A thin maroon stain, vaguely in the shape of a hand. Blood, he realized. And it hasn't been there long, it still has red in it.

Then he thought: Karswell. He was here. A brief scan of the surrounding brush verified this almost beyond doubt, when Fanshawe discovered a fat cigar b.u.t.t with a Monte-Cris...o...b..nd, and- Unbelievable.

-a small, clear jar. The jar's lid lay right next to it.

Karswell must've made his own witch-water, Fanshawe deduced. New England's full of unconsecrated graves of condemned witches... It was perfectly feasible that a writer of occult history and a Christian mystic would know how to make it. He challenged himself: All right. There's only one more thing left to do...

He flicked open the tiny penknife on his key chain. He looked at the modest blade, then looked at the palm of his left hand. He winced at the initial puncture of the knife-tip into the middle of his palm. Blood welled up first as a pea-sized bead, but very quickly it formed a grim puddle in his hand. When he turned the flashlight off, the blood looked black in the moonlight.

Well?

Fanshawe spoke aloud the queer words he'd recently read on the centuries-old parchment: "Besmear ye mystickal and horrid sphere with thine own blood..."

He placed his bleeding hand on the orb, leaving a scarlet print.

"And then take into thy mouth one driblet of ye wretched and most nefarious aqua wicce..."

His slick hand wrapped around the flask's gla.s.s stopper, twisted, then he felt the ancient black wax give way. He lifted the stopper out- Fanshawe swayed in place, grimacing: he stood on solid ground like a man on a tight-rope. It was an appalling odor that issued from the flask's aperture, like rotten-meat stench blended with the smell of bas.e.m.e.nt mold. My G.o.d! I've got to DRINK this? Queasiness engulfed his stomach. But- Only a *driblet,' he reminded himself, which he a.s.sumed could only be a minuscule unit of measure.

The odor's foulness wafted before him; his eyes watered. Am I really going to..., but when a side breeze crept up and blew the reek off, Fanshawe didn't even think about it.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed in a breath, took one sip of the cryptic water, paused- Down the hatch.

-and swallowed.

He stood still in the next pause. His brows popped up at the accommodating surprise: the water was absolutely tasteless and totally inoffensive.

For about two seconds.

An impalpable impact sent Fanshawe to his knees. A taste more revolting than anything he could conceive filled his mouth, a taste that could only be described as evil. At once, he gagged, then he began to dry heave, blundering about the clearing on hands and knees. My G.o.d my G.o.d my G.o.d! His mind spun. His equilibrium reversed, all the while his stomach spasming progressively harder, such that subsequent abdominal cramps flared pain as if he'd been sledgehammered in the gut. I've poisoned myself! he somehow was able to think through the shards of pain and waves of terror. When he rolled over on his back and opened his eyes- He could see nothing. Fanshawe was blind.

A darkness slammed down on his psyche like an ax-fall, dragging him down and down and down until, only seconds later, he died.

Or at least he thought he died, given the pain, loss of sight, and sheer blackness that had overwhelmed him. When he roused, he remained on his back, his eyes staring up. Low, coal-smoke-colored clouds slid swollen overhead. Only the faintest veiled luminosity tinged the edges of the clouds, as though the moon had been ingested by their tumorous shapes. Hooooooooly s.h.i.t! he yelled at himself. I must've been out of my mind to drink ANYTHING that's been sitting in an attic for three hundred years! Though he sensed some time had pa.s.sed, his stomach muscles still ached sharply, and the dizziness lingered when he pulled himself to his feet. He calmed down and caught his breath...

He was looking around the clearing.

His jaw dropped.

It was the same clearing, but...not the same, either. The surrounding brush was much higher than it had been, while the clearing's perimeter was closer, far less delineated, and was completely devoid of decorative gravel. A glance down to the town showed Fanshawe the same modest village he'd seen after midnight through the looking-gla.s.s...

Then he turned and faced the Gazing Ball.

At first the carved markings on the pedestal seemed infested by fitful movement, but Fanshawe's shock since drinking the vile water left him disoriented. How could I NOT be disoriented? he reasoned with himself. However, the next shock gave him more to be disoriented about.

The Gazing Ball-or Bridle-stood before him in the moon-tinged darkness, straight as a chess piece. And as for the metal globe itself?

It bore no incrustations, no tarnish, no weather damage. Instead, it shined as if just polished.

The d.a.m.n thing looks brand new, Fanshawe thought, but then an even darker thought insinuated itself. That's because it IS brand new...

Fanshawe's mind stayed relatively blank as he crept about the hillocks. No, the trails weren't the same; where before they'd been gravel-paved and well-trimmed, now they were just meager weed-lined lanes beaten into existence by constant foot traffic. The scent of wood-smoke hung heavily throughout. Then an owl hooted from a high tree, its white blank face appearing distortedly human at first glance-Fanshawe thought of an invalid's face. But his wanderings were quite aimless; in a sense he already knew his way around. Of course, the very peak of Witches Hill lacked the accompanying wooden sign explaining the spot's historical significance, but it did not lack the barrel.

Fanshawe's face blanched as whitely as the owl's when he directed his flashlight to the foot of the barrel and saw a puddle of coagulating blood which crawled with flies. There was vomit there as well, and chunks of what appeared to be scalp tissue with long threads of hair still attached.

My G.o.d...

Fanshawe backed up, nauseous.

It was an undersense more than conscious impetus that guided his next steps. Consciously, he could not reckon the reality of where he was, what he'd done, and what he would next do. Instead, he let his feet take him where they may- Down the straggly hill, toward the town.

Ramshackle horse-quarters stood where the Travelodge should be. Fanshawe heard the scuffs of his shoes answered by heavy snorting sounds. He'd just crossed Back Street-its teetering abodes and primitive service-buildings showing white-washed boards and crudely glazed window panes. All that lit the town was cloud-filtered moonlight. He thought of switching on his flashlight but felt alarm when he realized that might instantly make him a target for attention. The town was asleep, and he needed it to stay that way.

But he knew where he was going now...

Wraxall's house should be just across the next street. When he slipped through an alley, he froze-at the sound of a bell- A church bell.

It struck once, twice, then a third time. The nature of each peal sounded fat and buoyant in the air of the warm night, but also oddly brittle.

Fanshawe knew he'd heard this bell before.

Three o'clock in the morning, he deduced. Instead of emerging from the other side of the alley onto Main Street, he hung back, letting himself sink into shadow. The bell-ringer would come out of the church any moment, to walk into the tavern where he'd wait till it was time to sound the bell again, probably by the a.s.sistance of an hour-gla.s.s. Before Fanshawe's eyes, the night-veiled dwellings of Main Street stretched, then, as suspected, a door was heard opening and closing. Footsteps crossed hard-packed dirt. Fanshawe glimpsed the bell-man approaching the tavern and disappearing into it.

Now.

He stepped out of the shadow-black alley, prepared to whisk himself across the street, but nearly shouted via the surprise that came next: "Who be thither? Come for another go upon a helpless woman, have thee, thou stinkards? Well, I say pox on you, and may there be a plague upon all thy children! May they be borned with cloven faces and empty heads!"

Fanshawe's heart slammed.

Just beside him stood a pillory, and in its long wooden brace hung a woman dressed in sc.r.a.ps of soiled fabric. Worse soiling left the color of her yard-long hair impossible to determine.

Another one, Fanshawe thought.

Sunken eyes in a gaunt face craned upward. "Glory!" she rasped in a whisper. Decayed teeth grinned at him in relief. "Pray, sir, 'tis not one'a them that you be, I can see as much! Hear my plea, I beg! Release me! 'Tis a fortnight they've kept me here. They spit on me in the name of G.o.d-hear me! Into mine womanhood they spurt their seed any time they've the mind to, and *tis only foul water and livestock gruel they let be my sustenance!"

"For G.o.d's sake," Fanshawe groaned, disgusted. He could see rings of scab and infection about the prisoner's wrists and neck. "Kept quiet, I don't want that guy to hear"-he fiddled with the latch on the brace.

She shivered, concealing a squeal of delight as he finally worked the latch and raised the wooden brace.

Joints cracked and she moaned when he helped her up. Between the tatters of her clothing, Fanshawe saw a body like a victim of a death camp. Immediately she hugged him, which caused Fanshawe to recoil from the power of her body odor.

"For thine kindness, I wilt do anything you may ask!" Rotten breath gusted into his ear, and then she caressed his crotch.

Fanshawe was revolted. "No, no-just run, get out of here!" he whispered. "These people are crazy."

"Oh my great dark lord! May the Morning Star bless thee and keep thee safe!" and then the raddled woman crossed herself, but it was the sign of an upside-down cross that her hand gestured over her chest.

Fanshawe stared.

"Myself and all mine own shalt pray that Lucifer guide thee always. We shalt do anything you deem us worthy of, great necromancer!"

Fanshawe stammered, "Buh-but I'm not a necrom-"

The woman hobbled off, disappearing down another alley.

A witch...

"Halt, you!" another voice rose. It boomed down the street like a ba.s.so shout: a man's voice.

Fanshawe ground his teeth in fear. A large man lumbered in his direction, and when a reef of clouds moved off to let the moon shine, Fanshawe grimly recognized the obese stature of the man: the vest about to break its b.u.t.tons, the star-shaped metal badge, and the swollen, corroded nose and blemished face.

Patten, the high sheriff.

Fanshawe wanted to run, but his knees locked when he saw the fat, shambling man raise a flintlock pistol. "Be still and speak thy business on this G.o.dly street at so an hour!"

Fanshawe opened his mouth- More footsteps, then another voice boomed: "On my word, Sheriff, just now from my window I espied that fellow unfetter the harlot from her just and legal capture!" A slimmer man raced from another door, bearing a lit lantern.

"Oh, did he now?"

Fanshawe remained unmoving as the men converged, but when they got closer, their steps slowed as if intimidated. The sheriff's out-broken face creased in fear.

"Behold his manner of dress..."

"Yea! Just the same as-"

"That one come only a week afore! Another warlock, turned up by deviltry to curse our Christian flock-"

The other man's voice quavered. "What-what be that he's got in his hand?"

"'Tis a weapon?"

Fanshawe raised the flashlight and turned it on. "No, listen-it's just a..."

The slim man dropped his lantern in the road and fled, shrieking in nearly a feminine voice. The sheriff froze, terror open on his face. "A sorcerer's scepter-surely! A wand that yields a spot of light like that of ye sun!"

Absurdly, Fanshawe said, "It's just a d.a.m.n flashlight, man. Look, I don't want any trouble-"

Sheriff Patten's lower lip trembled; his gun hand shook. But when Fanshawe shined the flashlight in the man's face, he saw the expression slowly go from a gibbering panic to a slowly rising disregard for danger. He began to step forward.

s.h.i.t! What am I gonna do now?

"A Christian soldier such as I need have no fear. G.o.d shalt protect me always, as one of those with faith." His gun hand was shaking less. "Now, keep thyself still and let go that scepter, lest thee find thy bosom with a hole large enough to admit my fist!"

With a reflex he didn't think himself capable of, Fanshawe jerked to the left, to sprint across the street. There was a snap! a flash, then- BOOM!.

The entire street concussed from the pistol shot. Fanshawe's teeth clacked, and he felt something substantial plow past his head, displacing air; his feet carried him through another alley as though he were on a tow-line. Behind him he heard bells clanging, shouts, and the sheriff's voice booming nearly as loud as the shot: "All Christian men, awake-we've a wizard in our midst! Deputies, come out! Call ye parson! Someone fetch Humphreys and have him bring his beast!"

Beast, Fanshawe thought in horror, stumbling over rubbish in the alley. Then the thunderous barks of an immense dog overpowered all other sound; it was so loud Fanshawe wanted to scream.

He'd already seen the animal responsible for those sounds.

He tripped just as he would exit the alley-more rubbish. These people just piled their garbage in the alley? The Wraxall house stood in sight, bathed in moving moonlight, but- I'm never going to make it, he realized, because he could already hear the nearly mule-sized dog race into the alley's mouth.

"Fly, Pluto!" a voice shot. "Tear the wizard asunder!"

As Fanshawe scrabbled forward, he heard the huge paws tear toward him from behind. He clawed ahead; he knew that at any second the ma.s.sive jaws would snap a foot off, then the other, and this would only be the beginning of a slow, unimaginable death- The image of Abbie flashed in his mind; Fanshawe managed a smile...

He thought he could actually feel gusts of hot breath blowing into the back of his neck, when- There was a pop! then a long sizzle which accompanied a broad, ball-shaped flash of light that was scarlet with moving veins of green. The light filled the alley; Fanshawe smelled acrid smoke. At the same time, resonant words drifted: "Nattel'gleg shebb m'gy-hotl..."

Fanshawe stared terrified over his shoulder. The blossom of light dissipated a moment later, but now, instead of hunting him, the mammoth Doberman was snarling as if wildly aggravated, and turning circles in the alley. It seemed to be chasing its own tail.

"Pluto! Sic!" one voice called from the alley's other side.

"Of all the..."

"Look! The wizard's bewitched the dog!"

Fanshawe still had spots in his eyes from the mysterious flash when he was hoisted to his feet and shoved. A st.u.r.dy man in dark clothing pointed toward the open front door of the Wraxall house.

"Who-"

"Stifle thy words!" a whisper snapped back. "And mind thy tongue lest it be the death of us..."

Fanshawe stared into the stranger's face...

Callister Rood.

"Make haste and close Master's door!"

"But-"

Another hard shove. "Be off!"

Fanshawe sprinted to the door to the house, closed it as quietly as he could, then turned to peer out of a small gla.s.s pane in the side-light.

By now the Doberman had churned its way out of the alley, still snarling, still chasing its tail. Sheriff Patten and the others lumbered after it through the trash-clogged by-way.

Rood rushed to meet them. "Good Sheriff! I glimpsed a h.e.l.lish light, then spied a man in evil raiments flee thither! Pray, let me aid thee in thy chase!"

"Callister Rood, surely thy vigilance be blessed by G.o.d Himself!" Patten barked, then, behind him, "This way, men! Ye divell's made off this way!" and then the sheriff, Rood, and the rest tramped off down the street till they were out of sight.

Fanshawe's face pressed against the gla.s.s; he exhaled long and hard, and felt relieved when the last of the posse's footsteps faded to silence.

He turned, to face almost total darkness. The entrance, which was probably just a narrow foyer back then, he guessed. The only light could be seen very dimly at the top of the first stairwell.

"I'm here to see Jacob Wraxall," he announced loudly to the darkness.