble at all, but more like a person, and it’s dressed in some sort of dark robe or something. At first it doesn’t move and I think it’s a statue of some kind, or a mannequin, you know, like those things in the department stores they hang clothes on. But in the next instant it seems to move forward a few feet, but I don’t actually see it moving. It’s some sort of . . . shift or . . . streak that looks like stretching metal. All silvery or something. I know it sounds stupid but that’s what it looks like to me. One minute it’s over here, and zip, just like that, it’s over there. It makes my head ache to see it. Like my mind can’t quite figure it all out. It’s like some sort of painful magic. I don’t know. I’m concentrating; trying to see it better, trying to bring it into focus. But it’s useless. Doing that only makes my head ache worse, and I feel like I’m gonna puke. I just can’t figure it out. I suppose I’m a little bit grateful for that. Something about its swelling presence terrifies me.”

“I see,” said Dr. Pasternak. “What’s happening now?”

“Janet’s boyfriend—his name is Lance—has his hand inside Janet’s blouse; he’s trying to get it off her. I can see that her resistance is only mildly serious. It’s sort of like they’re playing.

“‘Please, Lance, stop it,’ Janet says, taking his hand out of her blouse.

“Lance gets this wounded look on his face. ‘Aw, come on, Janet,’ he whines. ‘You know you want to.’ He puts his hand back on her breast and begins to knead it, you know, like it’s a ball of dough or something. He looks really stupid doing that.

“‘Get your hands off me!’ she says, firmly this time, throwing his hand away from her.

“But Lance is having none of that; he suddenly turns mean, draws his hand back and slaps Janet across the face. ‘You teasing little bitch!’ he says. His face is all twisted up with rage and he grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her like a rag doll. ‘You want it and you know it.’

“‘No I don’t,’ Janet whines, struggling to break free of his grasp. ‘I don’t want nothin’ from you, you asshole.’

“‘Yeah, well you’re gonna get something’, Lance says. ‘I didn’t drive all the way over here to play tiddlywinks.’ He grabs a fistful of Janet’s blouse and pulls hard, tearing it, exposing one of her breasts.

“In my peripheral vision I see the shifting figure move closer to the pair, only this time it seems to be fluttering as well as streaking, like my eyes are opening and closing real fast. You know, like that REM sleep we learned about in school. I’m so scared I just want to shrink away in terror.

“Janet begins shrieking hysterically, slapping at Lance’s face with both hands. ‘You fucking bastard,’ she screams. ‘Let . . . me . . . go!’

“But Lance doesn’t let go, and Janet’s blouse tears almost completely off her as she bolts from the couch. She manages just one step before Lance catches her foot, tripping her. She goes sprawling and he is on top of her in an instant. She is struggling and shrieking wildly. He rolls her over and tries to unzip her jeans. She lashes out and digs her nails across his cheek.

“He lets out a bellow of rage, puts his hand to the wounds, pulls it back and gawks in amazement at the jagged lines of blood that are tattooed on it. Janet wriggles out from under him, giving him a swift kick in the balls as she goes screaming for the stairs.

“‘You fucking little cunt,’ he cries with a mixture of pain and amazement. He struggles to his feet, hanging onto his crotch and goes after her. And then . . . and then . . .”

Doug stopped; his mouth was working but no more words were coming out.

“And then what?” Dr. Pasternak said, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Something bad happens.”

“What happens, Doug? What’s happening at this very moment?”

Lieutenant Jennings also slid forward to the edge of his seat, and the look on his face was one of intense anticipation. Doug’s head was rolling back and forth on the pillow and small beads of sweat had broken out on his brow. Beneath his closed lids his eyeballs were rolling frenetically.

“Would you rather not continue, Doug?” Dr. Pasternak asked with concern and Jennings heard the disappointment in his voice.

“No,” Doug said. “I can see it.”

“What do you see?”

Doug licked his lips and took in a huge draught of air, letting it out with a trembling sigh. “Yes, I see  . . . Janet stops suddenly at the top of the stairs, and she is turning around slowly as if she senses the presence in the room. Lance has stopped too and I can see his eyes darting back and forth looking for something that isn’t there. Then it seems like neither of them can move at all, like they’re frozen in place. Janet suddenly looks terrified.

“And the thing in the black robe is moving in closer to Janet.

“In the next instant the man in the black robe is standing directly in front of her—”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Doug,” said Dr. Pasternak, eliciting a pained look from the police lieutenant, “but until now you haven’t referred to the figure as a man. What makes you think now that there’s a man inside the robe?”

“I’m not sure,” Doug said, his head rolling from side to side on the pillow. “It’s in the form of a man. That I know. The robe has a hood or a cowl or whatever the hell you call it; and it’s pulled up over the head hiding the face. But the robe is long and I can’t see any feet, and I can’t actually see a face . . . but . . . wait. Wait a minute!” Doug’s eyelids flutter as his eyes continue to swirl behind them. The doctor sees that he has become even more agitated.

“What do you see, Doug?”

“Oh, God,” Doug suddenly said. “From somewhere deep inside the cowl I think I see an . . . eye.”

“An eye?”

“Yes.”

“Just one eye?”

“Just one, and it’s red. So red it’s almost making me sick. That’s why I can see it. It’s glowing like a hot cinder and it’s trying to burn through my eyes and into my brain. My head! Oh, Jesus Christ, my head is going to split wide open.”

Doug was trembling and moaning and tears were squeezing out between his closed lashes.

“It’s freaking me out so bad.”

“Why is it freaking you out, Doug?”

“Because . . . because, it’s looking at me, like it knows I’m here and that I’m watching. It’s from the unseen world and I’m not supposed to see it. No one’s supposed to see it. But I do, and it knows.”

Dr. Pasternak licked his lips. “The unseen world, Doug?”

“Oh yes. And he’s not the only one there. There are more of them. But this one’s different, this one’s special. He can do stuff the others can’t. But they can do stuff he can’t do too.”

“What stuff?” asked the doctor.

“Human stuff.”

“How do you know all this, Doug?”

“Because he’s whispering to me. He’s telling me. Nobody else can see it. Nobody else can hear it or know it. Only me. Jesus, only me.”

Pasternak was now breathing in anxious gasps. “What’s happening, Doug?” he asked. “What’s happening at this very moment?”

“The man, the creature, or whatever the fuck it is, has moved around in front of Janet, and he’s looking directly into her face. He’s no longer looking at me, but he knows I’m here. I swear to God he does. He’s turned away from me and all I can see is the robe, only now it doesn’t really look like a robe at all, instead it looks like flesh of some kind, like the skin on the wings of a bat, you know, all textured and creepy. And now he’s whispering to Janet.”

“Can you hear what it’s saying, Doug?”

“It wants to know where the children are.”

“The children? I thought it could see you?”

“It sees me from inside my head. But it doesn’t see Tommy and Savannah. And that’s who it wants.”

“Why does it want Tommy and Savannah, Doug?”

“I don’t know. Dear God, I don’t know!”

“What’s happening now, Doug?”

“Janet’s screaming. She says that the children are outside. She’s twisting and writhing like she’s trying to get away, but it’s as if something invisible has her legs bound together and her arms tied to her sides. She can’t move, she can’t kick, she can only scream. Whatever that thing is, it’s now moving closer to her face. Oh, God! Oh fuck! I think she can see what’s inside the darkness of the cowl, and it must be horrible, because she can’t stop screaming in terror, and she’s screaming so loud that her mouth is standing wide open like her jaws have become unhinged. And now I see a wet stain starting to form on the crotch of Janet’s jeans. The wetness is spreading out and running down the insides of her legs. Oh, fucking Christ, she’s so scared she’s peeing in her pants.” Doug stopped talking suddenly but his mouth was still working.

Dr. Pasternak glanced over at Jennings and Jennings saw that the doctor’s face had gone pasty white. He was sweating profusely, rivulets of clear liquid running down his forehead and into his eyes.

And from his sleeping position on the couch, Doug was now writhing and twisting and sweating, his eyes rolling like greased ball bearings behind closed lids.

And although Rick Jennings knew the story, had heard it on countless occasions, he’d never heard it in this much graphic detail. He sat forward in anticipation sensing that this might be the closest he would ever come to knowing the full story of what Doug had seen on that infamous day.

“Now something is coming out of Janet’s mouth,” Doug said.

“What is it, Doug?” Pasternak asked. “What do you see?”

“I don’t know, but it looks like water, or steam or something. It’s sort of silvery colored and blurry and it’s shooting out fast, like a fire hose, and it’s spraying directly into the front of the cowl and disappearing, like something inside the cowl is swallowing the stuff in Janet’s stomach. No! . . . I think it’s different than that. I think it’s ingesting Janet. I hear the noise as the stuff is coming out of her and spraying into the dark thing. Her mouth is hinged open and she is making a terrible gurgling noise that sounds like someone trying to scream underwater. Then suddenly it stops and Janet is no longer Janet.”

“What do you mean by that, Doug?”

“The dark thing . . . stole something from her.”

Jennings and Pasternak exchanged uneasy glances. “You mean the fluid that came out of her.”

“It’s not fluid,” Doug said.

“Then what is it?” asked the doctor.

“Her soul,” Doug said. “That thing stole her soul.”

Pasternak again glanced at Jennings, his face blanched, his wet eyes glazed and haunted. “How do you know this, Doug?”

“I just do. I think it wants me to know.” Suddenly Doug began to writhe on the couch as his respiration accelerated. “Oh, God, now I see . . .”

“What do you see, Doug?”

“Oh dear God, yes, Janet is just standing there like a statue. She’s all frozen and white like if you touched her she would crumble. And she’s staring with wide open eyes that are now blank and featureless, and her mouth is stretched open like she’s still screaming.”

Doug stopped talking, but his jaw was still working, as if his thoughts were no longer being translated into words.

“Do you want me to wake you, Doug?”

“No!”

The outburst was so sudden and so loud that Pasternak recoiled. He looked over at Jennings in alarm. Jennings silently motioned for him to go on.

“Okay, Doug, what else do you see?”

“Jesus Christ, it’s not done yet,” Doug said, almost coming up off the couch. Both Jennings and Pasternak grabbed him to keep him down. Doug was writhing beneath them and wringing his sweaty hands together. “It’s moving toward Lance now, as if something is stretching it. Like the shimmering black skin is stretching. God, if I had to touch it I think I might go mad. And Lance is frozen just like Janet was. Now the thing is standing in front of him. And the same thing is happening all over again. I can’t move. I can’t wake up. I’m frozen in time. Please help me!”

Pasternak gave Jennings another look of alarm but again Jennings nodded for him to continue.

“Lance is screaming now,” Doug continued in a breathless voice. “He’s trying to move, but he can’t. His mouth is twisting into a huge oval, just like Janet’s, and the dark thing is stealing from Lance what it stole from Janet. It’s all going into the darkness, toward that red eye and the terrible darkness. Down-down-down.” Each word Doug spoke was punctuated by a sharp almost violent roll of his head on the pillow. Oh, God, it’s so horrible. I can’t stand it. I can’t breathe.” On the couch, Doug stopped speaking as his chest heaved up and down in great spasms.

“Is that all, Doug?” Pasternak asked. His face was as white as a bleached sheet.

Doug remained silent.

“Doug?”

“No!”  Doug gave his head a quick, almost violent shake.

“No?  What’s happening now?” asked the psychiatrist.

“Someone’s writing on the wall.”

“Someone? Who, Doug?”

“I don’t know. It’s confusing. All I see are streaks and flashes of silvery light and the red eye and . . . God my head’s going to explode.”

“Is the dark thing doing the writing?”

“No hands, no arms, just streaks. Jesus, I can’t tell!”

“What’s he writing, Doug?”

“Symbols not words.”

“What sort of symbols?”

“Lost, Forgotten, Forsaken!”

Jennings stared down at the teenager on the couch. “What?”

“Lost, Forgotten, Forsaken! “Lost, Forgotten, Forsaken! “Lost, Forgotten, Forsaken!” Doug repeated the words in a sort of mantra.

“How do you know what the symbols mean, Doug?”

“In my head. Somehow in my head.”

Pasternak looked at Jennings and his expression said: this can’t be for real. It’s insane. It’s madness.

The police lieutenant’s staid expression said: It may be madness, but it is real.

Pasternak closed his eyes and then slowly opened them. He lifted a handkerchief and mopped his brow with it. “This has got to be some sort of joke,” he said in a low and strained whisper.

Jennings just stared at the man.

Pasternak swallowed audibly staring down at his still unconscious patient, his eyes round and bright. “Doug, do you hear me?”

Doug nodded

“Is that all of it?”

“All of it?” Doug asked “No! Jesus, no! It’s just the beginning.”

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Pasternak said to Jennings. He looked like he was about to faint.

“Do you want to go on, Doug?” Jennings said.

Doug gave his head a quick nod.

Pasternak glared at Jennings.

Jennings nodded for the doctor to continue the session.

Again Pasternak wiped his sweaty brow. “Go on, Doug,” he said. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“Cold,” Doug said.

The doctor looked puzzled. “Cold?”

“Cold,” Doug repeated. “So cold in here. I think I’m freezing to death.” He laid his arms across his chest and hugged himself, shivering. And as Doug breathed, puffs of cold steam came out of his mouth.

The doctor shot the detective an alarmed look. “I don’t believe this,” he whispered in awe. “What kind of trickery is this?”

“There’s no trickery here,” Jennings told the doctor. “And you know it.”

Pasternak looked back at his patient. “This kid doesn’t need a doctor, he needs a fucking exorcist.”

Jennings said nothing.

“Doug?” Pasternak said. “Why are you so cold?”

“It’s the unseen world,” Doug answered. “The House of Bones. It’s so . . . very cold in here.”

“Where is the House of Bones, Doug?” Jennings asked.

“I don’t know. The dark thing won’t tell me, but he takes me there sometimes in my dreams! It’s where the others are. It’s where he keeps them all. But he can’t keep me.”

“Why can’t he keep you, Doug?”

“The plan. He has a plan for me. He wants something that I don’t have yet.”

“What do you mean by that, Doug?”

“Oh, God,” Doug said, writhing on the couch. “He’s turning toward me again, and that one awful red eye is staring out at me from somewhere deep inside the cowl. He wants me to shut up. He doesn’t want me to say any more, spoil the plan, spoil his fun. But he can’t do anything to me. He can’t touch me. Even though I’m only eight years old I know there’s an entire universe inside that thing, a cold and terrifying and unforgiving universe, perhaps the opposite of the one we live in. I’ve been given a glimpse of it, and it wasn’t an accident. It knows me now, and it will never leave me alone until it has what it wants.” Doug was writhing frantically, his hands roaming his body as if he was trying to brush off crawlies. Puffs of steam continued to exit his mouth.

“Doug, what is the plan? What does it want?”

“It wants everything!” Doug said. “And it wants to use me to get it.”

“Use you, how Doug?”

“I don’t know. Something in the future. Something I’m not able to see yet. Please, I want to wake up now.”

The doctor’s round moon face, which moments ago had been a white and sickly pallor, now seemed a little healthier. He looked over at Jennings and Jennings nodded for him to wake the young man on the couch. “If I wake you, Doug, do you think you can remember everything we’ve talked about?”

Doug nodded as his hands continued to roam his body. “Yes,” he said.

“Is there any more that you haven’t told us?”

“Yes.”

“Will you remember what it is after I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. I’m going to count backwards again from ten, just like I did in the beginning, and by the time I get to number one you’ll be wide awake and feeling refreshed.”

“Okay, yes. Please, wake me, NOW!”

The doctor began the count. But before he’d reached seven Doug’s eyes flew open and he sat bolt-upright as if shot from a cannon. “There,” Pasternak said. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

“How do you think I feel?” Doug said, massaging the area above the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

Jennings handed Doug a cup of water. Doug took it with a trembling hand and drank it all down.

“Do you remember everything that was said, Doug?” asked the doctor.

Doug nodded.

“Doug,” Jennings said. “Under hypnosis you said that there were things you’d remember after you woke that weren’t part of the hypnosis session?”

Doug was silent for a long moment, thinking. “Yeah,” he said finally. “He wants to use me, but I don’t know how. That’s why he targeted me. That’s why he killed all those people. That’s why he killed my parents and that’s why he makes me see terrible things. It’s his only power over me. That’s how he shows me his power. It’s his only way because he can’t touch me. But he can kill or take everything I love.”

“Mother of God,” Pasternak whispered.

“Anything else? Jennings said.

“Yeah, I’ve been there in the place he calls the House of Bones. It’s where he lives.”

“You mentioned that under hypnosis. Do you think you were there physically?”

“No. In my dreams somehow. I don’t think he wants me to go there but he can’t stop me.”

“You said there were others like him there.”

“Yes, but they’re different somehow, subservient, more human. I don’t know. He’s able to use them in ways I don’t understand. The place is like a cave or something, but different.”

“Did you notice anything else about the place?”

“Yeah, it was cold and empty and filled with darkness, and . . . bones.”

“Bones?”

“Yeah, everywhere; the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the kids were all there.”

“Yes, you said something about that. Please explain.”

“All of them. Tommy and Savannah, and the others. And some I didn’t recognize. They wore funny clothes, like from another time.”

“How many others?”

“I don’t know. A lot. He’s been taking them since long before I started seeing him. He collects them.”

“Were they alive, Doug?” Jennings asked, terribly afraid of what the answer might be but hoping against hope.

“I don’t know. I think they were alive in some way, but probably not in the way that we’re alive.”

Jennings nodded. “Can you think of anything else, Doug?”

“Yeah, the part about the cold universe inside the cowl. I don’t know where that came from, but thinking about it really made me cold. I’m still cold.” Doug hugged his arms to his body and Jennings could have sworn he saw vapor still coming from the young man’s mouth. “I think it’s been there all along, if you want the truth. I just never consciously thought about it until now.”

“Doug, a couple of times you mentioned that it wanted something from you. Do you know what it is that it wants?”

Doug shook his head. “No. It doesn’t want me to know, at least not yet. But it’ll let me know when it does. You can be sure of that.”

—–

The limousine carrying Doug and Annie McArthur left the boulevard, winding down a country lane that passed through citrus groves. Beyond the citrus groves, rows of tall, evenly-spaced palm trees grew from white sand dunes. The forest beyond was a mix of citrus, pine and palms. Avocados as large as New England sugar-maples towered high on either side of the lane, their fruit-laden branches crossing above them, making it appear as though they were riding through a tunnel. As far as the eye could see, the lush forest floor was covered in the serrated-edged leaf-blades of the indigenous Palmetto plant.

The smooth ride of the limo was hypnotizing as Doug’s mind revisited that fateful day when he was eight years old. How many times he’d rehashed that moment, trying to rationalize it, he could not say. But it was always there with him in an odd and painful way, like a tumor at the center of his psyche. Even if he wasn’t conscious of it, it was never very far from recall. And no matter how many times he’d wished the outcome had been different, it always came out the same: the fist in the face, the constellation of stars, and then the terrible visions that had somehow come true. The terrible visions that had led to so many other horrific times in his life. It was all true! But why did it have to be his truth?

—–

He’d come awake in the hospital two days after Tommy Ricker had smashed him in the face with a blinding headache, a small bright light shining in his eyes. His parents, several nurses and a doctor had been standing over him. The doctor was holding a small flashlight in one hand.

“What happened, Dougie?” his mother asked. She had a tight, scared look on her face, and her voice wobbled unnaturally in her throat. “I don’t know,” Doug said, “I think Tommy Ricker must have punched me.”

“How do you feel now, son?” the doctor asked.

“Headache.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Are you sure that’s what happened, Doug?” There was someone else in the room asking that question, but he was out of Doug’s field of vision and he could not see who it was. The voice was not familiar.

Doug’s father spoke next. “Son,” he said. “This is Detective Jennings from the police. He wants to ask you a few questions.”

A heavyset young man stepped into view. He wore a gray, tattered-looking sports jacket with a white shirt open at the collar. He wore no tie. He had thin, sandy-colored hair, a kind and gentle face and very sad brown eyes. To Doug he didn’t look at all like a policeman.

“Are you sure, Doug?” The policeman asked again.

Doug looked from the policeman’s face to his mother’s, his father’s and then the doctor’s. There was something wrong. They all looked sad and afraid at the same time.

“Try to remember, Doug.”

And then suddenly Doug did remember. He remembered everything in that instant, but wished he hadn’t, and he began to feel all panicky and afraid, like he wanted to cry. And although he did remember, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to tell them about it. It was all too crazy, too insane. He wanted it to be a bad dream, but down deep he knew the truth, and his real fear was that they wouldn’t believe him, or worse, that they’d think he did it.

“Tell us, Doug,” said the policeman.

“I saw something.” Doug’s frightened eyes darted back and forth between the doctor and the policeman.

“What did you see?”

“Something happened to Janet, and . . . and then something happened to her boyfriend.”

“What happened to them, Doug?”

“I don’t know. Something. They were screaming and trying to get away.”

“Trying to get away from whom, Doug?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you were in the apartment?”

Doug looked from the policeman to his mother, licking his lips. “No!” he said, and began to cry. “I was outside playing with Tommy and Savannah. I didn’t do it, honest.”

“It’s okay,” his mother consoled. “We know you didn’t.”

Doug looked from one somber face to the next, noticing for the first time that there was a bandage on his nose.

“So, how did you see what happened inside the apartment if you weren’t there?” the policeman asked in a kind and reassuring voice.

“I don’t know. It was like I was dreaming or something.”

The people in the room all shared questioning looks.

“What about Tommy and Savannah?” The policeman asked in a careful voice.

“What about them?”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

Doug stiffened and came up off the bed, his heart pounding in his chest. Little hysterical choking sounds were coming from his throat. “No!” he said. “They were right there, outside playing with me. Please, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t do anything.”

“We believe you, son” the policeman said. “Please now, don’t be upset.”

“The patient needs to rest,” said the doctor. “I think he’s been through quite enough for one day.”

“But I don’t want to rest,” Doug cried out. “I want to know about Tommy and Savannah. Tell me!”

“They’re missing,” the policeman said resignedly. “Are you sure you didn’t see what happened to them?”

“They can’t be missing,” Doug said. His head was swimming with pain and panic. “I was right there. Tommy punched me and I felt something in my head.”

“What did you feel?” the policeman asked.

“The dark thing. I don’t know. It was ugly. It made me scared. I could see it. It had one red eye. It did something to Janet. It did something to Janet’s boyfriend. It made them scream! I heard it whisper!”

“Whisper?” said the police lieutenant. “What did it say?”

“Where are the children?” It said, “Where are the children?”

The room fell silent for a long moment.

“Now I’m going to ask you again,” the policeman, who didn’t look like a policeman, said. “How did you know all this if you were outside?”

“I don’t know. It was like in a dream, I told you, only it was real. I swear it was real.”

“That’s enough!” the doctor said firmly.

“All right,” the policeman replied, never taking his eyes off the boy. “We’re going to let you get some rest now, but when you’re out of the hospital I’d like to come to your house and talk to you some more about this. Would that be okay, Doug?”

Doug looked at his mother’s scared face and got no reaction. “I guess so,” he said.

Three days and an entire battery of tests later Doug was finally allowed to go home. He and his parents were told that a small shard of bone—half an inch long and not much bigger around than a sewing needle—was lodged in his brain’s frontal lobe. It was in an impossible location, removal being far beyond the scope of the day’s technology. “He will be able to live with the shard,” the doctor said. “But his life will probably always be plagued by severe headaches.”

The press had gotten hold of the story, of course. How could it not have? Two people were dead under very mysterious circumstances, and two young children had disappeared without a trace. News spread fast of the boy with the extraordinary sight who had witnessed these mysterious events while in some sort of trance state. The news brought curiosity seekers from all corners of the globe hoping to get a glimpse of the boy with the extraordinary vision.

The McArthurs mostly hid inside their house in the days that followed, bolting their doors and drawing their blinds. For a while they listened to cable news and its endless speculations. Some news divisions even tried to get permission to interview Doug, without success, however. His parents were having none of it. This only added fuel to the fires of their endless speculation.

During his period of recuperation it was Doug’s mother who knew most intimately the way he was thinking. And somehow knowing her son had been fundamentally changed by the incident, she protected him vehemently against anything or anyone who would seek to upset him. But Doug saw that the expression in her eyes had changed. What had once been unconditional love had now degraded into a sort of wary self control. She’d scrutinize him when she thought he wasn’t watching. But she wasn’t fooling him. He recognized the look in her eyes. From the moment he’d begun talking about the mysteries he’d witnessed, she’d been a little bit afraid of him. He supposed there was nothing he could do about that.

In time Doug’s strength returned, the interview requests ceased, and the sightseers went away. By Thanksgiving their little town had mostly returned to normal, and Doug’s brief moment of notoriety was over. Or so he thought. He soon learned that the incident had changed his life forever. At school there were the inevitable whispers, name calling and jokes. He felt curiously immune to it all, and when, after a time, it was plain that he would not respond to the cruelty, he was finally left alone.

A few days following the Thanksgiving holiday there was a knock at the door. Doug opened it to the young policeman whom he’d talked to at the hospital.

“Hi, Doug,” the policeman said with a warm smile. “Remember me? Detective Jennings?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“May I come in?”

“Sure,” Doug said, standing aside. He was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while watching television.

“How are you feeling, son?”

“Still got a headache but otherwise okay.”

Jennings nodded.

Doug’s mother came into the room and stopped cold when she saw the detective.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. McArthur. I’d like to ask Doug a few questions.”

Jane McArthur combed a frustrated hand through her hair and sighed. “Hasn’t he been through enough?”

“Mrs. McArthur, your son is the only link we have to the murder of two people and the disappearance of two others. I really do need to talk to him.”

Doug’s eyes shifted from the policeman and back to his mother. “It’s okay, Mom, really, I don’t mind.”

She knew he needed to talk about it, but she could also see that his eyes were still cloudy and distant. She wondered if they would ever be bright again. An unwitting sob escaped her and she put a trembling hand to her mouth. “I guess so,” she said. “But I want to be in the room when you question him.”

“Absolutely,” said Jennings.

They talked all that morning, mostly about things other than that terrible day; they talked about sports and television and school and books. Halfway through the morning Doug’s mother slipped away to resume the business of running the McArthur household, satisfied, at least for the moment, that the soft-spoken police lieutenant’s motives were noble. She understood that he desperately needed information, but she also knew that he was a diplomat and the only way he was going to get it was to befriend her son.

The detective came by many times after that day and he and Doug did a lot of talking. Sometimes they would go outside together and throw a baseball back and forth or shoot hoops, and on occasion Jennings would take Doug to the Dairy Queen in his police car and buy him an ice cream soda. There was even a time when he took him to a Boston Red Sox game along with his father and another young friend of Doug’s. That had been one of the best times of Doug’s young life.

In time the entire story of what happened on that day did come out, at least as much of the story as Doug could remember, or wanted to remember. It wasn’t until years later, under hypnosis, and at Jennings’ request, that the whole truth was finally revealed. And it would prove more baffling and more frustrating than any lie could have ever been. That was because Jennings unequivocally believed the young man’s story.

A bond was forged between Doug and the policeman that would last into Doug’s adulthood and beyond. One day when Doug was ten years old he confided something to Lieutenant Jennings that he’d never confided to anyone before. They were riding in Jennings’ car, on the way to a little league ball game that Doug was playing in when the boy turned to the man and said: “Tommy and Savannah used to talk to me.”

“You mean back before they disappeared?”

“No, I mean afterwards.”

Although Jennings was shocked by the confession he wasn’t actually surprised. Other things had happened to Doug in the two years since the tragedy that made Jennings believe Doug possessed something others could not even imagine. The boy had this sense. He was psychic, but perhaps he was even more than that, perhaps he had a connection to something beyond the realm of human understanding. One thing was clear to Jennings, however. Doug McArthur was a cursed child, because his psychic visions seemed to bring about only tragedy and heartache. Jennings glanced over at the boy with the somber face and the baseball cap turned around backwards and thought that young Douglas McArthur was probably the saddest little boy he had ever known. “So, they don’t talk to you now?”

Doug shook his head.

“Tell me,” Jennings said, after a long moment in which he had absorbed Doug’s startling disclosure. “What did they say?”

“They talked about the Collector.”

“The Collector?” Jennings said, his interest piqued. “Is that the name they’ve given the dark thing you see in your visions?” Doug nodded. “Did they say who this . . . Collector was?”

“They didn’t know.”

“What else did they tell you, Doug?”

“That he’s very sad. That’s why he collects souls. He’s trying to find one for himself.”

Jennings nodded. “I see. Did they know why this Collector doesn’t have a soul of his own?”

Doug shook his head. “He lost it and he’s trying to get it back.”

“I see,” said Jennings. “Did they say how this Collector treated them?”

Doug shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I guess. They said it was lonely and they didn’t need to eat. And there were lots of bones there. Mostly they were the bones of birds.”

“Why birds, Doug?”

“I don’t know.”

Jennings nodded. “Did they say anything else?”

“Yeah, it’s cold there, so cold and so empty.”

—–

Doug was hauled out of his reverie by the sound of Theo talking on the phone in a low voice, but mostly he wasn’t talking at all, just listening with an occasional, yes, sir, or no, sir thrown in for effect. Doug understood that he was receiving instructions from his master.

A left turn took them to an iron gate of considerable height. The limo stopped and a uniformed guard came into view. Theo nodded and the gate began to trundle open. On either side of the gate, a massive stone fence, equally as tall as the gate and topped with ominous strands of razor wire, stretched in a convoluted route along the borders of the estate like some miniature and menacing version of China’s Great Wall. Doug understood that this was a prison of sorts, designed more to keep the outside world at bay than to keep people in.

Stationed along the fence, more guards; others walked the estate’s perimeter, some with dogs.

They drove through the gates of De Roché Manor and into another world; lawns laid out immaculately on either side of the paved driveway; a distant aspect of woodland off to the left which disappeared behind a line of cypresses as they bore around toward the house itself. Off to the right stretched a line of one hundred foot sand palms; there was an enormous marble pond with a spurting fountain surrounded by carved marble figures, human and animal alike, and in the distance, the Gulf of Mexico gleamed at them through a line of beach pines, shimmering like freshly polished silver in the brilliant southern sunshine.

The main building was less spectacular than Doug remembered; just a large, white, three-story Greek-revival house, solid but plain, with modern extensions sprawling away from the main structure on either end. They drove past the front door, with its formal Corinthian-columned porch, and stopped on a tarmac near a side entrance.

“Mr. De Roché is waiting in his study,” Theo told them.

Doug grunted thanks, wondering if Theo was just a simple errand boy, but knowing down deep that he wasn’t.

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