Charon's Crossing

"Kathryn, please..."

"Dammit, I have a right to know!"

Olive knotted her hands together. "All right, I will tell you. But you must remember it is all—"

"Stuff and nonsense." A muscle twitched in Kathryn's jaw. "I know. But I want to hear it anyway."

Olive leaned closer.

"People claim they have seen things. Lights at night, flickerin' on and off."

"Kids," Kathryn said firmly, "or trespassers, fooling around."

"No one on this island would go into that house to play games, Kathryn, believe me."

"And that's it? That's what all the fuss is about?"

Olive looked even more unhappy.

"People say they've seen things in the garden," she said with obvious reluctance.

"What kinds of things?"

"Bad things. Evil things. A man with a drawn sword and blood drippin' from it."

Kathryn stared at Olive. Was that what Efram had seen? What he'd refused to tell her?

"And they say there's a cold spot on the staircase, and no way to account for it."

"I asked you about that, specifically." Kathryn tried to steady her voice. "I said, Do you feel this blast of cold air? And you said—"

"Never mind what I said, Kathryn. I'm tellin' you, now. And I'm not tryin' to convince you of anythin'. It was you who asked me to tell you what folks say, remember?"

This was insanity. It was out and out nonsense, and Kathryn wasn't going to let it carry her away. "Yes," she said, "I asked. And now you can tell them what I say. They're all nuts! Lights. Bloody swords." She gave a snort of disgust. "The only things living in that house are mice. And spiders. And maybe an occasional vagrant who's smart enough to know how to scare people off."

Olive held out an imploring hand but Kathryn swept past her. She ran to the VW, wrenched open the door, and stabbed the key into the ignition.

The gears shrieked as she shifted without regard for the clutch, and she sent the car into reverse.

"Olive," she barked.

The realtor sprinted to the curb.

"Yes?"

"Is there a doctor in this miserable town?"

"A doctor?"

"Yes. A medical doctor, not one who reads chicken entrails."

Olive swallowed dryly and pointed up the block. "Just before you reach the last house," she said. "You'll see his sign outside."

Kathryn nodded grimly and tramped down on the gas.

* * *

Malcolm Simpson, M.D., turned out to be a slight man. He was middle-aged, Harvard educated, and pleasant.