The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,26
one.
The nursery was filled with morning sunlight, and as Megan gazed around at the new wallpaper and all the new furniture her parents had bought for the baby, she wondered if maybe she shouldn’t listen to the doll after all, if she should ignore the voice. But even as the thought came into her mind, she heard the voice whispering to her once again.
“This room is much nicer than your room,” it said. “They didn’t buy you new furniture.”
Megan carefully closed the door, then crossed to the crib.
The doll lay beneath the pink and blue blanket. Its head was turned so that it seemed to be looking directly at her.
“Pick me up,” the doll commanded.
Megan obeyed.
“Take me to the window.”
Cradling the doll, Megan walked over to the window.
“Open the window.”
Setting the doll down, Megan raised the window as high as she could. Then, still following the instructions being whispered in her head, she picked up the doll and crept out onto the roof that pitched steeply away from the gabled window. Holding on to the sill with one hand, she laid the doll as far from the window as she could.
The doll slid on the wet shingles of the roof. Megan’s heart raced as it tumbled closer to the edge. Then its skirt caught on the rough edge of one of the shingles and it came to a stop six inches from the rain gutter and the straight drop to the flagstone terrace below.
Pulling herself back into the nursery, but leaving the window open, Megan ran through the bathroom and into her parents’ room.
“Mommy!” she cried. “Mommy, wake up!” Rushing to the side of the bed, Megan began shaking her mother. “Mommy! Mommy!”
Elizabeth jerked awake, the voice of her baby still echoing in her ears. Even after she opened her eyes, the voice persisted. Finally, through the haze of sedatives, Elizabeth recognized it.
Megan.
“Honey?” she said, struggling to sit up as her daughter tugged at her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“The baby,” Megan told her. “Mommy, something’s wrong with the baby. Come on!”
The baby! Then it hadn’t just been a dream—her baby really had been calling to her. Throwing the covers back, Elizabeth climbed out of bed and stumbled through the bathroom to the nursery.
The crib was empty!
“Where is he?” Elizabeth cried, her voice rising as panic welled up in her. “What’s happened to him?”
“He’s outside, Mommy,” Megan said, pointing to the open window. “I tried to stop him, but—”
Elizabeth was no longer listening. Rushing to the window, she peered out into the bright morning sunlight.
There, lying on the shingles only a few inches from the edge of the roof, was her baby. How had it happened? How had he gotten out there?
Her fault.
It was all her fault! She never should have left him alone. Never!
If he tried to turn over—tried to move at all—surely he’d fall.
Elizabeth leaned out the window, reaching as far as she could, but her baby was just beyond her reach. Gathering her nightgown around her hips, she crept out onto the steep roof, hanging on to the casement of the window.
“Help me,” she told Megan. “Just hold on to my hand.” As Megan came close to the window and gripped her mother’s wrist in both her hands, Elizabeth released her grip on the casement.
“Now,” the voice whispered in Megan’s head.
Obeying the voice without question, Megan let go of her mother’s wrist. Elizabeth began to slide, her bare feet finding no purchase on the wet shingles. A second later her right foot caught in the rain gutter. For an instant she thought she was going to be all right. Reaching out, she snatched up the doll, but it was already too late. Her balance gone, and with nothing to catch herself on, Elizabeth pitched forward, plunging headfirst onto the flagstone terrace, the doll clutched protectively against her breast.
Leaving the window wide open, Megan left the nursery, made her way down the stairs, then ran through the living room to the library. Unlocking one of the French doors, she stepped out onto the terrace.
Her mother lay sprawled on her back, her head twisted at a strange angle, blood oozing through her blond hair.
In her arms was the doll, still pressed protectively against her breast. Squatting down, Megan carefully pried her mother’s hands loose from the doll, then cradled it against her own chest.
“It’s all right, Sam,” she whispered to the doll as she took it back into the house, quietly closing and relocking the French door. “It’s all