It wasn’t the monstrous creature of her nightmare—it was no larger than a rat might be. And Sarah knew that she was awake. So the rat had to be real.
But real rats didn’t have eyes like that, huge, glowing golden flames which dwarfed the small, pointed head. Rats didn’t stare and compel attention with eyes that hypnotized. Sarah tried to look away and could not. She was trapped by those eyes—and the will behind them—just as in her dream. But this was far more horrible than her nightmare. This time, she could not wake up.
Sarah tried, tried desperately, to move. Any physical motion at all, however small, would be a release from this numbing paralysis. At last she managed to flutter her eyelids and then, with a feeling of triumph, to close her eyes. Saved, she thought. If she couldn’t see the rat, she couldn’t be trapped into staring into those dangerous eyes.
It was like cold, dirty water moving into her head. Sarah realized she couldn’t breathe. She had to keep blowing air out through her nose, to expel the water, to keep from being suffocated. Her chest labored, and each breath required more energy, more struggle, more strength. She was weakening rapidly, feeling the filthy water catch at her lungs, and she wondered how long she could continue to fight for air.
Easier, much easier to stop. Had someone said that? The words seemed to ring in her ears, like kindly advice. Give in. Relax. Easier to give up. Easier to let go.
She continued to struggle, but she did not quite understand why. It was a dream, after all; only a dream. What happened in dreams didn’t matter. She couldn’t really drown in a dream—if she let go, let the water fill her lungs and bear her under, she would wake up. And her waking life would be so much easier. No more struggle. She didn’t need air; she didn’t need to breathe. Someone else would do it for her, while she slept undisturbed and peaceful. She had only to stop, to let go.
And still Sarah fought, breathing in and out, accomplishing each breath with greater struggle. She wasn’t sure why she continued to fight—she supposed it was because the habit of breathing was so strong that she didn’t want to give it up, even in a dream. Even though it would be so much easier, and she thought, more and more, of letting go.
But there was something else that bothered her. A small, distant pain. She couldn’t isolate the feeling—to do so would have required too much effort, too much concentration, and she could not spare anything from her struggle for air. Like small, sharp teeth worrying at her flesh—something she was forgetting—something important—
The rat!
Sarah opened her eyes and saw the rat, still fixed in the beam of her flashlight. Had it moved closer? She couldn’t be sure. Bitterness welled up inside her, a pain in her chest. She could breathe—she was in no danger of suffocation—that had all been a trick. The rat had made her think she could not breathe in order to distract her, to keep her from recognizing the real danger. And the real danger was in the rat itself. She felt its evil, its almost overpowering will, burning out of those eyes. It had nearly tricked her into giving in. It meant to destroy her. Sarah stared back at it, briefly free of the power of those hypnotic eyes, and she recognized her enemy. Self-preservation rose up inside her, strengthening her, and a feeling of hatred stronger than any she had ever known. She would not let herself be destroyed or used—she would kill the thing that had tried to kill her—she would smash it, burn it, crush it, cut its throat—
Crying out incoherently, Sarah hurled the flashlight at the rat, and heard the sound of metal striking the floor.
Darkness swallowed them both.
Chapter Five
“I won’t!” Sarah mumbled.
The childish protest rang in her ears, as if she had been repeating it for hours. She looked around groggily, trying to understand where she was and what had happened. She was slumped on the kitchen linoleum. Her bare feet were so cold they ached. The grey light of very early morning filled the room.
Sarah squinted against the pounding in her head and struggled to her feet. She managed to reach the bathroom before she vomited. Then, bewildered and shivering uncontrollably, Sarah leaned against the side of the door and tried to think. She couldn’t remember anything, not even what day it was. All she could cling to, through the painful fog that filled her head, was a knowledge of her own identity. And she clutched that as if even that last certainty might be snatched from her.
“Sarah,” she whispered. “Me.”
Who had tried to take that away from her?
A dim memory of struggle and pain surfaced and then sank again. Sank into cold, dirty water. Her stomach heaved and Sarah grabbed the doorframe and swallowed hard. She remembered drowning. Almost drowning.
She broke out into a light sweat, no longer cold, although she still shivered. She remembered the fires that had burned on the other side of the water. The eyes that had burned like fire, burned into her brain, almost consuming her.
Sarah moaned softly and closed her eyes, pressing a hand against her head. Pain pulsed through her body. She ached as if she had been beaten. But she had not been beaten. She had survived. She still lived. And now she had to rest. It was safe to rest now; she had fought long enough for now. That knowledge came from within her, and Sarah trusted it.
Safe now, she thought, staggering back to the couch. Safe to sleep. She wasn’t ready yet to remember what she was safe from.
Knocking woke her, long hours later.
Sarah opened her eyes on daylight. The knocking persisted, and the sound made her shudder. The rat! It was the rat, she thought, within the walls, mocking her. She struggled to sit up, panting with terror, the blanket trapping her legs and slowing her.
“Sarah? Sarah, are you there?”
She heard the faint, faraway voice and recognized it as Beverly’s. She relaxed, then, and unwound herself from the blanket. “Coming,” she called. Her voice sounded cracked and strange in her ears. Despite the sleep, her body still ached and she felt weak and feverish.
“I was worried about you,” Beverly said when Sarah opened the back door. “When you weren’t in class—” She frowned, stepped forward and put her hands on Sarah’s shoulders. “Are you all right? You look . . .”
Sarah shrugged Beverly’s hands away, stepping back. “I was asleep.”
“A nap?”
Sarah frowned. “What time is it?”
“Nearly three.”
Sarah stared blankly, trying to comprehend. Why had she been asleep in the middle of the day? What had happened the night before? Something dreadful, which had weakened her and made her sick, but she couldn’t exactly remember . . .
“Poor thing,” Beverly said, smiling ruefully. “I woke you up. You go sit down and rest, and I’ll make you some tea.”
“Coffee,” Sarah said. She had to clear her head; she had to remember.
“All right, coffee.”
The sound of a truck in the yard behind her made Beverly turn around. “Looks like your bed has arrived,” she said to Sarah.
“Oh,” said Sarah. Her mind was a blank. The words made sense, but she didn’t know how they related, how she was to respond.
“You poor baby,” Beverly said. She laughed, but her laughter was a caress, not a mockery. She took Sarah by the shoulders again and walked her backwards. “You just lie back down and I’ll take care of everything. I’ll get you your coffee, and I’ll show the men where to put your bed.”
It was wonderful to give in, to relax, to let someone else take over. Like an obedient child, Sarah let Beverly sit her down on the couch. She sat there, her mind like an empty room, and listened to the sounds of activity from the back of the house.
But images pushed in at the edges of her mind, dimly recalled. Suffocation. Burning. Twin fires. Golden eyes. A rat—
Sarah opened her eyes and saw Beverly before her. “What is that,” said Beverly. “On the bedroom floor?”