Familiar Spirit

Chapter Five

“I won’t!” Sarah mumbled.

The childish protest rang in her ears, as if she had been repeating it for hours. She looked around groggily, trying to understand where she was and what had happened. She was slumped on the kitchen linoleum. Her bare feet were so cold they ached. The grey light of very early morning filled the room.

Sarah squinted against the pounding in her head and struggled to her feet. She managed to reach the bathroom before she vomited. Then, bewildered and shivering uncontrollably, Sarah leaned against the side of the door and tried to think. She couldn’t remember anything, not even what day it was. All she could cling to, through the painful fog that filled her head, was a knowledge of her own identity. And she clutched that as if even that last certainty might be snatched from her.

“Sarah,” she whispered. “Me.”

Who had tried to take that away from her?

A dim memory of struggle and pain surfaced and then sank again. Sank into cold, dirty water. Her stomach heaved and Sarah grabbed the doorframe and swallowed hard. She remembered drowning. Almost drowning.

She broke out into a light sweat, no longer cold, although she still shivered. She remembered the fires that had burned on the other side of the water. The eyes that had burned like fire, burned into her brain, almost consuming her.

Sarah moaned softly and closed her eyes, pressing a hand against her head. Pain pulsed through her body. She ached as if she had been beaten. But she had not been beaten. She had survived. She still lived. And now she had to rest. It was safe to rest now; she had fought long enough for now. That knowledge came from within her, and Sarah trusted it.

Safe now, she thought, staggering back to the couch. Safe to sleep. She wasn’t ready yet to remember what she was safe from.

Knocking woke her, long hours later.

Sarah opened her eyes on daylight. The knocking persisted, and the sound made her shudder. The rat! It was the rat, she thought, within the walls, mocking her. She struggled to sit up, panting with terror, the blanket trapping her legs and slowing her.

“Sarah? Sarah, are you there?”

She heard the faint, faraway voice and recognized it as Beverly’s. She relaxed, then, and unwound herself from the blanket. “Coming,” she called. Her voice sounded cracked and strange in her ears. Despite the sleep, her body still ached and she felt weak and feverish.

“I was worried about you,” Beverly said when Sarah opened the back door. “When you weren’t in class—” She frowned, stepped forward and put her hands on Sarah’s shoulders. “Are you all right? You look . . .”

Sarah shrugged Beverly’s hands away, stepping back. “I was asleep.”

“A nap?”

Sarah frowned. “What time is it?”

“Nearly three.”

Sarah stared blankly, trying to comprehend. Why had she been asleep in the middle of the day? What had happened the night before? Something dreadful, which had weakened her and made her sick, but she couldn’t exactly remember . . .

“Poor thing,” Beverly said, smiling ruefully. “I woke you up. You go sit down and rest, and I’ll make you some tea.”

“Coffee,” Sarah said. She had to clear her head; she had to remember.

“All right, coffee.”

The sound of a truck in the yard behind her made Beverly turn around. “Looks like your bed has arrived,” she said to Sarah.

“Oh,” said Sarah. Her mind was a blank. The words made sense, but she didn’t know how they related, how she was to respond.

“You poor baby,” Beverly said. She laughed, but her laughter was a caress, not a mockery. She took Sarah by the shoulders again and walked her backwards. “You just lie back down and I’ll take care of everything. I’ll get you your coffee, and I’ll show the men where to put your bed.”

It was wonderful to give in, to relax, to let someone else take over. Like an obedient child, Sarah let Beverly sit her down on the couch. She sat there, her mind like an empty room, and listened to the sounds of activity from the back of the house.

But images pushed in at the edges of her mind, dimly recalled. Suffocation. Burning. Twin fires. Golden eyes. A rat—

Sarah opened her eyes and saw Beverly before her. “What is that,” said Beverly. “On the bedroom floor?”

Sarah shook her head.

“Something painted on the floor,” Beverly said.

Now she saw it; now she remembered.

“A rat,” Sarah said, wondering. “I was up all night fighting a rat. It wasn’t a dream. But I don’t know how—”

Beverly’s expression turned to one of alarm. With the palm of her hand she touched Sarah’s cheeks and forehead. “You’re coming home with me,” she said.

Sarah tensed and drew back. “No.”

“Come on, Sarah. You’re sick. You need someone to look after you.”

“I can’t leave.”

“Of course you can! Why not?”

Sarah shook her head, groping for the reason. She had to stay, she knew that much. Unfinished business. Someone waiting for her. She remembered something else. “The rat,” she said. “It wasn’t just a rat. It was something else, something much more powerful. And it was trying to kill me. Not kill me physically”—she tried to think of the right word, remembering the feeling of being suffocated—“but push me out, destroy my soul. But I hung on. I woke up this morning, I was lying on the kitchen floor, and I was sick.”

“That’s why you’re coming home with me,” Beverly said gently. “Because you’re sick, and I can take care of you. I’ll just get your shoes and we’ll go.”

Sarah shook her head, staring after her friend. She couldn’t leave; she had to stay here. But then, through her confusion, she wondered why—and wondered if the reluctance to leave was even her own. Was it another trick, another trap? Her head ached so she could hardly think.

“Put these on,” Beverly said. Obediently, Sarah accepted a pair of socks and her boots and began to pull them on. She would leave with Beverly, she decided. She had to think, to figure things out. But first she needed to rest—and she could not rest safely here, because the rat might come back for her. She yawned suddenly, hugely, and then smiled wanly at her friend. “I’m glad you came by,” she said. “I guess I do need somebody to take care of me today.”

Beverly helped Sarah to her feet and kept one arm around her as they walked to the door. “Nurse Beverly to the rescue,” she said.

The next morning Sarah was herself again. The fever, confusion, pain and fear had all vanished in the night, and she ate breakfast ravenously, eager to get on with the day. She had lost Monday, and the thought of that made her feel anxious and pressed for time.

“Maybe you should take it easy today,” Beverly said. “Just lie around the house and relax.”

“I don’t have time for that,” Sarah said, spreading jam on an English muffin. “I have to pick up my telephone, go to the bank, do some grocery shopping, decide on my research topic for the Faulkner seminar, finish my paper on sexist language—”

“You’re not going to do yourself any good if you just get sick again,” Beverly said.

“I’m not going to get sick again,” Sarah said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“No more nightmares?”

“Not a one. I dreamed it was summer, and you and Pete and I had a house on an island in the middle of Lake Travis. We got there by swimming through an underwater tunnel that no one else knew about.”

Beverly smiled, and Sarah smiled back, swallowing the last of her eggs. She didn’t want to talk about nightmares—she wanted to forget them. When Beverly had questioned her earlier about her experiences Sunday night, Sarah had pretended not to remember, and had quickly turned the subject. In fact, she remembered strange, unpleasant snatches of a nightmare about a rat with glowing eyes, a supernaturally powerful rat which she had struggled against for her very existence. She wanted to forget it. She remembered how seriously—probably the effect of the fever—she had taken that nightmare, and it embarrassed her to think of the things she had said to Beverly about it, her mad babblings about fighting a rat. But it was excusable —she had not been herself—she had been ill.

“I know what I wanted to ask you,” Beverly said. Sarah met her eyes across the table. “That design painted on your bedroom floor—remember?”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Something else I need to do today. Buy some paint remover and clean it off.”

“What is it?”

Sarah rose and began clearing away the dirty dishes. “It’s called a pentacle. Magicians and witches use them in magic rituals.”

“Ah,” said Beverly. “So old weirdo, the one who used to rent the place, was a witch?”

“I suppose so.”

“And used that pentacle—what? To talk to the devil?”

Sarah shrugged. “To conjure up spirits, I suppose.”

“Leave those,” Beverly said. “I’ll wash them all later. I’ve got to get to class—come on, I’ll drop you off. Do you suppose she was part of a coven?”

They went out the door together. “I doubt it,” Sarah said. “She struck me as a more solitary type of loon.”

Outside it was beautiful. The sky was a hard, bright blue and despite the heat of the sun there was a welcome crispness in the air, the faintest smell of autumn. Sarah breathed in deeply, feeling revived. She thought with pleasure of the trees around her house—soon the leaves would be turning brown and falling, and she could rake them into big piles and set them alight.

“I just hope she sent back whatever she conjured up,” Beverly said as they walked across the parking lot together. “Let’s hope there aren’t any leftover spirits hanging around your house.”

Her stomach lurched; fragments of nearly forgotten nightmare scratched at the back of her throat. Sarah opened her mouth, meaning to tell Beverly that she had changed her mind, that she couldn’t, mustn’t, go back to that house.

But Beverly, unaware, had already changed the subject. “That wasn’t much of a norther we had the other night, but I guess summer’s gone for good. I guess we won’t get out to the lake again this year.”

The moment passed, leaving Sarah feeling slightly dis­oriented. She grasped at Beverly’s words to anchor herself. “The lake . . . yes . . . I told you about my dream?”

They had reached the car. Pausing before unlocking the door, Beverly turned to Sarah with a slightly puzzled smile. “Yes, you did—about an underwater tunnel at Lake Travis? You’d better not tell Pete—I’m sure there’s probably something embarrassingly Freudian in that.”

Sarah nodded and smiled mechanically. There was some other dream, she thought, confused. Some other dream she should be remembering . . . She was silent as Beverly drove, but after a few moments she stopped trying to puzzle out the lost memory and simply enjoyed the familiar sights of this east-west drive through Austin: the students and street-people and corner flower-sellers; the rows of ugly, functional apartment complexes alternating with gracefully aging, tree-shaded frame houses; the rolling green lawn behind the chain-link fence of the state hospital.

And then, her favorite sight, the one she never tired of, as they rose up the overpass over the expressway: the hills. Just a glimpse, the gentle curve of green on the horizon, but it never failed to make her heart lift. The hills to the west of town where the Colorado River wound. They were a symbol of freedom to her. Sarah would never forget her first astonished, joyful discovery of them her first day in Austin six years before. After a lifetime spent on the flat Texas coast the hills of Austin were like a sight of heaven, as exciting and important to her as the facts of being away from home, on her own and enrolled at the university.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Beverly asked.

“Yes, turn off here. It’s not much of a driveway, I know . . .”

“Oh, this old car doesn’t mind.” Beverly steered skillfully off the street and behind Sarah’s car. She shifted into park and turned to give Sarah a long, measuring look. “Promise me,” she said. “If you start feeling the least bit sick, or tired, or even doubtful, you will either call me or come over.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got a bed now, and I’ll pick up a phone today.”

“But it won’t be connected right away. Maybe you’d better stay with us until—”

“Bev, I’m fine. I’ve got tons of stuff to do, and I don’t feel sick at all, really.”

Beverly looked doubtful. “You’re so isolated out here—”

“Okay,” Sarah said hastily, feeling the morning slipping away from her. “If anything happens, if I get sick or have a bad dream, I’ll come to you to make it better. You’d better go now, or you’ll be late for class.” She got out of the car as she was speaking, and closed the door firmly.

Beverly hesitated, as if she still had more advice to give, or another promise she wanted to extract, but finally she mimed a kiss and drove away.

Sarah turned towards the house and stopped short in surprise at the sight of a cat on the back steps. It was a nice-looking animal, a sleek calico, body curved gracefully as it washed one white paw. Sarah smiled at the picture it made: cat on wooden steps. It looked very much at home. She wondered if it planned to stay. She had never had a pet before. She continued to watch it as she approached the house, but it was utterly self-absorbed and did not look up from its grooming.

At the foot of the steps Sarah stopped again, and her breath caught in her throat with surprise. A small body lay on the ground a few inches from the bottom step: a dead rat. The fur at the throat was matted with dried blood, and the small, nasty teeth were revealed in a final snarl.

She let out her breath in a long, slow sigh. It was dead. No more knockings within the walls, or beneath the bathtub; no more mocking scurrying sounds. She looked from the tiny corpse to the cat. “Good work!” she said, pleased. “Maybe I should keep you around, if you’re looking for a new home.”

At the sound of her voice, the cat finally stopped washing and turned its head to look at her.

Sarah went cold as she met that steady, malevolent gaze. Those hard, yellow eyes. She knew them. She remembered the rat’s glowing eyes, and how they had locked with hers.

The cat leaped down from the step and stalked towards Sarah, tail switching back and forth. Sarah jumped back.

“Miaou?”

A plaintive cat-sound. It looked up at her with bright, inscrutable eyes. A cat’s eyes. Yellow was a common color for cat’s eyes.

Sarah managed a shaky laugh. She was being silly, letting her dream affect her so. She knew it was only a cat.

“Good cat,” she said, looking down at the animal. She couldn’t quite bring herself to touch it. “You killed that nasty old rat, didn’t you? Now, how did you know that’s just what I’d like? If you’re looking for a job as rat-catcher, you’ve got it. But probably you already have a home—you look well-fed to me.” As she spoke, she climbed the steps and fumbled with her keys, very aware that the cat was watching her intently. But, then, cats often stared. She knew that.

As she opened the door, the cat was suddenly right beside her, slipping inside the porch with rapid skill.

“Hey,” Sarah said. “I didn’t invite you in! If you want to stay in the cellar and catch rats, that’s fine, but I don’t need a house cat, thank you very much.”

She looked down, and the animal looked up, and their eyes met. Golden, burning—they are like flames, Sarah thought. She broke the gaze by turning her head aside. She was breathing rapidly. I must not look, she thought. I must not let it trap me. Those flames will burn into my mind and consume me.

Her own thoughts appalled her. Was it the return of the fever? Was she crazy, to imagine some horrible connection between this cat and the demonic rat of her nightmare? No matter how she argued with herself, she could not reason away the visceral fear she felt, the fear that strung her nerves taut and made her keep her eyes averted. It was crazy, but she could not shake her conviction that the cat—standing very still now, head cocked to one side to gaze unblinkingly up at her—was dangerous.

Moving slowly and carefully, Sarah opened the door to the kitchen and slipped inside. The cat did not move, as if it understood any attempt would be foiled. Sarah had left the back door open, and she hoped the cat would soon leave the porch.

Inside, Sarah leaned against the solid kitchen door, feeling weak. Her sudden perspiration dried on her skin, and she shivered, chilled. Dazed, hardly knowing if she were awake or dreaming, Sarah wandered back to the living room and slumped onto the couch.

It was just a cat, she told herself. Cats often had yellow eyes. It was just the likeness of those eyes to the eyes of the rat in her dream which had disturbed her, stirring up scenes she didn’t want to relive. Her own explanation did not convince her.

A low moaning interrupted her thoughts. Skin prickling, Sarah turned towards the front window. Through it she could see the cat, crouched on the porch railing on a level with the window, glaring balefully in at her.

Sarah stared back, waiting for it to move. But nothing happened. The cat went on moaning and staring. Its eyes seemed to expand, and she thought, distractedly, of the story of the tin soldier and the dog with eyes as big as saucers.

She must not look into them; it wasn’t safe.

Making a great effort, Sarah managed to turn away from the window. She dropped back against the couch, breathing hard, feeling dizzy, as if she had done something far more strenuous than simply turn her head.

The cat had killed the rat, she thought.

But the rat wasn’t dead.

The rat—or something which had been inside the rat—lived on, now within the cat. Sarah had seen it staring out of those golden eyes. She knew, beyond possibility of doubt, because she had felt it clawing at the edges of her mind.

She remembered, now, what she had blocked out of her memory.

After the suffocation, after the drowning, after the pain, the rat had leaped at her in the darkness. Throwing her hands up to protect her face, Sarah had encountered two other hands which had seized her and thrown her to the floor. Someone or something—she had thought, in what little time she had to think, that it was a giant rat with human hands—had ridden astride her, legs in a painful vise around her hips, hands throttling her neck. Blood-red light had blazed before her eyes, but Sarah had not passed out. She had managed to pull the hands away, and wrestled to keep them away although she could not dislodge her assailant entirely. It was like wrestling with her own shadow: the attacker made no sound, and seemed to match her exactly in size and strength. Despite the sensation of the legs and hands which gripped her, Sarah could not feel any head or body. Perhaps her attacker had no body? Perhaps her attacker existed only in her mind, and she was wearing herself out by fighting herself?

At that thought, because she was exhausted already, Sarah stopped fighting abruptly and let herself go limp.

Her attacker vanished.

And then all Sarah’s fears and exhaustion had been extinguished by a feeling of bliss.

It was a feeling she had experienced before, although not often, when she was with Brian, just after making love. A sense of being enhanced, of being joined. A dream of swimming slowly through a vast, sentient ocean. Not knowing or caring where her body ended and Brian’s began, because they were both the same.

Sarah knew she was not alone, and she was glad. It was wonderful not to be alone. She could feel another presence close to her—more than close. It was with her, a part of her, beneath her skin.

At first, it was wonderful. A kind of ecstasy.

Then Sarah realized that she was standing, without any memory of having done so. And she was walking across the room, feeling her legs move without willing them to. Sarah’s hand, without Sarah’s will, turned on the light, and then she could see. She felt as if she had been detached from her body and was floating slightly above and to the right of it. She watched herself walk through the rooms of the house and knew she was only a passenger—a passenger who could not even feel the seats, or the motions of travel. Only an observer.

The bliss was gone. Sarah felt nothing. Nothing but fear.

No, she said, but no mouth opened to pronounce the word. No. No voice spoke. No, no, no.

Her body moved back and forth erratically, jerkily. Arms swung back and forth. Head twitched on shoulders. Legs lost their strength, and let the body fall heavily to the floor.

Sarah, somewhere deep inside, could feel none of this, although she knew it was happening. She could still think, and she still had hope of regaining her body. If only she knew how to fight. How could she fight when she could not move?

Think.

As she had learned to do in the nightmares she had as a child, Sarah struggled to close her eyes. If she could close her eyes, she would know she was dreaming. Sarah concentrated all her strength on closing her eyes. Such a little thing to do; she had been doing it all her life. Suddenly everything went black. Did that mean her eyes were closed? Had she done that, or was it the other? Sarah opened her mouth. She felt the roaring darkness rush in. She couldn’t breathe. She was choking on darkness, but she couldn’t close her mouth even if it filled her—she had to breathe. She choked but went on trying to scream. If she could scream, she could expel the darkness. She screamed. And heard herself scream. And knew that she was herself, alone in her body again.

Sarah shuddered under the force of the memory. All night she had fought against that thing, her invisible assailant, the rat who wanted to kill her and take her body.

She had thought, by morning, that she had won because she was still alive, still alone in her body. But all she had won was a resting-spell. She had only survived. But so had her enemy, the thing that changed bodies like suits of clothes.

The rat was dead, but the spirit had survived and was inhabiting the body of a cat. Sarah was certain that it would attack her again—and she was not at all certain she could survive another round.

In a panic, she leaped to her feet. She had to get out, get far away from the house and the cat.

The cat was waiting on the back porch.

Sarah stopped just in time, her fingers curling around the big, old metal doorknob, and stared through the window in the door at the evil-eyed creature. Her panicked breathing rasped in her ears. How had it known what she would do? Could it read her mind? She knew that if she turned and ran to the front door, the cat could make it around the house and meet her there, attack her there.

Sarah whimpered softly to herself, closing her eyes and leaning against the door. She had to get out, somehow. She had to get away. Why had she come back at all? What sort of spell had the thing put on her, that she forgot about it as soon as she was away from the house?

This time she swore that she would remember, if only she could get away. She’d run and run and never look back . . . if only it would let her. But it was guarding her, a cat before a mousehole. Last time it had been a rat, but now she was the timid rodent.

Sarah struggled to conquer her fear and think. There had to be a way out, a way past the cat. There had to be a way of tricking it, or overpowering it. She opened her eyes and looked through the glass at the cat. It stared back quietly, unmoving, yellow eyes huge.

Sarah’s skin crawled, and she could imagine the burning pain of raking claws, the piercing bite of sharp teeth as the cat leaped on her. She felt faint. She needed air, fresh air. She had to get out . . . her hand grasped the doorknob and began to turn it.

Her breath came out in a sudden hiss and she dropped her hold on the doorknob at the same moment as she tore her gaze away from the animal. She had forgotten the most dangerous thing about it—those eyes, and the power they had when she looked into them. It would hypnotize her if she wasn’t careful; it would leap through her eyes into her brain.

Because it was her mind, far more than her body, that was in danger. Physically, the thing was only a cat, and Sarah knew that she was much bigger and stronger than a cat. Unless it had rabies, it couldn’t do her much harm—not if she was quick and careful, and ran like hell for the safety of her car.

The idea of going outside, past the cat that waited for her, was still frightening, but it was far preferable to the idea of staying here, trapped in the house, waiting for whatever new horrors the darkness would bring.

She drew a long, deep breath. Then, slipping her purse over one shoulder, she took the broom from the corner and gripped it firmly. Then she opened the door.

At the first click of the knob the cat sprang forward. Sarah slammed the door immediately, and the cat backed away, shaking its head as if its whiskers had been pinched. Giving it no time to recover, Sarah opened the door again, and this time she slipped through and pulled it firmly shut behind her. She took the broom in both hands and held it warningly as the cat glared. The animal did not move, and it blocked her way to the outer door. Sarah shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, finding it a struggle to keep the cat in sight without being trapped into looking into those glaring yellow eyes. But although she kept expecting the cat to spring at her physically, it did not. It was not attacking, it was playing with her, daring her to make the first move. That idea annoyed Sarah, and stirred her to action. She lifted the broom up and brought it down in an arc, swatting the cat flatly against one side.

The cat let out a screech that set Sarah’s teeth on edge, but the force of the blow swept the animal through the doorway and out onto the steps. Before it could regain its footing, Sarah had rushed through the door herself, slamming it behind her.

She stared down at the cat, only inches away from her now. Its back was arched and the tail swollen up like a balloon. It hissed, revealing dagger-sharp teeth and a pink-white tongue, and for one paralyzing moment Sarah was certain it would leap for her face. She closed her eyes, hands tightening on the broom, and said a mental prayer.

Nothing happened.

Sarah opened her eyes just in time to see the cat leap off the steps and bound around the side of the house, out of sight.

Setting the broom crossways against the door, Sarah walked to her car, feeling the fear and tension leave her body, swirling away like water down a drain.

Now, what was all that about, she wondered. It was only a cat, and she’d never been afraid of cats before. What sort of nightmare was it that had upset her so much? She touched her face and found it hot. Maybe she did have a fever. People with fevers often had strange dreams.

She looked back at the house and found that she still felt a strong aversion to going inside, although she couldn’t remember exactly why. Bad dreams? An evil spirit? A cat? Images flickered through her mind but would not be pinned down for examination.

Finally, with an effort, Sarah pushed the whole problem out of her mind. She would think about it later—right now, she had things to do. She felt weak and shaky, and decided that a touch of flu might explain everything.

Sarah drove first to Dobie Mall, a shopping center in the base of a high-rise dormitory on the southwest edge of campus. There was a telephone office there, and she could save money by picking up a telephone and installing it herself.

Once she had done that—holding fast to her request for a standard telephone, refusing the charms of telephones hidden inside boxes or shaped like Mickey Mouse—Sarah crossed the street and wandered down that part of Guadalupe Street known as The Drag.

It was filled, as always in term time, with crowds of students. Sarah knew it might have been cheaper to do her shopping in one of the malls, or among the strips of discount stores in North Austin, but going to The Drag was a treat she gave herself. She felt comfortable there, at home wandering among the colorful crowds, her senses tickled by smells from the eggroll and barbecue stands, the music of street musicians, the vivid displays in shop windows and on the temporary stalls of vendors selling pottery, cheap clothing, wooden toys, jewelry and leather belts and bags. Sarah let herself be seduced by her favorite bookstore, emerging after half an hour’s browsing with a package under her arm; she tried on rings she knew she couldn’t buy; she ate lunch in a vegetarian cafe, one of the vantage points for people-watching; she paused to talk with a couple of acquaintances; and she even managed to buy a few of the things on her shopping list.

Sarah felt calm and relaxed as she drove home. Her mind was on her Faulkner seminar, and she was trying to think of something new to say about Southern Gothic as she parked the car behind her house. It wasn’t until she had walked up the steps and into the kitchen that the horrible memories came back to her in a rush.

She knew despair, and impatience with her own foolishness, as she realized that she had walked right back into the trap.

Sarah turned, dropping the shopping bags she carried, and ran, not even closing the doors behind her, stumbling down the short flight of steps and just managing not to fall. She clutched the door handle on her car and stopped, heart racing. She swallowed hard, feeling the sweat of fear drying on her skin, and turned slowly and looked back at the house, feeling the fear dying away.

The old wooden door hung on its hinges, still swaying slightly in the breeze of her passing. Nothing waited for her there, Sarah told herself. No cat with glowing eyes, no evil, supernatural rat, no diabolical spirit. Because such things didn’t exist.

She could remember, now, what she had been afraid of—she could recall quite clearly the thoughts and fears that had led to her earlier flight from the house. But she didn’t believe in evil spirits, nor in witchcraft. She had always been certain that people who believed that demons possessed them were simply crazy. So did that mean she was crazy?

Two unsavory alternatives. Either she was crazy, or there was a demon in the house. Either way, Sarah knew she didn’t want to go back in the house and risk a repetition of what had happened to her before. She was afraid to go into the house.

’Fraidy cat.

There had been a time when Sarah was the only kid in her neighborhood who dared to walk through the cemetery after dark. Who dared go up and look in the window of the witch house. But Sarah hadn’t been afraid, then, because she didn’t believe in ghosts or witches.

Did she now, a grown woman in broad daylight?

Depressed, frightened, and self-doubting, Sarah got back in the car. She could always spend the night with the Mar­chants again. But she knew neither of them would be home now, so she decided to go to the library where, if she could manage to concentrate, she might get some work done.

On campus she was lucky enough to find a parking space within a few blocks of the library. She had just switched off the engine when she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure, and her heart played yo-yo. Yes, it was Brian, and that slight figure by his side must be Melanie. She had dark hair nearly to her waist, and a little pointed face that gazed adoringly up at Brian. Not wanting to have to speak to them, Sarah stayed in the car.

As Sarah watched, a big black bird—one of the grackles which infested the campus—suddenly left its perch on a parking meter. Giving its characteristic, water-gurgling cry, it flapped heavily and clumsily away, about on a level with Melanie’s head, although nowhere near her. But too near, obviously, for Melanie, who let out a wild cry, dropped her books, and threw her arms protectively over her head.

Brian responded immediately, pulling Melanie into the shelter of his arms. Sarah could see his lips moving and knew he must be speaking to her soothingly.

I could scream all night and you’d never come rescue me, Sarah thought. Her stomach churned bitterly, and then the misery she felt turned to self-loathing. Was that it? A trick played by her subconscious? This sudden fear of evil spirits a ploy to make her weak and trembling . . . and in desperate need of Brian? If her problems were even bigger than Melanie’s, would he come rushing back to save her from herself?

No.

Anger rose in her, anger at herself and at Brian, and at the demonic nightmares which had been tormenting her.

She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t crack up, and she wouldn’t run away. If Brian didn’t want her as she was, she would learn to live without him. She didn’t need him, and she was proud of it. She refused to cringe and crawl and cry for anyone. She was going home.

Anger was a fine thing, invigorating, powerful, more intoxicating than drink. It fueled her all the way back to the house and kept her from stopping to think about it. Sarah didn’t see the cat anywhere as she stomped up the steps and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

“All right,” she said loudly. “I’m back. I’m not scared of you.”

Behind her, the telephone rang.

Sarah’s throat tightened with panic, although she didn’t understand why, and she whirled around. Then she realized: the telephone was still unconnected. Not only that, but it was not even plugged in. It was still inside the bright orange and brown plastic bag where she had dropped it on the kitchen floor.

It rang again.

As she stared at it, she saw the bag vibrate slightly with the sound. Sarah moistened her lips and looked around. Then she bent down and took the telephone out of the bag. She stared at the bright red plastic, feeling the vibrations shake her hand, hearing the bell ring. How could this be a delusion, when it felt so real? Finally, she lifted the receiver and held it to her ear. She did not speak. A distant, windy, rushing sound met her ear. And then a voice.

“Sarah.”

The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. It was a deep, dead voice, without emotion, yet not mechanical.

“Sarah.”

Sarah could not reply. She could scarcely breathe.

“I am so glad you have come back, Sarah. I have been waiting for you.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am. You have felt me inside you. You have come back for me, to give yourself up to me.”

“I have not,” Sarah said loudly. “You can’t have me.”

“I can. I shall. I will. One way or another, Sarah, I will have you.”

The intimacy of that inhuman voice, buzzing in her ear, was unbearable. Sarah slammed the receiver back into the cradle, shuddering violently. Then she put the telephone down on the floor and stared at it, waiting, almost daring it to ring again. But nothing happened.

She couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of that dreadful voice in her ear . . . She wanted to run away. But although she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life, she was also as angry as she had ever been. She was damned if she would let that thing, whatever it was, drive her out of her house. She had managed to hold on to her self throughout its monstrous attacks, and she would go on doing so until it gave up.

Suddenly she swooped down and picked up the receiver again.

“You’re scared,” she said loudly into it. “You know you’ve met your match . . . so you’re just trying to scare me off. Well, I’m not leaving. I’ll make you leave instead!”

The telephone was dead plastic in her hand: there was nothing there at all. A little embarrassed by her outburst, Sarah put the receiver gently back. Then she found the jack in the wall by the bedroom door, and plugged the telephone in. If it rang now, she thought, it would seem more normal.

Sarah wondered what she should do. She was primed and ready for battle, the adrenaline pumping away, and she didn’t know what to do with so much energy in the suddenly still and empty house.

Then, through the door, Sarah caught sight of the figure painted on the bedroom floor, and remembered that she had bought a jar of paint remover. A good first step towards exorcising the house might be to erase this mocking reminder. She settled down on the floor and began to scrub at the paint fiercely.

It took nearly two hours, but Sarah finally erased the design. When she stood to appraise her work, she became aware of the ache at the back of her neck, the soreness in her arms, the stiffness of her legs. She switched on the overhead light, realizing for the first time that the room had grown dark with the onset of evening. It was time for dinner, time to go out . . .

Sarah felt a rush of loneliness that almost overwhelmed her. She was not going out; she had no one to spend her evening with. The thought of cooking for herself and eating a meal alone took away her appetite. She missed Brian acutely. She didn’t want to go out, she didn’t want conversation, or sex, or comfort, or encouragement—all she wanted was his physical presence. She wanted the comfort of habit and routine, another presence in the house from whom she could draw wordless, emotional support. It was that very aspect of living with Brian that she had never appreciated, that she had struggled to pull away from.

Sarah felt heavy and slow, hardly capable of moving at all. She went to the new, still unmade bed, and stretched out on it. Her thoughts marched leadenly down a familiar trail. Brian, she had lost Brian, and it had been her own fault. She had driven him away. She had been afraid of needing him, afraid of admitting her need for him, afraid of letting him get too close. She had been utterly preoccupied by her own needs and had not considered Brian’s. If she could have forgotten herself, and given instead of always taken, maybe she wouldn’t have lost Brian. She should have lost herself, instead. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could still give up, let go . . . It was so nice to drift and forget, so nice to stop thinking and simply give in . . .

Then she felt the touch of the claw beneath the velvety fur, and the shock brought her sharply out of the trance she had nearly fallen into. She sat up on the edge of the bed, trembling convulsively. She knew that mental touch, she knew she wasn’t alone. Most horrible: those thoughts had not been her own.

Feeling hunted, Sarah looked nervously around the room. The bare floorboards gleamed slightly under the harsh glare of the overhead light. The windows were black mirrors, throwing her dim reflection back at her so that her own movements made her flinch in terror. The night had crept up and trapped her unaware.

Sarah leaped to her feet and looked around wildly for her purse and keys. Her blood pounded with the imperative to get out, to escape. She hurried into the kitchen and saw two blazing yellow eyes in the black window-glass above the sink.

She screamed, jumping back. Through her terror she made out the shape of a cat around the yellow eyes, and realized that the animal was clinging to a tree outside the kitchen window.

Then she was angry. It was playing with her, she realized. Patting a sheathed paw against her mind, teasing, testing for weak spots. Trying to lull her, then trying to scare her, ready to pounce when she made the wrong move.

“I’m not leaving,” Sarah said loudly, staring back at the cat. “Damn you, do you think you can scare me out of my own house? I’m staying.”

She looked directly into the animal’s eyes as she spoke, and as she did so she became aware of the presence she had earlier sensed in her mind. The recognition was like a faint electric shock. She tried to turn her eyes away and could not. She realized that she was caught by the creature’s gaze, that some force as real as an electric current linked them together along the line of sight. A greedy, powerful presence pushed at her, entering through her eyes. Give in, it commanded, give in and let me in. Just try to get away from me now. She felt it crowding her like some horrible, aggressive stranger. Frightened, she tried to pull away, and her fear grew when she realized that she could not, she could not detach her gaze or move to escape.

So she pushed back. It was the only thing to do, aside from giving in. She forced her own will, her own strong sense of herself as an individual, back at the usurping spirit. Get out, she thought furiously. Get away from me; get back; get away. And she pushed.

She felt it squirm. The cat blinked, then ducked below the window. Sarah could hear it scrabbling down the tree. She laughed out loud, momentarily giddy with the sense of victory, and relief. No, she wouldn’t leave. She would stay here, and fight, and win.

As she made a cup of coffee and a sandwich for her revived appetite, Sarah remained wary, listening to the small sounds of the night outside. She didn’t dare relax.

A few minutes later, seated on the couch in the living room, the electric heater plugged in and pulled close, Sarah recognized a pattern in the sounds she was hearing: the crackling in the leaves, the tread on the rooftop, the light bump against the window. There was never anything there when she looked, but she knew it was the cat, stalking the house, looking for weaknesses, seeking a point of entry. Its persistence kept her on edge.

But despite her nerves, Sarah realized she was tired. Her eyes were hot and weary, and whenever she tried to read, the words blurred in front of her. She was yawning. She had to sleep. If she didn’t lie down, she would pass out sitting up, she thought dazedly, setting aside her cup and book and pulling off her boots. She couldn’t think why she was so tired . . . she couldn’t think anything at all . . . she could hardly keep her eyes open. Sarah stretched out on the couch, telling herself it was only for a minute, and it was like falling backwards into a pool of black water. Sarah was asleep before she had time to think about it.

There was a loud, rumbling sound somewhere nearby—so close and so loud that her whole body vibrated with it. Not an alarming sound, but distracting. She couldn’t sleep with it going on. Sarah opened her eyes and saw the cat. It was sitting heavily on her chest, purring loudly.

She tried to sit up, but the cat was much too big. It had not been nearly so large when it was outside, she thought confusedly. She hadn’t realized what an enormous animal it was. And heavy. She could hardly breathe with the weight of it.

She tried to move her arms, to knock the cat aside, but her arms seemed paralyzed, as did her legs. She tried to arch her back and dislodge the cat that way, but she simply was not strong enough. She could only move up and down slightly, ineffectually, until she was drenched with sweat and heaving with effort, and the cat purred on, undisturbed. It seemed to grow heavier by the minute, or perhaps her exertions made it harder for her to breathe. The pressure in her chest was becoming painful.

The cat looked down at her complacently. A demonic intelligence stared out of those disturbingly brilliant eyes. The eyes—of course, the eyes! She remembered now that it was the eyes she had to beware of—the pressure on her chest was unimportant, perhaps even an illusion. But it might kill her with its eyes if she wasn’t careful.

Making a tremendous effort, Sarah turned her head to one side.

Instantly, there was only darkness.

The weight had vanished from her chest, and the sound of purring lingered only in echo. She felt weak and sore when she breathed in, but she could move again.

Slowly, Sarah sat up. She heard a noise on the roof and knew the cat was out there, still prowling.

She sighed, enjoying the relief of breathing freely. Only a dream. She put her hand out for the lamp on the end table. But instead of cool metal, her groping fingers met warm fur.

Sarah cried out, snatching her hand back, and jumped to her feet. Her heart pounded furiously and she could not think, but she forced herself to move through the blackness to the front door, where her fingers found the light switch. When the ceiling light came on she saw, sitting on the couch in the precise spot where she had just been, the calico cat with huge yellow eyes. It stared at her, unblinking.

Sarah stared back. This was no dream. She was awake this time, and the cat was in the house.

Well, she would make it go out again. She looked around for something useful, wishing for heavy gloves, a net, a weapon. But all she saw was the television set, pillows, her shoes, books. She took up a heavy volume—The Poetry of the Victorian Period—and hefted it warningly, watching the cat for some sign that it might attack.

The cat began to clean itself, one leg cocked and tongue lapping neatly at its nether parts, for all the world like any ordinary cat.

But it was now, while the cat appeared to be so ordinary and self-absorbed, that Sarah felt it stalking her. She felt as if it were patting gently around the edges of her mind, seeking her weaknesses, pawing through her thoughts. The sense of invasion was so powerful that for a moment Sarah thought she would be ill.

Sarah shook with the effort of controlling herself, but managed to hold her ground. She thought hatred and refusal, hurling her thoughts like weapons at the cat-thing. She was determined, this time, to do more than merely hold out against the invader. She would not merely survive; she would triumph. She wanted to defeat this thing that threatened her, to destroy it, to send it back to whatever hell had let it loose.

It left her mind so suddenly that Sarah gasped, feeling as if a cold wind had swept through her. Then she became aware of a new danger. There was someone else in the house.

She caught just a glimpse of him, a man standing in the next room. Almost before she had time to be afraid, Sarah had recognized him. Brian stepped towards her, out of darkness into the light. He was smiling diffidently and gazing at her with a look she recognized, intense, direct, and loving.

“Brian,” she said, amazed. She felt happiness like a slow, steady warmth, filling her. Everything was going to be all right.

But Brian was no longer there.

Startled, Sarah jerked her head around, facing the couch again. The cat, too, had vanished. Was she dreaming?

The light went out. But there was something wrong with the darkness, Sarah realized. It was absolute. The window glass might have turned to rock, letting no light pass through—there should have been at least a yellow glow from the streetlamp on the corner, not this muffling, all-­embracing dark. Then, in front of her, Sarah saw two small yellow lights flash and begin to glow. They might have been eyes, she thought: two glowing cat eyes without the face.

At that thought, she turned her eyes aside, afraid to look directly into the light. She backed away, but not far, crippled by the terrible fear that the darkness would swallow her like a gigantic mouth. She wrapped her arms around herself and held on tight, hoping she would be safe if she kept still.

From out of the darkness a deep, empty voice spoke. “I could keep you here forever, playing with you. Let us have an end to games. Let us reach an agreement. I will give you what you want, and you must give me what I want.”

“And what’s that?” Sarah asked harshly. “My body? My soul?”

It laughed.

Sarah clenched her teeth and shut her eyes, wishing she could shut her ears against the horrible, scraping sound.

“You have put up a respectable fight,” it said. “You are braver than most, and with a strong will. I admire your spirit, and I would like to reward you.”

“Then go away,” Sarah said. “Vanish. That’s how to reward me. Go back to hell.”

Again that awful laughter.

“I prefer this earth to any hell, thank you. And I need a body to enjoy it. Animal forms are plentiful, and easy to take, but they are limited. I need a human body. All you must do, on your side of the bargain, is to supply me with one. Just bring someone here, and I will do the rest.”

“Forget it,” Sarah said. “No way will I help you.”

“But I can give you whatever you want, whatever you most desire. Your lover. I can tell you how to win him back.”

Rage bubbled up, almost burning away Sarah’s fear. “NO!” she shouted furiously. “I don’t believe you. I won’t help you, go away!”

“I will go when you have brought me my body.”

“I’ll never help you.”

The temperature of the room dropped several degrees, and Sarah shivered.

“Then I shall have you, Sarah. I will have a human form, with or without your consent. If you want to save yourself, bring me another victim.”

“You can’t,” Sarah cried, although there was no conviction, only bravado in her words. “You’ve already tried, and you couldn’t. I’m too strong for you—you know that’s true, so you’re trying to bribe me now.”

There was a terrible stench in the air. Sarah gagged and tried not to breathe through her nose. Then she realized she could not breathe at all, for the air had turned as thick as mud. It was filling her mouth, and she was blind, she was dying . . .

She was lying on the floor, still blind, but breathing. She sucked in the sweet, clean air greedily.

“You have not tested my limits yet,” said the voice. “You do not know how powerful I am, nor how long I have been waiting, how long I will wait to have what I want. You cannot hope to fight me off forever. I grow stronger while you grow weaker. It is only a matter of time. If you would save yourself, get out. But remember that you can have whatever you want if only you help me. Think about it. I will be waiting.”

Then there was silence. The darkness lifted, and became normal night. The oppressive atmosphere was gone. A faint beam from the corner streetlamp filtered into the room, and Sarah could hear the distant rush of the highway and the sound of the wind in the dry leaves.