head up like a marionette on a string. In an instant she was on her feet, slipping over the ground, running into the house and up the stairs.
When she reached the landing at the top of the staircase, she heard Carol Anne’s voice call out faintly from her bedroom. Diane’s heart jumped with relief, momentarily—her baby was here. Hurt, maybe, but essentially safe. She redoubled her speed into the bedroom.
In the bedroom, Robbie stared into the television static. He was hysterical, holding his hair in his fists. Diane grabbed him and pulled his face up to hers.
“What is it?” she strained. “Oh my Christ, what is it?”
The static hiss on the television grew louder. Insubstantial images played across its face. Somewhere in the distance, a small voice filtered through: “Mommy . . .”
Diane turned white as snow. “Carol Anne! Where are you?!” Frantically, she searched the room once more.
“Mommy . . . Mommy . . .” The voice was faint, waxed; barely audible over the hiss of the television. E. Buzz crept into the room and growled at the set.
“Mommy . . .” repeated the voice. There was no doubt about it. The voice was Carol Anne’s. But where, in God’s name, was she hiding?
“I’m here, baby! Oh God, baby, I’m here!” Diane wept hysterically, stumbling around the room in circles.
Almost catatonic, Robbie walked back to the television. “Mommy. Over here.”
Diane looked at her son and froze. Her face contorted with foreknowledge. Gray shapes moved fleetingly across the television screen, indistinct blurs; and then the voice came again, Carol Anne’s voice, distorted uncannily through the noise of the blue-white static: “I can’t see you, Mommy. Mommy. Where are you?”
Staring at the television with greater comprehension than she could tolerate, Diane was overcome by a choking nausea; a falling, as if into madness. Her eyes rolled back, and she lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 3
Tangina Barrons was fifty-two, on the plump side, bespectacled; tended to dress in floral chiffons, and ordinarily wore her thin hair up in a tight bun. For most of her life, she’d had dreams. Special dreams.
As a child they had taken the form of nightmares. Pavor nocturnis , the doctor called it—night terror. She would be pulled from sleep each night with a moan of horror on her lips, moaning until her mother or her sister shook her awake. When they asked her what the dream had been about, she never remembered—there was only a black amnesia, deathly, opaque.
Around the age of ten, she stopped having the dreams. That development was met with great relief by Tangina and her family. She went through a quiescent period for a couple years—a happy time for her. Then, when she was twelve, her parents died in a train wreck—and Tangina dreamed about the wreck the night it happened. From then on, she found she was prescient.
She dreamed things before they happened—or at least, as they happened. Frequently, the dreams concerned people she knew, though not always. She became extremely close to her sister during the following years, as they were shuttled from orphanage to foster home, and much of Tangina’s second sight revolved around that beloved sibling. The second sight was alternately a gift and a curse, at first—these glimpses of the future, or of the displaced Now—but gradually Tangina simply learned to take it for granted. Some people could hear in higher registers than other people. Tangina took her second sight for what it was: that she could see in higher registers.
It was only during the last ten years or so, however, that she began having knowledge of other worlds. Not actually other planets in the universe, she thought—though for all she knew, they might be—but more like other dimensions, other planes of existence, other levels of spirit, somehow disjunct from this mortal coil. And just like those of her early childhood, these dreams scared her.
Not always, but usually. They involved
When she reached the landing at the top of the staircase, she heard Carol Anne’s voice call out faintly from her bedroom. Diane’s heart jumped with relief, momentarily—her baby was here. Hurt, maybe, but essentially safe. She redoubled her speed into the bedroom.
In the bedroom, Robbie stared into the television static. He was hysterical, holding his hair in his fists. Diane grabbed him and pulled his face up to hers.
“What is it?” she strained. “Oh my Christ, what is it?”
The static hiss on the television grew louder. Insubstantial images played across its face. Somewhere in the distance, a small voice filtered through: “Mommy . . .”
Diane turned white as snow. “Carol Anne! Where are you?!” Frantically, she searched the room once more.
“Mommy . . . Mommy . . .” The voice was faint, waxed; barely audible over the hiss of the television. E. Buzz crept into the room and growled at the set.
“Mommy . . .” repeated the voice. There was no doubt about it. The voice was Carol Anne’s. But where, in God’s name, was she hiding?
“I’m here, baby! Oh God, baby, I’m here!” Diane wept hysterically, stumbling around the room in circles.
Almost catatonic, Robbie walked back to the television. “Mommy. Over here.”
Diane looked at her son and froze. Her face contorted with foreknowledge. Gray shapes moved fleetingly across the television screen, indistinct blurs; and then the voice came again, Carol Anne’s voice, distorted uncannily through the noise of the blue-white static: “I can’t see you, Mommy. Mommy. Where are you?”
Staring at the television with greater comprehension than she could tolerate, Diane was overcome by a choking nausea; a falling, as if into madness. Her eyes rolled back, and she lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 3
Tangina Barrons was fifty-two, on the plump side, bespectacled; tended to dress in floral chiffons, and ordinarily wore her thin hair up in a tight bun. For most of her life, she’d had dreams. Special dreams.
As a child they had taken the form of nightmares. Pavor nocturnis , the doctor called it—night terror. She would be pulled from sleep each night with a moan of horror on her lips, moaning until her mother or her sister shook her awake. When they asked her what the dream had been about, she never remembered—there was only a black amnesia, deathly, opaque.
Around the age of ten, she stopped having the dreams. That development was met with great relief by Tangina and her family. She went through a quiescent period for a couple years—a happy time for her. Then, when she was twelve, her parents died in a train wreck—and Tangina dreamed about the wreck the night it happened. From then on, she found she was prescient.
She dreamed things before they happened—or at least, as they happened. Frequently, the dreams concerned people she knew, though not always. She became extremely close to her sister during the following years, as they were shuttled from orphanage to foster home, and much of Tangina’s second sight revolved around that beloved sibling. The second sight was alternately a gift and a curse, at first—these glimpses of the future, or of the displaced Now—but gradually Tangina simply learned to take it for granted. Some people could hear in higher registers than other people. Tangina took her second sight for what it was: that she could see in higher registers.
It was only during the last ten years or so, however, that she began having knowledge of other worlds. Not actually other planets in the universe, she thought—though for all she knew, they might be—but more like other dimensions, other planes of existence, other levels of spirit, somehow disjunct from this mortal coil. And just like those of her early childhood, these dreams scared her.
Not always, but usually. They involved
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