His eyes remained closed when he felt a warm hand grasp his wrist. It squeezed.

He heard words then, in a woman's voice...

"I'm most elated to avail myself to you, sir. I know you espied me last even, with Father's looking-gla.s.s..."

Fanshawe couldn't move, couldn't open his eyes.

"Look for me again, any time thou art inclined," the voice issued on, only now it was edgy with excitement. "After midnight, sir-"

Then a chuckle resounded, the chuckle of an older man, then words like gravel grinding, "Ascend, if thou dost have the heart, and-ay-partake in the bounty that ye hast earned."

WHAT? Fanshawe thought through the madness.

"-and, sir? Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle-"

Fanshawe tore away from the display; the fingers clasping his wrist slipped off. He deliberately kept his eyes closed through the motion and only opened them when he was safely turned away. The bridle? What the h.e.l.l? He dashed for the dim corridor that would lead him out. The drone still pounded in his head; he could barely even think the most basic thoughts. He took several long strides toward the exit sign, but it seemed an effort against his will when he stopped, turned around, and then began to walk back...

Don't do it...

He returned to the exit and found his fingers wrapped around the doorway that led back to the stage. No sounds could be heard from within, no...chuckles, no voices. In grueling slowness then, he inched his face toward the doorway's edge, paused to moan, and peeked back inside.

The grotesque forms of Jacob and Evanore Wraxall were both smiling now, smiling directly at him.

(II).

What am I SUPPOSED to think? he wondered, sitting crouched at an end table of a fussy cafe. De La Gardie's, the place was called. All the outdoor tables were filled-with patrons a bit too chatty for his liking-except for this minuscule table on the end. He didn't like being so close to the sidewalk, for those strolling by pa.s.sed right next to him. One woman-a bit too heavy for the body suit she wore-waltzed by with a small poodle; the hyperactive dog yelped repeatedly at Fanshawe. Was it his imagination or did the woman grimace at him? Fat rolls jiggled when she tugged the dog away without a word, her chin up. Take that mutt to the pound where it belongs, he thought, and take yourself with it.

Last night and this morning's visions haunted him, and now this business at the museum. When he could think again, his head was throbbing. No doubt about it now, I'm having hallucinations.

He could conceive of no other explanation. The cellphone in his hand could've been a talisman; he turned it over repeatedly in his palm. Instinct urged him to call Dr. Tilton immediately, but- His shoulders slumped at the table. What would I tell her, for G.o.d's sake? I was about to feel up a dummy in a f.u.c.king wax museum but it grabbed me and started talking?

He put the phone away.

Relearn my normalcy, relearn my normalcy, the words kept circling in his brain. Tilton had seemed a.s.sured that this would soon happen...so why hadn't it? I'm out of control-it's even worse than in New York...

Why was this happening now, and here?

Because I HAVEN'T relearned my normalcy. He patted his jacket pocket, felt the narrow bulge of the gla.s.s. Was the presence of the gla.s.s-a symbol of his sickness-the impediment?

How the h.e.l.l would I know? The six-dollar coffee tasted like nothing, and that's what he felt like just then: nothing.

Incognizant, he stared at a bric-a-brac shop across the street, but all he saw were thoughts that seemed pathetic. All too often, Tilton's words kept slipping back as if to mock him. The best way to relearn your normalcy, she'd said, is to do what normal people do.

Was it that simple?

He hoped so, for all he was worth, because if it wasn't...

Just as he felt like collapsing, lost, beneath the table, a twinge of something like hope sparked in him.

Down the sidewalk, heading his way with a smile that lit her entire face up, was Abbie.

Fanshawe jerked upright, to gaze wide-eyed at her.

"Hi, Stew!" she said. Her enigmatically colored hair shined like exotic spun tinsel. Up on one shoulder she held a rather large box. The sight of her made Fanshawe feel like a famished person just being offered a banquet, and he knew at once it was not l.u.s.t that goaded the sensation. He was simply thrilled to see her.

He jumped right up to his feet. "Hi, Abbie. Let me take that box for you-"

She stopped at the ornate rail which marked the cafe's border. Her eyes beamed with nothing more than a happiness to be alive. "No thanks. It's just lightbulbs, weighs almost nothing." She lifted the box with one hand, as proof. "How's your day been?"

"Fuh"-he stammered at the question he could answer only with a lie. "Fine, fine. Each day, I like this town more. It's really beautiful."

A mix of luxurious scents drifted off her curvaceous form. "That's why I left Nashua after only a year. I know I'll live here the rest of my life." Her smile homed in on him. "Who knows? Maybe you'll decide to do that too. What's New York got that we haven't-besides skysc.r.a.pers, off-track betting, and multiple millions of people?"

"I'm not arguing with you there." Just the bit of small talk felt therapeutic to Fanshawe. Her smile, voice, her overall proximity worked as an antidote to the mental turmoil he'd been wracked by only moments ago. Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d...

"Have you been to the wax museum yet?" she asked.

"Yuh"-he stammered again, impacted as if by a shout. "Yeah, it was pretty interesting, pretty realistic," he replied, trying to block out the rest. If you only knew. "Now I'm just kind of moseying around"-he looked right at her. "I want to work up an appet.i.te for our dinner date."

Abbie sighed in relief. "I was so afraid you'd forget, or something else would come up."

"I didn't, and nothing has."

"Good." She beamed at him again. "I gotta go now; my father'll have a conniption if I don't get back and change these bulbs."

"See you at seven, Abbie."

"Not if I see you first," and then she laughed and glided away with her box.

Yeah, he thought, watching her cross the street. Just before she'd entered the inn, she glanced once s.e.xily over her shoulder.

That's my cure, all right. My normalcy. A sudden thought made him think of going after her, to ask if there was any more word from the police about Eldred Karswell but then realized the downer topic might darken her day. However, Fanshawe felt rejuvenated. Just the few minutes of talking to her pushed everything back-even as serious as "everything" seemed to be.

He pushed all of his worries to the back of his mind. He couldn't wait for seven o'clock.

(III).

Abbie looked stunning; he'd even told her that when she'd met him at seven, and in after-thought he hoped it hadn't sounded fake or corny. She wore a summery lilac dress with strap shoulders. Her bare arms and shoulders glowed healthily; her labors at the inn had left her sleek and well-toned. She also wore high heels-not too high but just right. With every ticking stride to the restaurant, those long coltish legs flexed in more radiant feminine health. Best of all Fanshawe found he wasn't tempted to stare at her perfect bosom when she wouldn't notice.

Was some factor of Abbie allowing Fanshawe to relearn his normalcy?

I can only hope...

In the restaurant, he realized it was impossible for him to focus on anything but her. The waitresses and many female patrons were far above average in looks, but Fanshawe barely took notice of them. Instead, Abbie magnetized him as she leaned slightly over the table to talk. Before Fanshawe knew it, dinner was done and nearly an hour and a half had pa.s.sed. Much of their conversation was comprised of either Abbie talking about her life in Haver-Towne or Fanshawe reminiscing (not very positively) over New York. It felt so comfortable in this situation, so- Normal, Fanshawe marveled.

Just going to dinner with someone he liked, and talking the way regular people talked. I can't remember the last time...

Not once throughout the course of their meal had a l.u.s.tful thought entered his head. Not once had he thought of peeping.

The waitress's brows fluttered when Fanshawe paid the check with his black American Express Centurion card. Then he was walking on the cheerily lit street with Abbie.

It seemed that whenever he was in her presence, his sense of observation changed. He felt grateful for all that was around him, and intrigued: the glow of the streetlamps, the brick-paved road, the old-time architecture. It's so different, he thought. So honest.

Abbie grinned at him as they strolled Back Street. "What are you thinking?" she asked. "You seem very...enchanted by something."

Yeah. You. He hadn't even realized that he was holding her hand. "I guess I'm thinking about how easily I've taken things for granted. You've made me realize that."

She seemed astonished. "Me? How so?"

"Just the way you look at things. It's like you're the one who's enchanted, with everything around you, every minute."

"Well, that's how I feel most of the time." Her smile just seemed more and more radiant. "Every day is a blessing-even if it rains, even if my car insurance goes up or one of the toilets breaks and I gotta fix it."

"I need a bigger dose of your outlook. I've lived in New York most of my life, and it's taken me till now to realize the cosmopolitan world isn't an honest world-it's built on greed, deceit, and one-upmanship-but places like this are honest. When you live in the city long enough you become oblivious to the fact that most of our culture evolved out of small little burgs like Haver-Towne."

"All towns have their veneers, and we have ours. But it's really only a tourist town on the outside. Deep down it's pretty genuine, and so are the people who live here. I never realized that until I'd spent that year in Nashua-and that's not even a big city, really. I'm so glad I came back."

I'm glad you did too, otherwise I never would've met you. "Like what you were saying yesterday. The witchcraft motif and all that. Take out those corny connotations, and it's just another reminder of our history."

Abbie squeezed his hand as if enthused. "Finally! You've seemed so interested in that since we met but you hadn't mentioned it all night. I was afraid to bring it up."

"What, the witchcraft stuff?" he said innocuously, but then remembered what he thought he'd seen at the pillory this morning. "And Jacob Wraxall?"

"Sure!" Her hair tossed as she strode along. "I've been dying to ask. What did you think of the graveyard?"

Fanshawe chuckled but the humor behind it seemed dried out. "It's a doozy of a graveyard, all right. Why is there a very suspicious hole where Evanore Wraxall's body should be?"

Was she teasing him? "Oh, I didn't tell you that part, did I?"

"No, you did not."

"Are you sure?"

Fanshawe simply scowled at her.

She appeared more enthused now than ever. "Okay, here goes. It was exactly 666 days after her execution"-her long eyelashes fluttered-"when Jacob Wraxall dug Evanore up and ran off with her remains."

Fanshawe's pace slowed. "Uh, do I want to know what he did with the body?"

"Well, there was no embalming in those days, Stew. She was nothing but bones by then. Wraxall used the bones for black magic."

"Warlock dad digs up witch daughter. No Father of the Year Award for him, huh? And what's with the old barrel on Witches Hill?"

"Weeeeell, do you really want to know?"

By now there was no doubt that she was using the subject to toy with him. Toy with me all you want, he thought. "Yes, I really do. You know, it's not fair for you to keep stringing me along."

"They called it barreling," she said abruptly, slowing down a little herself.

Fanshawe didn't understand. "Barreling? What-"

"The method of execution, I mean. It was called barreling."

Fanshawe wondered. They drowned the witches in barrels? "What ever happened to good old hanging, decapitation, and burning at the stake?"

"That was old hat by then. And, remember, witchcraft, sorcery, and heresy were considered the worst crimes in those days. So those convicted got-"

"Barreled... Now I get it. They put the witch in the barrel and fill it with water till she drowns-"

Now Abbie's refreshing smile turned grim. "Oh, no, Stew, it's much worse than that. In fact, barreling was about the worst form of capital punishment that the witch-finder counsels ever thought of. Did you see the hole in the front side of the barrel?"

Fanshawe reluctantly nodded.

"They'd put the witch in the barrel, pull her head out through the hole and keep it in place by sliding this thing called a U-collar around her neck."

Fanshawe made a face, trying to picture what she'd described. "Oh, like a pillory only...with a barrel?"

"Well, sort of. See, after they did that...they'd bring out the dog-"

Fanshawe's eyes narrowed as if leery of something. How could he not think of those times he'd thought he heard a dog barking, not to mention the dog he thought he'd seen through the looking-gla.s.s just before dawn?

He felt the heat of Abbie's hand in his, hoping he wasn't sweating. "The...dog?"

Just at that moment, a dog began yelping from across the street. Fanshawe stopped with a jolt, and jerked his gaze.

"Nervous, Stew?" she laughed. "Suddenly you're on pins and needles."

He frowned across the street, at the same annoying poodle that had snapped at him this morning. Its overweight master frowned back almost as an accompaniment with the animal's hostility. That little f.u.c.ker again... The poodle strained against its lead, barking directly at Fanshawe. G.o.d, I hate little yelping dogs. "I like dogs," he explained. "Just not that dog." But the distraction snapped. "And what were you saying? Something about barreling...and a dog?"

"Don't worry, Stew," Abbie allayed. "The kind of dog I'm talking about was nothing like that little pooch." Abbie maintained her cheery composure even in the luridness of what she was about to detail. "After they locked the witch's head so that it was sticking out of the hole in the barrel, they brought in the dog. It was always a big one, like a Doberman, Irish Wolf Hound, like that. But they'd also..." She let out a warning breath. "Are you sure you want to hear this right after dinner?"

"You must think I'm a real light-weight," he said, yet still baffled by what she was taking so long to describe. "I'm from New York, remember? People-usually stock brokers-jump off of buildings every day. The local crime page in the paper is worse than a slasher movie."

"All right, you asked for it. They'd starve the dog for several days first, and they'd rile it up, and...well..."

"What?"

She let out another abrupt breath. "The dog would attack and...eat the flesh off the witch's head."

Holy s.h.i.t... Fanshawe nearly stumbled. "h.e.l.lo! Me? I'll take hanging any day!"

"Hanging was considered letting them off too easy," Abbie said. "They had to pay for their crimes against G.o.d. Oh, and that's not some mock barrel up there. It's the one they really used."

Fanshawe recalled the details he'd noticed of the barrel, how the clear resin completely covered the old wooden slats: a perfect preservative. But the grotesque verbal portraiture created its own images, which sunk deep into his mind's eye. They'd sic a starving dog on the witch's living head... His stomach seemed to turn inside-out. "You know, after all that happy talk, I need a drink. How about I treat you to a Witch-Blood Shooter?"

Abbie's smile, as always, shined like a bright light. "You're on."