front of the sanctuary. Why would the lights go out, anyway? It wasn't as if they were in the midst of a lightning storm.
Still, Grams had often said that the church building, just about as old as the inn, had similar problems. Maybe the overloaded circuits had chosen this moment to break down.
Or the explanation might be simpler. Mose Stetler, the custodian, could have come in, thinking they'd all left, and switched the lights off.
She paused, one hand resting on the curved back of a pew, its worn wood satiny to the touch. "Mose? Is that you? I'm still in the sanctuary."
Really, he should have checked to see if anyone was here before going around switching off lights.
No one answered. If it was Mose, he apparently couldn't hear her.
She took another step and stopped, her heart lurching into overdrive. Someone was in the sanctuary with her.
Ridiculous. She was being foolish, imagining things because she was alone in the dark. She took another step. And heard it. A step that echoed her own and then stopped.
She should call out. It must be someone on a perfectly innocent errand—Mose, or even the pastor, come to see that the church had been properly locked up. She should call out, let them know she was there.
But some instinct held her throat in a vise. She couldn't—she really couldn't speak. Stupid as it seemed, she was unable to make a sound.
Or was it so stupid? She'd already called out, and no one had answered. Whoever was there, he or she seemed anxious not to be heard or identified.
She drew in a cautious breath, trying to keep it silent. Think. A chill of fear trickled down her spine. She'd become disoriented in the dark. How far was she from the double doors at the rear of the sanctuary? How far from the chancel door that led out past the organ to the vestry?
Her fingers tightened on the pew back, and she strained to see. Directly opposite her there was a faint gleam coming through the stained glass. Surely that was the image of Jesus with the woman at the well, wasn't it? She could just make out the shape of the figure.
All right. Be calm. If that window was opposite, then she was nearer to the chancel door, wasn't she?
She took a cautious step in that direction, then another, gaining a little confidence. She didn't know where the other person was in the dark, but if she could make it to the door and get through, she could close it. Lock it. She tried to form an image of the door. Lots of the sturdy old wooden doors in the church had dead bolts. Did that one?
She wasn't sure. But she'd still feel a lot better with a closed door between her and the unknown person. She could move quickly through the small vestry, and beyond it was the door that led out to the ramp. It had a clear glass window, so she'd be able to see to get out.
She took another step, groping for the next pew, and froze, her breath catching. A footstep, nearer to her than she'd thought. He was between her and the chancel door—a thicker blackness than the dark around him. Did he realize how close they were? Surely he couldn't see her any better than she could him. If he did, a few steps would close the gap between them.
Not daring to breathe, she inched her way backward, moving toward the outer wall this time. Follow the wall back to the rear of the sanctuary, work her way to the door.
Please, Lord, please. Maybe I'm being silly, but I don't think so. I think there's danger in this place. Help me.
A few silent steps, and her hand brushed the wall. Holding her breath, she moved along it. She'd be okay, she'd reach the back of the church—and then she realized that the footsteps were moving toward her, deliberately, no longer trying to hide.
How did he know—stupid, she was silhouetted against the faint light coming through the stained glass. Moving to the outer wall was the worst thing she could have done. Heedless of the noise, she dove into the sheltering blackness of the nearest pew, sensing the movement toward her of that
Still, Grams had often said that the church building, just about as old as the inn, had similar problems. Maybe the overloaded circuits had chosen this moment to break down.
Or the explanation might be simpler. Mose Stetler, the custodian, could have come in, thinking they'd all left, and switched the lights off.
She paused, one hand resting on the curved back of a pew, its worn wood satiny to the touch. "Mose? Is that you? I'm still in the sanctuary."
Really, he should have checked to see if anyone was here before going around switching off lights.
No one answered. If it was Mose, he apparently couldn't hear her.
She took another step and stopped, her heart lurching into overdrive. Someone was in the sanctuary with her.
Ridiculous. She was being foolish, imagining things because she was alone in the dark. She took another step. And heard it. A step that echoed her own and then stopped.
She should call out. It must be someone on a perfectly innocent errand—Mose, or even the pastor, come to see that the church had been properly locked up. She should call out, let them know she was there.
But some instinct held her throat in a vise. She couldn't—she really couldn't speak. Stupid as it seemed, she was unable to make a sound.
Or was it so stupid? She'd already called out, and no one had answered. Whoever was there, he or she seemed anxious not to be heard or identified.
She drew in a cautious breath, trying to keep it silent. Think. A chill of fear trickled down her spine. She'd become disoriented in the dark. How far was she from the double doors at the rear of the sanctuary? How far from the chancel door that led out past the organ to the vestry?
Her fingers tightened on the pew back, and she strained to see. Directly opposite her there was a faint gleam coming through the stained glass. Surely that was the image of Jesus with the woman at the well, wasn't it? She could just make out the shape of the figure.
All right. Be calm. If that window was opposite, then she was nearer to the chancel door, wasn't she?
She took a cautious step in that direction, then another, gaining a little confidence. She didn't know where the other person was in the dark, but if she could make it to the door and get through, she could close it. Lock it. She tried to form an image of the door. Lots of the sturdy old wooden doors in the church had dead bolts. Did that one?
She wasn't sure. But she'd still feel a lot better with a closed door between her and the unknown person. She could move quickly through the small vestry, and beyond it was the door that led out to the ramp. It had a clear glass window, so she'd be able to see to get out.
She took another step, groping for the next pew, and froze, her breath catching. A footstep, nearer to her than she'd thought. He was between her and the chancel door—a thicker blackness than the dark around him. Did he realize how close they were? Surely he couldn't see her any better than she could him. If he did, a few steps would close the gap between them.
Not daring to breathe, she inched her way backward, moving toward the outer wall this time. Follow the wall back to the rear of the sanctuary, work her way to the door.
Please, Lord, please. Maybe I'm being silly, but I don't think so. I think there's danger in this place. Help me.
A few silent steps, and her hand brushed the wall. Holding her breath, she moved along it. She'd be okay, she'd reach the back of the church—and then she realized that the footsteps were moving toward her, deliberately, no longer trying to hide.
How did he know—stupid, she was silhouetted against the faint light coming through the stained glass. Moving to the outer wall was the worst thing she could have done. Heedless of the noise, she dove into the sheltering blackness of the nearest pew, sensing the movement toward her of that
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