on the tree to reduce the gaps left by the missing and
broken decorations.
Normally she loved sitting around with her
family in front of the fire on Christmas Eve, but the day had been
too long. Besides, she still had wrapping to do. After just half an
hour of the usual reminiscing about Christmases past and the year
getting close to its finish, Carol retired to her room and raced
through the wrapping so she could get to bed.
The next day started shaky and got worse. The
baby woke them all at four-thirty, howling at the top of her lungs.
Matthew got up then too, and was ready to tear into the pile of
presents stacked around the barely rescued train set under the
barely rescued tree.
The gift-opening actually went pretty
smoothly once Matthew had shredded the wrappings of all his toys
and been convinced that the packages weren’t all for him. He sat
and cuddled the puppy, for which Laura had created a makeshift
leash from an old belt and some rope, while the adults exclaimed
over their gifts.
Carol got some wonderful things from her
family, including a lovely sweater from her mother, a nice
stationery set and diary from Laura and even a cute poster from
Jason. Christmas, it appeared, was back on track.
Until she joined her mother in the kitchen
later to help with preparations for dinner and discovered that her
mother had put the roast in the oven, but forgotten to turn it
on.
* * * * *
“We ended up having canned soup and
sandwiches for Christmas dinner,” Carol said. “Now, every year, I
go in and make sure she’s remembered to turn the oven on.”
“Your family is amaz—”
Michael’s fingers twitched, then the shaking
began to spread to his arms and torso. “Don’t— Don’t get close,” he
warned. “Stay…away.” The tremors grew worse and he closed his eyes,
his body tensing as he struggled for control.
The shaking grew so violent, he fell off the
chair onto the floor, where he lay writhing and making odd choking
noises. Carol stood and moved toward him to see if she could help,
until his eyes opened. They shone with a blood-red glow.
She backed away, praying he wouldn’t follow.
She stopped after a few steps. He had so little control of himself
just then that he couldn’t threaten her as long as she didn’t get
too close. The stake was still in her left hand, so she moved it to
her right again, holding it ready should he recover suddenly.
He lay on the floor, writhing uncontrollably,
flipping over to roll a few times, then doing an odd swimming
motion on the rug. All the while, he continued to shake and his
breath became a loud series of pants, broken by the occasional
moan. It went on for much longer than any of the previous spells,
ten or fifteen minutes at least.
Her heart twisted with pity and fear. No one
deserved to suffer like this, no matter what he’d done. And Michael
had done nothing. All this had come about because he’d tried to
help an unfortunate victim, and now he was struggling not to do
something evil.
The clock struck four while she waited. Carol
half expected Antoine to materialize again, since he’d shown up the
last time right on the hour of two. He didn’t, though.
Michael’s breath puffed in and out on a
series of hard pants as he writhed on the floor. She found it
nearly unbearable to watch, yet she didn’t dare take her eyes off
him. She couldn’t tell how conscious and aware he was, but he was
most definitely in pain. A lot of it.
Watching it was one of the hardest things
she’d ever had to do, but she dared not look away either. It half
killed her to just stand there, staring, unable to do a damned
thing to help ease him. Not even touch him or hold him or brush
hair out of his face.
After ten minutes, she felt sick to her
stomach, wondering if he would come out of it again or whether
these were his death throes. He twisted harder, body bending
double, then straightening into rigid lines. His breath became
thready and harsh. The choking sounds that
broken decorations.
Normally she loved sitting around with her
family in front of the fire on Christmas Eve, but the day had been
too long. Besides, she still had wrapping to do. After just half an
hour of the usual reminiscing about Christmases past and the year
getting close to its finish, Carol retired to her room and raced
through the wrapping so she could get to bed.
The next day started shaky and got worse. The
baby woke them all at four-thirty, howling at the top of her lungs.
Matthew got up then too, and was ready to tear into the pile of
presents stacked around the barely rescued train set under the
barely rescued tree.
The gift-opening actually went pretty
smoothly once Matthew had shredded the wrappings of all his toys
and been convinced that the packages weren’t all for him. He sat
and cuddled the puppy, for which Laura had created a makeshift
leash from an old belt and some rope, while the adults exclaimed
over their gifts.
Carol got some wonderful things from her
family, including a lovely sweater from her mother, a nice
stationery set and diary from Laura and even a cute poster from
Jason. Christmas, it appeared, was back on track.
Until she joined her mother in the kitchen
later to help with preparations for dinner and discovered that her
mother had put the roast in the oven, but forgotten to turn it
on.
* * * * *
“We ended up having canned soup and
sandwiches for Christmas dinner,” Carol said. “Now, every year, I
go in and make sure she’s remembered to turn the oven on.”
“Your family is amaz—”
Michael’s fingers twitched, then the shaking
began to spread to his arms and torso. “Don’t— Don’t get close,” he
warned. “Stay…away.” The tremors grew worse and he closed his eyes,
his body tensing as he struggled for control.
The shaking grew so violent, he fell off the
chair onto the floor, where he lay writhing and making odd choking
noises. Carol stood and moved toward him to see if she could help,
until his eyes opened. They shone with a blood-red glow.
She backed away, praying he wouldn’t follow.
She stopped after a few steps. He had so little control of himself
just then that he couldn’t threaten her as long as she didn’t get
too close. The stake was still in her left hand, so she moved it to
her right again, holding it ready should he recover suddenly.
He lay on the floor, writhing uncontrollably,
flipping over to roll a few times, then doing an odd swimming
motion on the rug. All the while, he continued to shake and his
breath became a loud series of pants, broken by the occasional
moan. It went on for much longer than any of the previous spells,
ten or fifteen minutes at least.
Her heart twisted with pity and fear. No one
deserved to suffer like this, no matter what he’d done. And Michael
had done nothing. All this had come about because he’d tried to
help an unfortunate victim, and now he was struggling not to do
something evil.
The clock struck four while she waited. Carol
half expected Antoine to materialize again, since he’d shown up the
last time right on the hour of two. He didn’t, though.
Michael’s breath puffed in and out on a
series of hard pants as he writhed on the floor. She found it
nearly unbearable to watch, yet she didn’t dare take her eyes off
him. She couldn’t tell how conscious and aware he was, but he was
most definitely in pain. A lot of it.
Watching it was one of the hardest things
she’d ever had to do, but she dared not look away either. It half
killed her to just stand there, staring, unable to do a damned
thing to help ease him. Not even touch him or hold him or brush
hair out of his face.
After ten minutes, she felt sick to her
stomach, wondering if he would come out of it again or whether
these were his death throes. He twisted harder, body bending
double, then straightening into rigid lines. His breath became
thready and harsh. The choking sounds that
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