outside.
“What about the dogs?”
“Coyote’s no match for a Deerhound. They’ll come back after they chased off whatever it was.”
We followed the road back to the veranda. A marble bar, metal chairs and glass tables were arranged around a Cartesian fountain. Jonsrud opened the French doors and we entered a granite-topped kitchen. Portraits of Jonsrud as a younger man hung on the wall of the great room, a staircase abutting a stone mantle, the skull of an ox in its center.
Jonsrud built a fire. He put the poker in the rack and proceeded to the bar.
“Freshen your drink, governor?”
“Certainly.”
Chestnut flasks and Benedictine bottles bedecked a demilune bar. Jonsrud poured two highballs, handing me one.
“There could be explanations for the things you describe,” he suggested, sinking onto a brown leather chaise. “Normal situations misinterpreted.”
“Such as?”
“You said yourself the basement smelled like gas. There’s your black X and pink circle.”
“I’ve thought about that. What about the other things?”
“The water in the basement. Foundations warp. The building’s over a hundred years old. The other things, like the billowing curtains, could have been dreams. You woke up in the middle of the night, right? Who’s to say you didn’t dream the whole thing? Matthew could be back by now, for all you know. How much do you know about him, anyway?”
“I hardly knew the guy.”
“What about the gargoyles?”
“It doesn’t make sense. If there is something in the House, how could it follow you?”
The poker hung on the rack.
“I don’t know,” Jonsrud ruminated, “people disappear every day. There are over a hundred thousand missing persons registered by the FBI. One hundred thousand. Are the supernatural to blame? Is our nation being shanghaied by specters? Kidnaped by corpses?”
Jonsrud craned his neck.
“Jonsrud?”
The color drained from his face.
He stared up, profoundly still.
“Jonsrud?”
The fire blazed.
Jonsrud went over to the poker.
“What was that, you were you saying?”
“Are we to presume, Doctor...”
“Doctor?”
“Just a figure of speech, but are we to presume, on this melancholy moon, that the dead are taking our place? That soon every house, a Mephistophelean House, bereft of the human race? And that facets of you, and the things that you do, deep inside are becoming erased, just a matter of time with a corrupted mind, disappearing without a trace.”
“Jesus Christ, you sound like Matthew.”
In the light of the hearth I raised my glass.
The fire burned richly.
I looked through the window.
The forest was dark.
The stars were cold.
“Some things require a leap of faith.”
The poker glinted.
One by one, the stars blotted out.
A dog barked.
There was the sound of a struggle.
A bone crunching scream.
“Calapooya!”
“Don’t open the door.”
“Calapoya’s back.”
“I told you it’s not Calapooya. I brought It here, with me.”
“It’s Calapoyya. I’ll open the door.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t open that door.”
The fire cracked.
The door opened.
I made for the poker.
Chapter 8
Moving Out
I sat up.
It was day.
Jonsrud was gone.
The poker was missing.
“Jonsrud?”
My head ached.
“What happened?”
The mansion was empty.
I checked the second floor.
The den was unoccupied.
The bedrooms were vacated.
I stood in the office looking out over the ranch.
“Jonsrud!”
I called Jonsrud.
He didn't answer.
“Maybe he went somewhere.”
The pickup was next to the shop.
“Truck’s here.”
I checked the barn.
The dogs were gone.
I walked over to the arena.
The palomino drank from the trough.
“Where in the hell did everybody go?”
The air was stagnant.
The trees were still.
I could not remember.
I went back to the house.
I sat in the great room.
Jonsrud did not appear.
“I can’t remember!”
I looked at the floor.
The sofa did not cast a shadow.
Nor did the
“What about the dogs?”
“Coyote’s no match for a Deerhound. They’ll come back after they chased off whatever it was.”
We followed the road back to the veranda. A marble bar, metal chairs and glass tables were arranged around a Cartesian fountain. Jonsrud opened the French doors and we entered a granite-topped kitchen. Portraits of Jonsrud as a younger man hung on the wall of the great room, a staircase abutting a stone mantle, the skull of an ox in its center.
Jonsrud built a fire. He put the poker in the rack and proceeded to the bar.
“Freshen your drink, governor?”
“Certainly.”
Chestnut flasks and Benedictine bottles bedecked a demilune bar. Jonsrud poured two highballs, handing me one.
“There could be explanations for the things you describe,” he suggested, sinking onto a brown leather chaise. “Normal situations misinterpreted.”
“Such as?”
“You said yourself the basement smelled like gas. There’s your black X and pink circle.”
“I’ve thought about that. What about the other things?”
“The water in the basement. Foundations warp. The building’s over a hundred years old. The other things, like the billowing curtains, could have been dreams. You woke up in the middle of the night, right? Who’s to say you didn’t dream the whole thing? Matthew could be back by now, for all you know. How much do you know about him, anyway?”
“I hardly knew the guy.”
“What about the gargoyles?”
“It doesn’t make sense. If there is something in the House, how could it follow you?”
The poker hung on the rack.
“I don’t know,” Jonsrud ruminated, “people disappear every day. There are over a hundred thousand missing persons registered by the FBI. One hundred thousand. Are the supernatural to blame? Is our nation being shanghaied by specters? Kidnaped by corpses?”
Jonsrud craned his neck.
“Jonsrud?”
The color drained from his face.
He stared up, profoundly still.
“Jonsrud?”
The fire blazed.
Jonsrud went over to the poker.
“What was that, you were you saying?”
“Are we to presume, Doctor...”
“Doctor?”
“Just a figure of speech, but are we to presume, on this melancholy moon, that the dead are taking our place? That soon every house, a Mephistophelean House, bereft of the human race? And that facets of you, and the things that you do, deep inside are becoming erased, just a matter of time with a corrupted mind, disappearing without a trace.”
“Jesus Christ, you sound like Matthew.”
In the light of the hearth I raised my glass.
The fire burned richly.
I looked through the window.
The forest was dark.
The stars were cold.
“Some things require a leap of faith.”
The poker glinted.
One by one, the stars blotted out.
A dog barked.
There was the sound of a struggle.
A bone crunching scream.
“Calapooya!”
“Don’t open the door.”
“Calapoya’s back.”
“I told you it’s not Calapooya. I brought It here, with me.”
“It’s Calapoyya. I’ll open the door.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t open that door.”
The fire cracked.
The door opened.
I made for the poker.
Chapter 8
Moving Out
I sat up.
It was day.
Jonsrud was gone.
The poker was missing.
“Jonsrud?”
My head ached.
“What happened?”
The mansion was empty.
I checked the second floor.
The den was unoccupied.
The bedrooms were vacated.
I stood in the office looking out over the ranch.
“Jonsrud!”
I called Jonsrud.
He didn't answer.
“Maybe he went somewhere.”
The pickup was next to the shop.
“Truck’s here.”
I checked the barn.
The dogs were gone.
I walked over to the arena.
The palomino drank from the trough.
“Where in the hell did everybody go?”
The air was stagnant.
The trees were still.
I could not remember.
I went back to the house.
I sat in the great room.
Jonsrud did not appear.
“I can’t remember!”
I looked at the floor.
The sofa did not cast a shadow.
Nor did the
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