Demon Child by Dean Koontz Page A

the woods. It likes to run and be free. It scents rabbits and squirrels, and it chases the scents. It finds a nest and flushes a rabbit from it. It chases the rabbit through the trees, the branches whipping it as it runs. It feels good. It corners the rabbit. The rabbit's eyes are bright red. Its eyes are bright red too. It leaps at the rabbit. It catches the rabbit under its paws, listens to the rabbit squeal. It tears the rabbit apart. The blood tastes good.”
        The room was dimly lighted. The shadows crawled closer, fell about them like black cloaks.
        “Look at the wolf,” Walt said.
        “It's eating the rabbit,” Freya answered.
        “No it isn't. Its turning back into fog. It's turning into mist again, isn't it?”
        Jenny could see that he was trying to break the child loose of her delusion. But Freya was steadfast.
        “No,” Freya said. “It is not turning into fog again. It's got black fur and big teeth with blood running out its mouth. Lots of blood. It likes the blood and wants more.”
        “It's fading away,” he insisted.
        “No.”
        “And it doesn't want to kill anything more. It's getting very tired with all this running and hunting. It's a tired old wolf. It wants only to curl up somewhere and sleep.”
        “No. It wants more blood. It wants Hollycross, and it leaves the woods to get her. It runs across the lawn behind the house, down the drive next to the hedges. It's a very fast runner.”
        Hobarth was about to try another tact to get her away from her fantasy, but she spoke before he could. Her voice was higher now, the words spoken faster until, at times, they seemed to run together. It was almost the voice of hysteria.
        “The wolf is at the barn,” Freya said. “It sniffs along the doors, looking for Hollycross. It especially wants Hollycross because it knows that Hollycross will be ridden the next day. Jenny will find the horse and everyone will know the wolf is loose. It wants everyone to know that. It wants to let everyone know, almost as much as it wants to rip out the mare's throat.”
        “The wolf couldn't know that Jenny rode Hollycross every morning,” Hobarth said.
        But Freya continued as if she had not been interrupted, her tiny hands clenched at her sides, her chest rising and falling as her breathing grew deeper and faster.
        “The wolf stands on its hind feet by Hollycross' halfdoor. Its paws work the latch, 'cause a werewolf can have fingers when it wants them. It goes into the stall… it sees Hollycross. Hollycross whinnies. She's scared! She has big eyes, and her lips are drawn back from her teeth. She wants help! But she isn't going to get it. The wolf knows that. It leaps on her neck and sinks its teeth into her muscles. Blood is there. It loves the blood. It wants all the blood it can get. It tears at Hollycross and drags her down. She kicks at it! It avoids her hooves!”
        “That's enough,” Walter said.
        Jenny agreed.
        But Freya continued, her voice frantic now:
        “Hollycross' heart bursts. Blood runs out her mouth. She has died of fright! But the wolf keeps ripping at her, snarling, using its teeth and its claws to get the blood!” She was grumbling now, whimpering and hissing, snarling just as a wolf might have. Spittle showed on her lips. She was digging at the black leather couch with her well-manicured nails.
        “Wake up, Freya,” Walt said.
        She continued to snarl. “The wolf chews Hollycross' hip. He worries at her leg a while, seeing what he can taste there.”
        “Enough!” Hobarth said. In a gentler tone, he said, “You know who this is, Freya? It's Dr. Hobarth. I am telling you to wake up. You will wake up slowly, carefully, and open your eyes. Slowly and carefully-”
        “The wolf howls! There is blood on its face, all over its face, all over the fur on its neck, running off its lips, on its nose-”
        “Freya,