say to him could wait—besides, by the time he got back downstairs, his mother would have straightened the whole thing out.
He paused at the bathroom to start the hot water running in the shower, then went on to his own room, stripped off the rest of his clothes, wrapped himself in a towel, and went back to the bathroom. Steam was pouring from the shower stall, and the mirror was already fogged with condensation. Still, as Michael glanced at the misted glass, the memory of what he’d seen there before leaped once more into his mind.
But why tonight?
He got into the shower, shampooed his hair, then soaped the washcloth and began scrubbing the perspiration off his body. Suddenly he froze, his skin crawling with the feeling that he was being watched. He shut off the water and listened for a few seconds, finally pulling the curtain open.
The bathroom was empty.
Feeling ridiculous, he turned the shower back on, letting the stream flow full force over his soapy body.
Less than a minute later he was done, but as he stepped out of the stall and grabbed his towel, he once more had the sensation of unseen eyes fixed on him. He dried himself quickly, trying to rid himself of the eerie feeling, telling himself it was all taking place in his imagination.
He started out of the bathroom, then paused, his eyes fastened on the clouded mirror.
There was something there.
He could feel it.
Reaching across the sink with the towel, he wiped away the moisture on the glass.
It disappeared almost as quickly as he saw it, but the image stuck in his mind.
A face.
An old man’s face, staring at him.
The face of a dead man, with empty eyes.
Michael stood rooted in front of the mirror, his mind numb. Where had the image come from? Had it even been real?
It couldn’t have been, for when he’d seen it, his own reflection hadn’t been there at all. It had been replaced by the grotesque image of the old man.
No, it had to have been some kind of strange refraction caused by the wetness on the mirror. He’d seen only himself, distorted by the steam in the room.
Yet as he hurriedly dressed and joined his family at the supper table, he found himself unable to rid himself of the dark image he’d glimpsed in the mirror, and when he finally went to bed that night, he stayed awake a long time, the reading light on, a book propped in his lap.
But the book remained unread, for no matter how hard he tried, the memory of what he’d seen in the mirror refused to ease its grip on him. Twice he went back to the bathroom, closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror, not only searching the glass for any remnant of the vision, but studying his own reflection as well, trying to see the old man’s face in his own features, trying to envision himself as a wizened relic of what he was now.
But all he could see were his own familiar features, his clear blue eyes and strong jaw, the hints of dimples in his cheeks, which deepened when he smiled, and his unruly blond hair, rumpled from the pillow.
What he’d seen that night—and the other times, too—had to be nothing more than tricks of his own mind.
At last, back in his bed once again, he put the book aside, switched off the light, and pulled the sheet over his body.
Outside, the moon still shone brightly, and the insects and frogs filled the night with their music.
It was a music that Michael had always before found soothing, but tonight he tossed restlessly, resisting sleep.
When sleep finally came, the face dominated his dreams, looming up at him out of the darkness, leering at him, reaching for him with gnarled clawlike hands.
Three times during the night he awakened, his body sweating, his muscles tense, still caught in the nightmare.
The fourth time he awakened, it was dawn, and the morning light finally seemed to drive the night specter away.
Clarey Lambert hadn’t slept at all that night. Clarey was past ninety, she was sure of that, but how much past she no longer bothered to reckon. After all, it didn’t matter. All that really mattered was that she was still alive.
Still alive, and still looking after things.
Clarey lived alone, five miles from Villejeune. Five miles as the crow flew, anyway. A lot farther when you went by boat. You had to wind through the bayous, watching all