Ammie, Come Home by Barbara Michaels Page A

light closed in upon her. She sank back onto the couch, not because of Pat’s grip, but because her knees would no longer hold her erect. Could no one else feel It? It was coming. It was all around. It was cold and darkness; It fed on darkness. If this went on….
    â€œI understand you haven’t been sleeping too well lately,” Pat said to Sara.
    â€œNo, Pat, don’t,” Ruth said. “This isn’t the time—”
    â€œOf course it is; you’re letting this worry you far too much. There’s no reason to be shy about it. Everybody has problems at one time or another—nervous strain, overwork….”
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about?” Bruce demanded.
    â€œI mean just what I say. Sara has been sleepwalking. That’s a sign of nerves, a signal we can’t ignore.”
    â€œStop it,” Ruth said urgently. “Pat, this is all wrong, can’t you feel….” Her voice died, only to rise again in a gasp of terror. Sara was sitting on the edge of the couch nearest the fire. The red light gave auburn gleams to her dark hair, and lit the curve of cheek and chin with a diabolical flush. She had not moved nor uttered a word; but her pose had altered, indefinably but unmistakably.
    In the silence that followed Ruth’s intake of breath they could all hear the girl breathing in short shallow gasps. The firelight caught the glow of her eyes as they moved. Groping wildly Ruth found Pat’s hand and clung to it. She was conscious of a bizarre feeling of relief. He saw it too. The rigidity of his muscles, unresponsive for once to her touch, told of his reaction more graphically than speech. But the reaction that cut Ruth to the quick was Bruce’s. He made one small movement, quickly controlled; but she knew enough to recognize it, even from its abortive beginning—the instinctive flight of flexed fingers to his forehead.
    â€œSara,” Pat said softly.
    No response. Only that shallow, panicky panting of breath.
    â€œSara, are you in pain? Tell me what hurts. I can help.”
    No sound, no movement. Pat freed his hand from Ruth’s grasp. He leaned forward as if to touch Sara’s arm.
    â€œDon’t be afraid. Everything is going to be—”
    She flinched away from him, shrinking into the corner of the couch. Pat withdrew his hand.
    â€œYou hear me, don’t you?”
    â€œI—hear.”
    The voice was normal enough in tone and pitch; the only thing wrong with it was that it was not Sara’s voice.
    Even in those two words there was a noticeable difference in inflection. The “I” sound was softer, and there was something about the final “r” that struck oddly on the listening ears.
    â€œYou do hear me?” Pat repeated. His voice was soft, but insistent.
    â€œYes. But I don’t know—”
    â€œYou don’t know what?”
    â€œWho you are.”
    Pat’s arm shot out in a savage silent gesture aimed at Bruce, just in time to keep him in his place. His voice did not lose its even, gentle inflection.
    â€œI’m Pat, Sara. Professor MacDougal. You’re taking my course, remember? And doing some typing for me.”
    â€œWhat is—typing?”
    â€œIt’s a kind of—never mind. You know your name, don’t you?”
    â€œKnow…name. Sara.” There was a brief pause; the figure huddled on the couch rolled its eyes, and Ruth felt her hands turn cold. “You called…her…Sara.”
    It was too much for Bruce. With a muffled curse he dived, not for Sara, but for the light switch. The chandelier blazed into life, blinding the three who sat by the fire. Ruth’s hands flew up to shield her eyes; Pat swore; and Sara, after one muffled cry, turned the color of typewriter paper and fell forward. Pat recovered himself just barely in time to catch her.
    â€œGoddamn it all to hell,” he said, kneeling with Sara held across his