Chapter 4

L ike the brief doomed flare of exploding suns that registers dimly on blind

men’s eyes, the beginning of the horror passed almost unnoticed; in the

shriek of what followed, in fact, was forgotten and perhaps not connected to

the horror at all. It was difficult to judge.

The house was a rental. Brooding. Tight. A brick colonial gripped by ivy

in the Georgetown section of Washington, D.C. Across the street was a fringe

of campus belonging to Georgetown University; to the rear, a sheer

embankment plummeting steep to busy M Street and, just beyond it, the

River Potomac. Early on the morning of April 1, the house was quiet. Chris

MacNeil was propped in bed, going over her lines for the next day’s filming;

Regan, her daughter, was sleeping down the hall; and asleep downstairs in a

room off the pantry were the middle-aged housekeepers, Willie and Karl. At

approximately 12:25 A.M. , Chris looked up from her script with a frown of

puzzlement. She heard rapping sounds. They were odd. Muffled. Profound.

Rhythmically clustered. Alien code tapped out by a dead man.

Funny.

For a moment she listened, then dismissed it; but as the rappings persisted

she could not concentrate. She slapped down the script on the bed .

Jesus , that bugs me!

She got up to investigate.

She went out to the hallway and looked around. The rappings seemed to

be coming from Regan’s bedroom.

What is she doing?

She padded down the hall and the rappings grew suddenly louder, much

faster, and as she pushed on the door and stepped into the room, they abruptly

ceased.

What the freak’s going on?

Her pretty eleven-year-old was asleep, cuddled tight to a large stuffed

round-eyed panda. Pookey. Faded from years of smothering; years of

smacking, warm, wet kisses.

Chris moved softly to her bedside, leaned over and whispered. “Rags?

You awake?”

Regular breathing. Heavy. Deep.

Chris shifted her glance around the room. Dim light from the hall fell pale

and splintery on Regan’s paintings and sculptures; on more stuffed animals.

Okay , Rags. Your old mother’s *** is draggin’. Come on , say it! Say

“April Fool!”

And yet Chris knew well that such games weren’t like her. The child had a

shy and diffident nature. Then who was the trickster? A somnolent mind

imposing order on the rattlings of heating or plumbing pipes? Once, in the

mountains of Bhutan, she had stared for hours at a Buddhist monk who was

squatting on the ground in meditation. Finally, she thought she had seen him

levitate, though when recounting the story to someone, she invariably added

“Maybe.” And maybe now her mind, she thought, that untiring raconteur of

illusion, had embellished the rappings.

Bullshit! I heard it!

Abruptly, she flicked a quick glance to the ceiling .

There! Faint scratchings.

Rats in the attic , for pete’s sake! Rats!

She sighed. That’s it. Big tails. Thump , thump! She felt oddly relieved.

And then noticed the cold. The room. It was icy.

Chris padded to the window and checked it. Closed. Then she felt the

radiator. Hot.

Oh , really?

Puzzled, she moved to the bedside and touched her hand to Regan’s

cheek. It was smooth as thought and lightly perspiring.

I must be sick!

Chris looked at her daughter, at the turned-up nose and freckled face, and

on a quick, warm impulse leaned over the bed and kissed her cheek. “I sure

do love you,” she whispered. After that she returned to her room and her bed

and her script.

For a while, Chris studied. The film was a musical comedy remake of Mr.

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