By John Saul
For 100 years, the folk of Prairie Bend have whispered Nathaniel's identify in ask yourself and fear. Some say he's a folktale, created to frighten childrens on chilly wintry weather nights. Some swear he's a terrifying spirit retumed to avenge the past. But quickly . . . very quickly . . . a few will research that Nathaniel lives still--that he's darkly, horrifyingly real. Nathaniel--he is the voice that calls to younger Michael corridor around the prairie evening . . . the voice that attracts the boy into the shadowy depths of the outdated, crumbling, forbidden barn . . . that chanting, compelling voice he'll stick to faithfully past the sting of terror.
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No one spoke. Then, slowly, he rose to face their father. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His eyes glowed with hatred as he stared at his father; then he turned away and stumbled out of the little room. The girl backed away from the window, unconscious now of the wind that still battered at her, her mind filled only with the sights and sounds she instinctively knew she should not have witnessed. She should have obeyed her father and stayed in the storm cellar, waiting for someone to come for her.
For a long time, Janet lay on the bed, trying to make herself be calm, trying to put the memories of the past to rest and cope with the problems of the present. Laura. She would concentrate on Laura. Somewhere in her memory, there must be something about Mark's sister, and if she concentrated, it would come back to her. It just wasn't possible that Mark, in their thirteen years together, had never mentioned having a sister. It wasn't possible' And then the exhaustion of the last hours caught up with her, and she slept.
And Michael should have been sitting in his classroom at the ManhattanAcademy, pretending to be paying attention to his teacher. He wouldn't be, of course. Instead, Michael would be gazing out on the bright and sunny morning and dreaming of spending the weekend camping with Mark in the Berkshires. And Mark. Mark should be facing his eleven o'clock class, polishing his glasses and filling his pipe while he glanced over his notes on The Effects of the War in Viet Nam on the Middle-class Family. That was the way it should be.