She was running. The shadows were running after her.

The lake , . . she could see the lake. And then something horrible jumped in front of her.

Daylight winked in. Nighttime winked out. She was lying on her back on the dock. Above her, cotton-candy clouds raced between the green tips of the pines that grew by the lake.

She sat up, looked out over the water. Her body shook. Her mouth was dry.

Slowly, it was going away. Images less than shadows now. But there was a sound, the hungry animal growl she heard last night. And then it died inside her head. Birds chirped.

The water lapped. The wind sighed. Then she heard the sound again, outside her head, entering the skull through the ears.

For a moment fear possessed her, then it died like a broken fever.

She recognized that sound. It wasn't like the one that had been in her head, it was a familiar sound, the sewing-machine hum of the Rabbit.

Tires crunched in the drive. The motor stopped. A door opened.

At a run, Becky went to meet Monty, tears streaming down her face, and for the time being, the thought of his arms was not so repulsive.

TEN.

From the October 30 edition of the Galveston News, page 1.

COUPLE MURDERED.

Mr. Dean Beaumont and his wife, Eva Beaumont, were found murdered in their home at 75011/2 Heard's Lane this morning.

The bodies were discovered by police when Mr.

Beaumont's employer, Ball High School, reported Mr. Beaumont absent from work, and not responding to phone calls.

Police discovered the bodies shortly after 9 a.m. The bodies were found in the bedroom and both had been mutilated beyond immediate and positive identification. The motive for the murders has not been determined, though robbery is suspected. No missing items were verified, however. There was a considerable amount of vandalism.

Paintings had been smashed over a bedpost and blood from the victims had been poured into a flower vase. The next-door neighbors reported that they had heard nothing out of the ordinary. The couple had been dead for at least twelve hours . . .

At this point, no one knew there was a connection between the two savaged bodies and what was going to happen to Montgomery and Becky Jones.

ELEVEN.

Later that night, while highway patrolmen and local law officers searched for the car Trawler had identified before he was murdered, the kids continued to sit in the pasture and while away the hours eating candy bars and drinking hot c.o.kes.

And Becky lay in her bed and dreamed: Shadows moved from behind the pines. Faces burst into the glow of the moon- goblin faces.

Laughter.

" I wanta ram it all the way up her a.s.s."

More darkness.

Moonlight.

Darkness.

Alternating slats of each.

A body, dangling, upside down; a woman, her feet attached to something . . .

something Becky could not define.

The shoulder-length hair was dark and undulated with the breeze. Blood dripped from the face, congealed in the hair, splattered the ground. The face . . . she couldn't see the face, but it seemed to be turning, like the earth orbiting the sun, turning, so slow, but turning, half-profile . . . the face was a mess. Hair was plastered to it with blood. There was a deep, dark crack in the skull. The face was turning even more . . . looking like . . .

NO!.

Becky awoke. Sat upright in bed. The face had looked like . . . Oh G.o.d, could it have been?

Monty was awake. He turned to her. "What's wrong, hon?"

"What's always wrong? The dreams . . . the premonitions."

"Just nightmares-"

"f.u.c.k you!"

She pulled away from him, rolled over on her side and closed her eyes. But she did not try to sleep. She did not want to sleep. Did not want to see the rest of that face, for she feared whose face it might be.

Monty called to her once, softly.

She did not answer.

He sighed, rolled over and tugged at the bedclothes. Soon she could hear the sound of regular breathing. He was asleep.

Good, that was what she wanted, to be left alone.

Or was it?

Oh G.o.d, she did and she didn't. She wanted to be alone and she never wanted to be alone.

One moment it was comfortable, the next it was if she were on the face of the moon looking out at earth, thousands of lonely miles away.

Today when Monty held her on the dock after the premonition, it had been wonderful.

The love and concern he felt for her had radiated from him as warmly as the sun, so why now, when he was merely expressing his concern, should she be so angry with him?

What if things were reversed? It was him telling her that he was having premonitions.

Would she believe him? She wondered.

And who says the dreams are premonitions? she asked herself. What dream have you had that has come true other than the first?

Perhaps the doctor was right, it's all in your head and the first dream was nothing more than a coincidence, wishful thinking. It was possible. Even likely.

After a while, Becky rolled over gently and looked at Monty. He slept clutching the pillow to his cheek. She reached out and stroked his hair. Why can't we touch? Really touch? Why can't we?

No answers came to her. She rolled away from him and stared into the darkness, willing away sleep.

But it came anyway, this time without dreams.

Until just before morning, then she had a very ugly one.

TWELVE.

October 31, 12:02 A.M.

The blond kid driving the '66 Chevy through the velvet night was named Brian Blackwood. He had the Chevy vent gla.s.s cranked all the way open and the wind was blasting his hair back. His eyes were watered with tears, but they were not tears of remorse, sadness or pain; they were fostered by the cool October wind and the rapid movement of the car. There was no room left inside Brian for idle tears, not anymore.

From here on out he was a rock,. and a rock felt no pain.

The waiting had gotten to him. He wanted to push on, get to the task at hand.

But he knew that wasn't wise. If he could lay low one more night, the law would pretty much be through with the area and things would be safe.

Yet, the waiting was eating at him, and the voice in his head was persistent. He had decided to change locations, find a place a little closer to their destination. Camp there.

Just being closer would help ease the pain in his head.

He mentally visualized the map he had made Dean Beaumont draw; it was clearly outlined in his head, and he no longer needed to look at it, even if he was making his way there by roundabout methods.

Soon . . . Soon . . . Soon.

In the last few days he had witnessed three murders, contributed to all three, and personally performed one himself (he could still visualize the deep, red arc he had made in her throat shortly after slicing the nipples from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s). He hated that the highway cop had not been his kill, but that was unavoidable. Looney Tunes had the shotgun, and it was only fair.

Still, kicking a dead cop in the b.a.l.l.s didn't do much for his disposition; didn't squelch the desire to kill; a thing that had become like an itch with him. (Thank you, Clyde, for the rash, because it feels so good to scratch.) Soon, tomorrow night, he would scratch that itch again. He had two murders planned- no, let's be accurate about this; executions. But before these executions took place, the victims would know fear. They would suffer the torment Clyde suffered waiting in his cell. Thinking about those grey walls and steel bars . . , And they would feel much more pain than he felt when he hung himself.

Why, Clyde? Why? Not like you to do that sort of thing.

Ah, but maybe there is a why. Is that you I feel stomping about in the back of my brain, Clyde? Is that your mind mating with my mind, possessing my soul with your own?

Are you me? Am I you?

Huh?

Oh yeah, I hear you, baby, I hear you, and they'll get theirs soon. Forgive my doubts about you. I'm tired, and it's so weird.

What?

Tomorrow night. No later. I promise.

And so for a few more miles the car rolled on. Brian driving with his pale face ghostlike in the night, the others sleeping, storing up.

PART TWO:.

The Guts of the Fish.

One year earlier (October to October).

"Some of our neighborhood kids will shoot you for a buck or maybe just for laughs. It's got me so I'm soared to walk my own turf after dark, and I'm pretty tough. But they're real monsters, some of them. And they come younger every year."

-Anonymous Chicago car thief.

possessed adj. 2. Controlled by or as by a spirit or force.

-The American Heritage Dictionary Houses are like the human beings who inhabit them.

-Victor Hugo.

(1).

BOYS WILL.

BE BOYS.

ONE.