to watch them sleep.
Chapter 6
His name was Jonathan, but he had another name, one he couldn’t remember. He wished he could. He wanted to tell Willie he was sorry he’d frightened her, that he’d tried to catch her when she’d tripped but she’d fallen right through his hands.
He held them out in front of him and spread his fingers. He couldn’t understand it, or remember how he’d suffered the hook-shaped scar below the knuckle of his right index finger. He’d been touching things in the house all day, picking them up, examining them and putting them back, but Willie had slipped through his fingers like smoke.
He laid his right palm on the arm of the sofa, behind the pillows tucked beneath her head. He could feel the nubby texture of the upholstery, a rose brocade chain-stitched with pale green vines and tiny yellow flowers. He raised his hand, fingers half-curled, brushed her cheek and felt—nothing. He tried again, pressing harder, saw his knuckles sink into her cheekbone, and jerked his hand away, startled. She stirred in her sleep, murmured and turned her head away on the pillows.
Apparently he could touch and feel things, but not people, not flesh, since he had none of his own. The creature Willie called Raven had flesh, the body that had once been his.
He got up from the table and walked to the French doors in the dining room, being careful to avoid the furniture. He’d realized he wasn’t dead when he’d staggered—still reeling with the shock of believing he was after Willie had walked through him—face first into her bedroom wall. He’d knocked himself senseless and had lain on the floor, grief stricken and bewildered, until Raven had come.
The house had turned cold and rigid with terror around him. He’d heard Raven speak with his voice, flat and lifeless in his dead mouth. All his instincts had screamed at him to hide, until he’d heard Willie answer. Then he’d run downstairs, shouting at her not to let him in, shrieking at Raven to go away and leave her alone, leave him alone, to go back to hell where he’d come from.
He’d never done that before. He’d always run from Raven whenever he came. And Raven always came. Wherever he went, wherever he found himself, Raven came looking for him. He remembered that, too, but he couldn’t remember why.
He stood at the French doors looking out at the terrace through the white curtains, at the moon-silvered top of the wall, the backs of the chairs and table legs, the dew jeweling on the table’s pebbled glass top. He’d stood here last night watching himself eat and drink and laugh and talk. He’d wept with the bitterness of it, and he’d raged when Raven had tried to use his terrible powers to make Willie give him the house.
Her friend the Chinese man had made Raven angry—very, very angry—and that frightened him. He’d seen Raven’s temper, though he couldn’t remember when. He thought it was in Egypt, a long time ago, but he wasn’t sure.
He had to find a way to warn Willie and Frank. Perhaps he could use the mirror. He hadn’t realized Willie could see him in it, or that he made a reflection, until she’d turned around and called him Dr. Raven.
He remembered he was a doctor, but he wasn’t Raven. The thing that had his body was Raven. He knew he was named for an old man he couldn’t remember, Jonathan William Edward Raven. His family and friends had called him something other than Jonathan; he just couldn’t remember what.
His mother had shown him his name in the family Bible. He couldn’t remember her face or how old he’d been at the time. He could only remember her soft voice, her lily-of-the-valley scent, the soft stroke of her fingers in his hair, and a dusty beam of sunlight glinting on the gold-edged pages of the thick, heavy Bible spread across her lap.
Last night he’d remembered she was dead, that she’d died a long time ago. He remembered visiting her grave in the Stonebridge churchyard,
Chapter 6
His name was Jonathan, but he had another name, one he couldn’t remember. He wished he could. He wanted to tell Willie he was sorry he’d frightened her, that he’d tried to catch her when she’d tripped but she’d fallen right through his hands.
He held them out in front of him and spread his fingers. He couldn’t understand it, or remember how he’d suffered the hook-shaped scar below the knuckle of his right index finger. He’d been touching things in the house all day, picking them up, examining them and putting them back, but Willie had slipped through his fingers like smoke.
He laid his right palm on the arm of the sofa, behind the pillows tucked beneath her head. He could feel the nubby texture of the upholstery, a rose brocade chain-stitched with pale green vines and tiny yellow flowers. He raised his hand, fingers half-curled, brushed her cheek and felt—nothing. He tried again, pressing harder, saw his knuckles sink into her cheekbone, and jerked his hand away, startled. She stirred in her sleep, murmured and turned her head away on the pillows.
Apparently he could touch and feel things, but not people, not flesh, since he had none of his own. The creature Willie called Raven had flesh, the body that had once been his.
He got up from the table and walked to the French doors in the dining room, being careful to avoid the furniture. He’d realized he wasn’t dead when he’d staggered—still reeling with the shock of believing he was after Willie had walked through him—face first into her bedroom wall. He’d knocked himself senseless and had lain on the floor, grief stricken and bewildered, until Raven had come.
The house had turned cold and rigid with terror around him. He’d heard Raven speak with his voice, flat and lifeless in his dead mouth. All his instincts had screamed at him to hide, until he’d heard Willie answer. Then he’d run downstairs, shouting at her not to let him in, shrieking at Raven to go away and leave her alone, leave him alone, to go back to hell where he’d come from.
He’d never done that before. He’d always run from Raven whenever he came. And Raven always came. Wherever he went, wherever he found himself, Raven came looking for him. He remembered that, too, but he couldn’t remember why.
He stood at the French doors looking out at the terrace through the white curtains, at the moon-silvered top of the wall, the backs of the chairs and table legs, the dew jeweling on the table’s pebbled glass top. He’d stood here last night watching himself eat and drink and laugh and talk. He’d wept with the bitterness of it, and he’d raged when Raven had tried to use his terrible powers to make Willie give him the house.
Her friend the Chinese man had made Raven angry—very, very angry—and that frightened him. He’d seen Raven’s temper, though he couldn’t remember when. He thought it was in Egypt, a long time ago, but he wasn’t sure.
He had to find a way to warn Willie and Frank. Perhaps he could use the mirror. He hadn’t realized Willie could see him in it, or that he made a reflection, until she’d turned around and called him Dr. Raven.
He remembered he was a doctor, but he wasn’t Raven. The thing that had his body was Raven. He knew he was named for an old man he couldn’t remember, Jonathan William Edward Raven. His family and friends had called him something other than Jonathan; he just couldn’t remember what.
His mother had shown him his name in the family Bible. He couldn’t remember her face or how old he’d been at the time. He could only remember her soft voice, her lily-of-the-valley scent, the soft stroke of her fingers in his hair, and a dusty beam of sunlight glinting on the gold-edged pages of the thick, heavy Bible spread across her lap.
Last night he’d remembered she was dead, that she’d died a long time ago. He remembered visiting her grave in the Stonebridge churchyard,
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