The Final Victim(51)

She'll order the treatments first thing tomorrow. Before the light fixture, before deciding on paint, before anything else…

From the doorway, Royce asks, "Coming?"

Her anxiety must be contagious; now he, too, seems a bit apprehensive as Charlotte hurries toward him. Clearly, she isn't the only one who's grateful to be getting out of here.

"I hope this place seems less spooky after we move in, Royce," she comments, "because if it doesn't…"

"I'm sure it will be fine." But he doesn't sound so sure at all.

He flicks off two more light switches as they walk the length of the upstairs hall, plunging them into pitch blackness by the time they reach the stairs.

Below, the first floor is completely dark as well; they had come up to the second floor well before dusk and didn't think to turn on lights.

"Isn't there a switch up here to light the stairs?" Charlotte asks, feeling like a frightened little girl as she clutches the back of Royce's shirt "I thought there was." She can hear Royce feeling around on the wall beside them.

"Here it is," he says finally, and she hears a clicking sound.

But there's no reassuring burst of light.

"There must not be a bulb in the fixture yet," Royce tells her, sounding as apprehensive as she feels, and he's not the one with an irrational fear of the dark.

"Do you think there's a flashlight up here somewhere?"

"I doubt it."

"Maybe we should look."

"Let's just get out of here," he says, sounding as antsy as she feels. "Come on, just watch your step."

Together, they descend in utter darkness, picking their way down the unfamiliar flight of stairs to the front entrance hall.

There, at last, she can literally see the light… beyond the pillared arch that leads to the front door. A golden glow from the porch light-on a timer to come on at dusk-falls through the arched transom and the narrow windows beside it.

"Do you have your purse and everything?" Royce asks belatedly as they reach the front door.

'Yes."

And if I didn't, Charlotte thinks to herself, there's no way I'd go back up there in the dark to get it.

"Okay, then, let's go." Jangling his car keys impatiently, or perhaps nervously, Royce opens the door.

Sultry moonlight seeps in to meet them, tinged with the scent of blooming flowers and the dank odor of the river blocks away.

Charlotte steps out to the small wooden porch perched six feet above street level; the house sits on a raised basement like so many others in Savannah.

She inhales the heady perfume of blooming Confederate jasmine that twines over the trunk of an ancient oak tree beside the house, then exhales audibly, feeling better already in the comforting splash of light from the overhead fixture.

In a few weeks, she tells herself, this place will surely feel like a safe haven, rather than a haunted house she can't wait to escape.

Of course it will.

Look at Oakgate.

If one wasn't familiar with the old home, it, too, would seem gloomily foreboding. In fact, it does even now, sometimes. Even to her.

Royce pauses on the doorstep, fumbling with his keys, attempting to insert first one, then another, into the unfamiliar deadbolt.

"Do you want fried oysters?" Charlotte asks, eager to go on to the restaurant, "or should we go all out and get a pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni?"

His reply is lost in a sudden, deafening burst of sound.

"Lord, that scared me," Charlotte gasps, pressing a hand to her violently pounding heart A car must have backfired, so close by she swivels her head to see if it's parked right at the curb in front of the house.

No car…

But there's a flash of movement in the cemetery across the street.

It's the same black-clad figure, running, fleeing into the heart of the cemetery.

"Royce, look!" she exclaims, reaching back for her husband's arm-and encountering thin air.

The spot where he stood just a moment before is empty.

Or so she believes… until she looks down and sees Royce crumpled at her feet in a spreading pool of his own blood.

PART III

THE THIRD VICTIM

CHAPTER 8
At last, the first rays of light appear in the eastern sky, bringing to a close what has felt like the longest night of the year… but, in terms of sunrise and sunset, was among the shortest This July Sunday dawns almost eerily still above the maritime woodland on Achoco Island, the air already warm: By late morning, it's bound to be hot and humid; the oppressive afternoon will undoubtedly usher the threat of thunderstorms.

What else is new?

The Low Country is hardly the ideal place to spend the summer months. Not unless one enjoys wading through soupy air while fully clothed, every time one steps outdoors.

Yes, but next summer at this time, I'll be someplace cool and comfortable.

Someplace where the air is crisp at night and the sea is refreshing. New England, or the Northwest Coast…

Or perhaps the mountains would be a nice change of scenery. The Canadian Rockies are supposed to be beautiful.

Yes, the mountains. Definitely. The high altitude would be welcome after drowning in summer days at Southern sea level.

Perfect Next year, the sky will be the limit, quite literally.