that part. The way Ron explained it, the guy claimed he knew who he was shooting, but when they asked him to identify his victims, he called them some weird names he said he'd heard in his dreams." Brackett pointed to his own skull and made a rotary motion with his finger. "Crazy."
"Perhaps. These names, Sheriff. Were they Celtic? Would you recognize them? Deirdre? Cullain?"
"Sorry, my friend, they don't ring a bell. Who are they?"
"Names of victims in Michael's dreams. If we could establish a continuity from the great-grandfather to the boy . . ." the psychiatrist mused.
"A continuity?" Brackett gasped. "Come on, Loomis. In order for a dream to jump two or three generations, you'd have to believe . . ." He shook his head. "Doctor, I think you may be touched yourself."
"Probably. It's an occupational hazard."
Brackett swung right and glided to the curb before the gloomy, weatherbeaten house that stood out among its white, neatly kempt neighbors like some shriveled crone in a row of teenagers. They climbed out of the car and stood before it, listening to the sound of branches whipping against an upstairs window. "Has anybody lived here since . . . ?"
"You got to be kidding," Brackett said. "Every kid in Haddonfield thinks the place is haunted. Maybe every adult too."
"They may be right."
Brackett reached into his car and produced a long flashlight. Pointing it at the "For Sale" sign thrust into the scrubby lawn, the sheriff said, "His parents found him standing right there in his clown costume with the ruff around the neck, cute as could be except he held a butcher knife as long as this flashlight and he was smeared with fresh blood." He flashed his light on the sign. "This should come down. I hear it's been sold. Chester Strode must be drunk with relief. He's the agent."
"Sold?" Loomis repeated, shaking his head with disbelief.
"I know what you mean. New York people. They thought it would be fun to own a haunted house. New Yorkers," he groaned, using the word almost as a curse.
"Can we go in?"
"I don't have a key, but maybe . . ." They mounted the front porch.
"We could go in through one of the broken windows," Loomis suggested.
"That's what I was going to sug— hmm ." Loomis stepped to the front door, on which the sheriff held his light. The knob dangled at an odd angle, and there were fresh gouges in the wood around it. Brackett touched the knob and the door swung open. "One haunted house, complete with creaks," he said.
"If you find it so amusing, why are you taking your gun out of its holster?" Loomis asked with a grim smile.
Brackett didn't care for the remark. Flashing the light around the entry vestibule, he stepped in cautiously, crouched tensely as he scanned the rooms with his light-guided eyes, then gestured with his head for Loomis to come in. Carefully they trod the floorboards, Loomis moving back to back with his friend, like a pair of eyes in the back of the sheriff's head. The psychiatrist kept his right hand plunged deep in the pocket of his trench coat.
Suddenly Brackett stopped. Loomis backed into him. "What is it?"
Brackett trained his light on a corner of the parlor next to the kitchen. "That's a good question. What is it?"
The light revealed something resembling a white and black shaggy throw rug with jagged red streaks. Brackett kneeled over it and gulped. "It's a dog." He reached out and dipped a finger into the entrails that had been ripped out of the creature and draped across its hind legs casually. "Still warm. Lord!"
Loomis looked at the mutilated creature, its bulging eyes orangely reflecting the light. "He got hungry."
"He? You mean . . . ? Come on, Doctor. It could have been a skunk. Or a raccoon."
"Could have been," Loomis said unenthusiastically.
"A man wouldn't do that," Brackett said, holding the light on the glistening guts.
"He isn't a man," Loomis replied.
They turned their back on the remains and searched the rest of the downstairs. The place was a shambles.
"Perhaps. These names, Sheriff. Were they Celtic? Would you recognize them? Deirdre? Cullain?"
"Sorry, my friend, they don't ring a bell. Who are they?"
"Names of victims in Michael's dreams. If we could establish a continuity from the great-grandfather to the boy . . ." the psychiatrist mused.
"A continuity?" Brackett gasped. "Come on, Loomis. In order for a dream to jump two or three generations, you'd have to believe . . ." He shook his head. "Doctor, I think you may be touched yourself."
"Probably. It's an occupational hazard."
Brackett swung right and glided to the curb before the gloomy, weatherbeaten house that stood out among its white, neatly kempt neighbors like some shriveled crone in a row of teenagers. They climbed out of the car and stood before it, listening to the sound of branches whipping against an upstairs window. "Has anybody lived here since . . . ?"
"You got to be kidding," Brackett said. "Every kid in Haddonfield thinks the place is haunted. Maybe every adult too."
"They may be right."
Brackett reached into his car and produced a long flashlight. Pointing it at the "For Sale" sign thrust into the scrubby lawn, the sheriff said, "His parents found him standing right there in his clown costume with the ruff around the neck, cute as could be except he held a butcher knife as long as this flashlight and he was smeared with fresh blood." He flashed his light on the sign. "This should come down. I hear it's been sold. Chester Strode must be drunk with relief. He's the agent."
"Sold?" Loomis repeated, shaking his head with disbelief.
"I know what you mean. New York people. They thought it would be fun to own a haunted house. New Yorkers," he groaned, using the word almost as a curse.
"Can we go in?"
"I don't have a key, but maybe . . ." They mounted the front porch.
"We could go in through one of the broken windows," Loomis suggested.
"That's what I was going to sug— hmm ." Loomis stepped to the front door, on which the sheriff held his light. The knob dangled at an odd angle, and there were fresh gouges in the wood around it. Brackett touched the knob and the door swung open. "One haunted house, complete with creaks," he said.
"If you find it so amusing, why are you taking your gun out of its holster?" Loomis asked with a grim smile.
Brackett didn't care for the remark. Flashing the light around the entry vestibule, he stepped in cautiously, crouched tensely as he scanned the rooms with his light-guided eyes, then gestured with his head for Loomis to come in. Carefully they trod the floorboards, Loomis moving back to back with his friend, like a pair of eyes in the back of the sheriff's head. The psychiatrist kept his right hand plunged deep in the pocket of his trench coat.
Suddenly Brackett stopped. Loomis backed into him. "What is it?"
Brackett trained his light on a corner of the parlor next to the kitchen. "That's a good question. What is it?"
The light revealed something resembling a white and black shaggy throw rug with jagged red streaks. Brackett kneeled over it and gulped. "It's a dog." He reached out and dipped a finger into the entrails that had been ripped out of the creature and draped across its hind legs casually. "Still warm. Lord!"
Loomis looked at the mutilated creature, its bulging eyes orangely reflecting the light. "He got hungry."
"He? You mean . . . ? Come on, Doctor. It could have been a skunk. Or a raccoon."
"Could have been," Loomis said unenthusiastically.
"A man wouldn't do that," Brackett said, holding the light on the glistening guts.
"He isn't a man," Loomis replied.
They turned their back on the remains and searched the rest of the downstairs. The place was a shambles.
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