watching the intense pulse of lightning. The extreme violence of the storm seemed unreal, 
and she concluded that she was still under the influence of the dream, misinterpreting 
what she was seeing. It couldn't possibly be as savage outside as it appeared to be.
  "Grace..." 
  She thought she heard something call to her from over by the tallest set of 
bookshelves, directly behind her. Judging from its slurred, distorted pronunciation of 
her name, its mouth was severely malformed.
  There's nothing behind me! Nothing.
  Nevertheless, she did not turn around.
  When the lightning finally stopped and the long-sustained crescendo of thunder 
subsided, the air seemed thicker than it had been a minute ago. She had difficulty 
breathing. The room was darker, too.
  'Grace. .
  A confining mantle of claustrophobia settled over her. The dimly visible walls appeared 
to ripple and move closer, as if the chamber might shrink around her until it was 
precisely the size and shape of a coffin.
  "Grace. .
  She stumbled to the nearest window, banging her hip against the desk, nearly tripping 
over a lamp cord. She fumbled with the lever on the shutters, her fingers stiff and 
unresponsive. At last the slats opened wide; gray but welcome light poured into the 
study; forcing her to squint but gladdening her as well. She leaned against the shutters 
and stared out at the cloud-plated sky, resisting the insane urge to look over her 
shoulder to see if there really was something monstrous lurking there with a hungry grin 
on its face. She drew deep, gasping breaths, as if the daylight itself-rather than the 
air-sustained her.
  Grace's house was atop a small knoll, at the end of a quiet street, sheltered by 
several large pine trees and by one enormous weeping willow; from her study window she 
could see the rain-swollen Susquehanna a couple of miles away. Harrisburg, the state 
capital, huddled solemnly, drearily along the river's banks. The clouds hung low over the 
city, trailing bedraggled beards of mist that obscured the upper floors of the tallest 
buildings.
  When she'd blinked the last grains of sleep out of her eyes, when her nerves had 
stopped jangling, she turned around and surveyed the room. A quiver of relief swept 
through her, unknotting her muscles.
  She was alone.
  With the storm temporarily quiet, she could hear the mantel clock again. It was the 
only sound.
  Hell, yes, you're alone, she told herself scornfully. What did you expect? A green 
goblin with three eyes and a mouthful of sharp teeth? You better watch yourself, Grace 
Louise Mitowski, or you'll wind up in a rest home, sitting all day in a rocking chair, 
happily chatting with ghosts, while smiling nurses wipe drool off your chin.
  Having led an active life of the mind for so many years, she worried more about 
creeping senility than about anything else. She knew she was as sharp and alert as she 
had ever been. But what about tomorrow and the day after? Because of her medical 
training, and because she had kept up with her professional reading even after closing 
down her psychiatric practice, she was up to date on all the latest findings about 
senility, and she knew that only fifteen percent of all elderly people suffered from it. 
She also knew that more than half of those cases were treatable with proper nutrition and 
exercise. She knew her chances of becoming mentally incapacitated were small, only about 
one in eighteen. Nevertheless, although she was conscious of her excessive sensitivity 
regarding the subject, she still worried. Consequently, she was understandably disturbed 
by this uncharacteristic notion that something had been in the study with her a few 
moments ago, something hostile and. . . supernatural. As a lifelong skeptic with little 
or no patience for astrologers and psychics and their ilk, she could not justify even a 
fleeting belief in such superstitious non-sense; to her way of thinking, beliefs of that 
nature were. . . well. . . feebleminded.
  But good, sweet God, what a nightmare that had been!
  She had never before experienced a dream even one-tenth as bad as that one. Although 
the grisly details had completely faded away, she could still clearly remember the mood 
of it-the terror, the gut-wrenching horror that had permeated every nasty image, every 
ticking sound.
  She shivered.
  The sweat that the dream had squeezed out of her was beginning to feel like a thin 
glaze of ice on her skin.
  The only other thing she remembered from the nightmare was Carol. Screaming. Crying for 
help.
  Until now, none of Grace's infrequent dreams had included Carol, and there was a 
temptation to view her appearance in this one with alarm, to see it as an omen. But of 
course it wasn't surprising that Carol should eventually have a role in one of Grace's 
dreams, for the loved-one-in-danger theme was common in nightmares. Any psychologist 
would attest to that, and Grace was a psychologist, a good one, although she was entering 
her third year of retirement. She cared deeply about Carol. If she'd had a child of her 
own, she couldn't have loved it any more than she loved Carol.
  She had first met the girl sixteen years ago, when Carol had been an angry, obstinate, 
obstreperous fifteen-year-old delinquent who had recently given birth to a baby that had 
nearly killed her, and who, subsequent to that traumatic episode, had been remanded
  to a juvenile detention facility for possession of marijuana and for a host of other 
offenses. In those days, in addition to a private psychiatric practice, Grace had 
performed eight hours a week of free service to assist the overworked counseling staff at 
the reform school in which Carol was held. Carol was incorrigible, determined to kick you 
in the teeth if you smiled at her, but even then her intelligence and innate goodness 
were there, to be seen by anyone who looked closely enough, beneath the rough exterior. 
Grace had taken a very close look indeed, and had been intrigued, impressed. The girl's 
obsessively foul language, her vicious temper, and her amoral pose had been nothing more 
than defense mechanisms, shields with which she protected herself from the physical and 
psychological abuse dished out by her parents.
  As Grace gradually unearthed the horrendous story of Carol's monstrous home life, she 
became convinced that reform school was the wrong place for the girl. She used her 
influence with the court to get Carol permanently removed from the custody of her 
parents. Later, she arranged to serve as Carol's foster parent. She had watched the girl 
respond to love and guidance, had watched her grow from a brooding, self centered, 
self-destructive teenager into a warm, self-assured, admirable young woman with hopes and 
dreams, a woman of character, a sensitive woman. Playing a part in that exciting 
transformation had been perhaps the most satisfying thing that Grace had ever done.
  The only regret she had about her relationship with Carol was the role she had played 
in putting the baby up for adoption. But there had been no reasonable alternative. Carol 
simply hadn't been financially or emotionally or mentally capable of providing for the 
infant. With that responsibility to attend to, she would never have had an opportunity to 
grow and change. She would have been miserable all her life, and she would have made her 
child miserable, too. Unfortunately, even now, sixteen years later, Carol felt guilty