library and return upstairs when her eyes fell on a portrait.
Along with the treasured books Elizabeth had brought with her from Port Arbello, there were framed pictures of her family and Bill’s, and even an old Ouija board she and Sarah had played with when they were children. The portrait to which her eyes had been drawn was of one of Bill’s aunts—the one named Laurette, Elizabeth dimly remembered, who had killed herself long before Bill had been born. Though Elizabeth had seen the portrait dozens of times before, this time something about it caught her eye. She stared at it, trying to understand what had captured her attention. Then her eyes returned to the doll that now sat on the top shelf of the mahogany case.
There was an odd resemblance between the doll and the woman in the portrait, Elizabeth realized.
The same blue eyes.
The same long blond hair.
The same pink cheeks and red lips.
It was as if the doll were a miniature version of the woman in the painting.
A thought flitted through Elizabeth’s mind. Could it be possible that the doll had actually been modeled on this woman? Perhaps even been owned by her? As quickly as the thought came, Elizabeth dismissed it.
Going back upstairs, she stretched out on the chaise once more, and this time, when she slept, she didn’t dream.
Megan McGuire’s eyes opened in the darkness. For a moment she was startled, unsure what had awakened her, but then, on the far wall of her bedroom, she saw a shape.
The shape of a witch, inky black, with pointed hat and flowing gown, astride a long broomstick. In her hand—held high aloft—she grasped a sword.
The witch was moving now, flying higher, moving up toward the ceiling, hurtling through the air, then down toward Megan.
The little girl shrank into her pillow, pulling the covers tight around her neck as a shiver of fear passed through her.
Closer and closer the witch came, sword brandished.
Megan pressed deeper into the pillow.
Then, just as Megan could feel the first tingling of the sorceress’s touch, the apparition vanished as suddenly as it had come, snatched away by an enormous flash of light.
As she always did, Megan lay still for a moment, savoring the delicious thrill that the shadow always gave her, even though she knew perfectly well that the soaring witch was no more than a momentary vision produced by a car driving up Amherst Street, then vanquished by its headlights the instant the car passed by the house.
The room returned to its familiar shape as the sound of the car faded away, but as Megan released her grip on the blanket that covered her, she heard something else.
A sound so soft she almost couldn’t hear it at all.
The sound grew louder as she listened, and then she knew exactly what it was.
Someone was crying.
A little girl with long blond hair, pink cheeks, and blue eyes.
A little girl wearing a ruffled white pinafore and a garland of flowers in her hair.
A little girl who wanted to be her friend, but whom her mommy had sent away.
Getting up from her bed, Megan pulled her robe over her flannel nightgown and slipped her feet into the woolly slippers Mrs. Goodrich had given her for Christmas last year. Pulling the door to her room open a crack, she peered out into the hallway. Farther down the hall, halfway to the stairs, she could see the door to her parents’ room.
It was closed, and no light shone from the crack beneath it.
Silently, Megan crept along the hall, then down the stairs.
The little girl’s crying was louder now. When Megan reached the bottom of the stairs, she peered through the dining room and butler’s pantry, into the kitchen.
No light came from any of the rooms, nor could she hear the television droning in Mrs. Goodrich’s room.
Save for the sound of the little girl’s sobbing, the house was as silent as it was dark.
A last, sorrowful sob faded away, and a moment later Megan heard something else.
A voice calling her name.
“Megan … Megan … Megan …”
It was as if the voice had become a beacon. Megan followed it away from the kitchen and the housekeeper’s quarters to the other side of the house. Through the darkness of the entry hall, she moved, through the deep shadows of the large living room, gliding as easily as if it were daylight, then pausing at the door to the library.
The voice grew louder: “Megan … Megan …”
The library was almost pitch-black. Megan stood