The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,225

I had come to Maye Faire, but had not seen it from the time I gave it up to the slaves before supper on my first night.

And now as I saw this tall man ahead of me I thought of it, and lamented it, and wondered also who was this Dutchman standing by the side of the road, facing me and staring at me, it seemed, a shadowy thing with blond hair and a blond beard.

I slowed my pace, for as I approached, the figure did not move, and the closer I came to it, the more I perceived the strangeness of it, that a man should stand alone in this darkness, so idly, and then it came to me that I was being foolish, for it was only another man there, and so why should it make me feel all the more undefended in the dark of night?

But no sooner had that thought occurred to me, when I drew close enough to see the man’s face. And in the same instant as I beheld that this was my own double standing there, the creature leapt out at me, drawing up not one inch from me as my own voice issued from his lips.

“Ah, Petyr, but you have forgot your hat!” he cried, and gave forth a terrible laugh.

I fell backwards onto the road, my heart roaring in my chest.

Over me, he bent like a vulture. “Oh, come on, Petyr, pick up your hat for you have let it drop in the dust!”

“Get away from me!” I screamed in my terror, and turning away, I covered my head. Like a miserable crab, I scrambled to escape the thing. Then rising, I rushed at him, as a bull might have done it, only to find myself charging the empty air.

Nothing on this road but my miserable self and my black hat lying crushed in the dirt.

Shaking like a child, I took it up and brushed it off.

“Damn you, spirit!” I cried. “I know your tricks.”

“Do you?” a voice spoke to me, and this time it was a woman speaking. I spun around to see the creature! And there beheld my Deborah, as she had been in girlhood, but for a flash.

“It isn’t she,” I declared. “You liar from hell!”

But Stefan, that one glimpse of her was a sword passing through me. For I had caught her girlish smile and her flashing eye. A sob rose in my throat. “Damn you, spirit,” I whispered. I searched the blackness for her. I would have seen her, real or illusion. And I felt the fool.

The night was quiet. But I did not trust it. Only slowly did I stop my shaking, and put on my hat.

I walked on, but nothing as fast as before. Everywhere I looked, I thought I beheld a face and figure, only to discover that it was a trick of the darkness—the banana trees shifting in the breeze, or those giant red flowers drowsing on their weak stems as they hung over the fences bordering the road.

I resolved to look straight ahead. But then I heard a footfall behind me; I heard the breathing of another man. Steady came the feet, out of step with my own walking; and as I resolved to ignore it, I felt the hot breath of the creature on my very neck.

“Damn you!” I cried again, spinning round, only to see a perfect horror looming over me, the monstrous image of myself once more but with nothing but a naked and blazing skull for my face.

Flames leapt from the empty eye sockets beneath the blond hair and the great Dutch hat.

“Go to hell!” I screamed and shoved it with all my might as it fell forward on me, the fire scorching me. And where I had been certain there would be nothing, was a solid chest.

Growling like a monster myself, I fought it, forcing it to stagger backwards, and only then did it vanish, with a great blast of warmth.

I found I had fallen without even realizing it. I was on my knees and had torn my breeches. I could think of nothing but the flaming skull I had just beheld. Once more my body shook stupidly and uncontrollably. And the night was darker as the moon was no longer high, and God only knew how long I must walk on this road until I reached Port-au-Prince.

“All right, evil one,” I said, “I shall not believe my eyes no matter what they reveal to me.”

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