Читать книгу Bogeyman - Gayle Wilson - Страница 5

Twenty-five Years Earlier…

She had known he would come tonight. In spite of the rain and the cold. In spite of her praying “Please, Jesus” over and over again since Rachel had turned out the light.

She listened, but there was no sound now except her sister’s breathing, slightly whistling on each slow intake of air. And the rain, of course, pelting down on the tin roof overhead.

It made enough noise to drown out anything else, she reassured herself. Whatever she thought she’d heard—

The sound came again, and this time there was no doubt what it was. She had anticipated this, dreaded it too many nights not to recognize that soft tapping on the glass.

She opened her eyes to the darkness, staring up at the ceiling as if she could see through it to the storm above. Maybe if she waited—if she pretended to be asleep—maybe this time Rachel would hear him and wake up. Or maybe Mama would get up to check and see if they were warm enough.

The tapping came again. Louder. Demanding.

Her sister’s breathing hesitated, a long pause during which she repeated her talisman phrase again. Then the sounds Rachel made settled back into that same pattern of wheezing inhalation followed by sibilant release.

Mama always said Rachel slept like the dead.

Mama…

If she got out of bed and tiptoed across the floor to the door, surely with the noise of the rain, she could open it without him hearing. And if he didn’t hear, then he would never know that she’d told.

If you ever tell anyone…

She quickly destroyed the image his words created. Denied them because she couldn’t bear to think about what would happen if she didn’t go to the window….

She took a breath, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the burn of tears. Please, dear Jesus.

Except Jesus hadn’t answered her prayers any of the other times. Somewhere inside her heart she knew he wasn’t going to answer tonight.

Which meant that nobody would. There was nobody she could turn to. Nobody who could do anything about what he’d told her he would do if she didn’t mind him. Nobody but her.

She opened her eyes, raising her arm to scrub at them with the sleeve of her nightgown. He didn’t like it when she cried. He said it spoiled everything. And that if she wasn’t real careful—

She drew another breath, fighting to keep it from turning into a sob. Then, moving as carefully as she could, she pushed back the sheet and the piled quilts and sat up, putting her bare feet on the stone-cold floor.

By the time he tapped again, she was at the window. As she put her fingers around the metal handles of the sash to lift it, she couldn’t find even enough hope left inside her heart to repeat the words she’d prayed all night. The ones they had told her at Sunday school would protect her from evil.

Now she knew that they, too, had lied.