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any further manifestations. Heather’s nights remained undisturbed.
    Joe had other concerns about his partner, though. They were concerns that he could not voice to anyone, not even to his aunt. He was worried about a change that had come over Heather.
    He traced the beginning of the change to the day he had come back early from work, the morning she was in the bathroom. Her trancelike demeanor had puzzled him. His first thought was that she was on drugs, but she assured him later that she did not take any, not even prescription drugs.
    From that day on, Heather was not the same person. Even her posture was different somehow. She seemed to slouch more, and sometimes, when seated, she would cross her legs at the ankles, much in the way an old woman would. The unpleasant odor he had first detected in the bedroom seemed to follow her around. It resembled stale urine; Heather had always prided herself on her personal hygiene. She liked to smell nice.
    These physical anomalies were not, in themselves, as troubling as Heather’s deteriorating relationship with the dog. Rip refused to go near her. This was very unusual. Heather and the dog had been inseparable. Now Rip seemed unwilling to share the same room with her and would only settle when Joe appeared.
    There were times during their conversations when Joe had the distinct impression that Heather was listening not to him but to someone else. She would cock her head to one side and chuckle. One night, he caught her talking to herself in the bathroom. The language was unintelligible, like nothing he had ever heard before.
    He challenged her about it. “Who were you talking to in there, honey?”
    She looked at him as if he were the crazy one. “You were hearing things,” she said simply. “I wasn’t talking to anyone. I was brushing my teeth.”
    Still, Joe was prepared to put up with these things. So long as the grandmother did not appear to Heather again, life was tolerable. He had concluded that his sighting of the figure at the bedroom window that day had, most likely, been an illusion.
    Aunt Breda’s crucifix, which he had placed in the bedroom, was obviously doing its work.
    Â 
    His optimism was short-lived; Nan Sal was to return. This time, she did not wait until the house was dark and silent before making her presence known. Nor did she choose the bedroom.
    Joe was adamant that the first apparition had been a figment of Heather’s imagination. He was still skeptical.
    â€œI’ll believe it when I see it myself,” he had told her.
    It was Friday, March 6. The couple were on the couch watching television. They might never have known about the presence of their “visitor” had Rip not alerted them. The dog was dozing on thehearthrug when, without warning, he leaped to his feet. He began barking furiously.
    Joe and Heather turned. In the corner, partially lit by the standard lamp, stood the figure of an old woman. Nan Sal. Heather saw that she was wearing the same blue gown. Her hands were extended in a beckoning gesture and she wore the same fixed grin as before.
    The grin was not a mirthful one; it seemed utterly malevolent. Heather was terrified. Joe was speechless, his skepticism melting away like snow in a skillet. But he recovered quickly. He stood up.
    â€œGet out of here!” he shouted at the apparition. “Get out! We don’t want you here!” They were the first words that came into his head.
    But nothing happened. The old woman still stood grinning balefully. Heather was howling with terror. Joe tried again. “For Christ’s sake, get out!” he cried.
    At that, the visitant raised its hands to its throat and made the throttling gesture that had so frightened Heather. As before, it slowly disappeared.
    Joe switched on the light. Rip was whining, ears back, his tail between his legs. He seemed to be staring at the place where the apparition had been. Joe found himself staring, too,