had happened was over.
For Amelie it had just begun, for as the scream had risen in the night, she had been seized by a gripping certainty about what had happened.
She put her sewing aside and moved into the small house, emerging a moment later with a lantern held high, its wick glowing softly. She climbed clumsily down off her porch into the canoe that was tied to one of the pilings supporting the house, and set the lantern in the prow. Untying the line, she cast the boat adrift, then began moving it forward, a single oar slipping silently in and out of the water.
She followed her instincts, moving through the narrow channels of the bayous. After a few minutes she found what she was looking for. Holding the lantern high, she peered down into the water.
Lying faceup on the bottom of the shallow channel, its face only an inch or so beneath the surface of the water, was a body.
The open eyes stared up at Amelie, but she could see there was no life in them.
The eyes were wide. The mouth was still open in a silent, flooded scream, the lips drawn back in an expression of frozen terror.
And from the wound in the chest, ripped wide nearly to the throat, blood still flowed, staining the water around Amelie’s boat a ghastly shade of pink.
Amelie stared wordlessly at the body. An odd sense of relief came over her, for though she had been right in her presentiment, she had also been wrong.
She’d found the body she’d come looking for, but it wasn’t the body she’d expected.
The body in the shallow water didn’t look anything at all like George Coulton.
Slowly, she began making her way back through the swamp.
She came to her house and passed it by.
Soon, in the distance, she came to another shack, very like her own, crouched at the edge of the swamp.
But this house was different. This one had electric lights brightening its windows. And in this house there was a telephone.
Amelie sighed. It was going to be a long night.
4
K elly Anderson gazed at the footbridge uncertainly. Was it really the same bridge she’d crossed earlier? And what had she been doing for the last hour?
She couldn’t remember.
The only thing she was certain of was that it had still been light when she’d crossed the canal and set out along the path that wound through the tangled foliage of the island. It didn’t seem as if she’d walked very long; indeed, she could barely believe it had taken more than fifteen minutes before she found herself back where she’d started. And yet the sky was black, and the full moon hung well above the horizon.
Why hadn’t she noticed that night was falling?
She was in for it now. She could already hear her parents, telling her how irresponsible she was, demanding to know where she’d been and what she’d been doing.
The thing that frightened her most was that she couldn’t tell them.
It wasn’t just that she’d promised to stay away from the marshes.
It was that she couldn’t really remember what had happened.
She searched the corners of her mind for some clue.
There had been a sound, almost like music, but not quite. The tones had struck a chord in her, and she’d felt herself drawn … drawn where?
She didn’t know.
There were only fragmentary images, nothing she could put her finger on.
But now, as she thought about it, she had a sense that she hadn’t been alone.
There had been others near her … but who?
No faces came to mind. Only images of indistinct figures, figures that drifted past her, going somewhere.
Somewhere she could not find.
Something had been happening, something she should have been part of but was shut away from. She could bring none of it into focus, yet all of it had an eerie sense of familiarity.
The people around her—whoever they had been—were people like her.
Like her
.
The phrase echoed in her mind. How could they have been people like her? She’d never met anyone like herself before, never known anyone who shared the lonely inner emptiness
For Amelie it had just begun, for as the scream had risen in the night, she had been seized by a gripping certainty about what had happened.
She put her sewing aside and moved into the small house, emerging a moment later with a lantern held high, its wick glowing softly. She climbed clumsily down off her porch into the canoe that was tied to one of the pilings supporting the house, and set the lantern in the prow. Untying the line, she cast the boat adrift, then began moving it forward, a single oar slipping silently in and out of the water.
She followed her instincts, moving through the narrow channels of the bayous. After a few minutes she found what she was looking for. Holding the lantern high, she peered down into the water.
Lying faceup on the bottom of the shallow channel, its face only an inch or so beneath the surface of the water, was a body.
The open eyes stared up at Amelie, but she could see there was no life in them.
The eyes were wide. The mouth was still open in a silent, flooded scream, the lips drawn back in an expression of frozen terror.
And from the wound in the chest, ripped wide nearly to the throat, blood still flowed, staining the water around Amelie’s boat a ghastly shade of pink.
Amelie stared wordlessly at the body. An odd sense of relief came over her, for though she had been right in her presentiment, she had also been wrong.
She’d found the body she’d come looking for, but it wasn’t the body she’d expected.
The body in the shallow water didn’t look anything at all like George Coulton.
Slowly, she began making her way back through the swamp.
She came to her house and passed it by.
Soon, in the distance, she came to another shack, very like her own, crouched at the edge of the swamp.
But this house was different. This one had electric lights brightening its windows. And in this house there was a telephone.
Amelie sighed. It was going to be a long night.
4
K elly Anderson gazed at the footbridge uncertainly. Was it really the same bridge she’d crossed earlier? And what had she been doing for the last hour?
She couldn’t remember.
The only thing she was certain of was that it had still been light when she’d crossed the canal and set out along the path that wound through the tangled foliage of the island. It didn’t seem as if she’d walked very long; indeed, she could barely believe it had taken more than fifteen minutes before she found herself back where she’d started. And yet the sky was black, and the full moon hung well above the horizon.
Why hadn’t she noticed that night was falling?
She was in for it now. She could already hear her parents, telling her how irresponsible she was, demanding to know where she’d been and what she’d been doing.
The thing that frightened her most was that she couldn’t tell them.
It wasn’t just that she’d promised to stay away from the marshes.
It was that she couldn’t really remember what had happened.
She searched the corners of her mind for some clue.
There had been a sound, almost like music, but not quite. The tones had struck a chord in her, and she’d felt herself drawn … drawn where?
She didn’t know.
There were only fragmentary images, nothing she could put her finger on.
But now, as she thought about it, she had a sense that she hadn’t been alone.
There had been others near her … but who?
No faces came to mind. Only images of indistinct figures, figures that drifted past her, going somewhere.
Somewhere she could not find.
Something had been happening, something she should have been part of but was shut away from. She could bring none of it into focus, yet all of it had an eerie sense of familiarity.
The people around her—whoever they had been—were people like her.
Like her
.
The phrase echoed in her mind. How could they have been people like her? She’d never met anyone like herself before, never known anyone who shared the lonely inner emptiness
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