I don’t know how long I was unconscious. It didn’t feel like very long at all. At first, when I woke up, I couldn’t remember anything. I couldn’t remember where I was or what I had been doing. I could hardly think about anything except the pain throbbing in my forehead.
I was aware that it was dark. I was aware that I was uncomfortable, my face pressed into the cold, rough dirt. I was aware that, somewhere, the wind was blowing—roaring all around me. There was another sound too—a high-pitched wail far away—almost hidden inside the wind. What was it?
But before I could figure it out, I became aware of a louder noise: the door rattling, banging on its hinges . . .
Then it came back to me. Where I was. What had happened. The tree. The lake. The barn. The coffin. The figure charging through the shadows . . .
Harry Mac!
I started to sit up quickly—but the minute I did, the throbbing pain above my eyes became a lancing knife of agony. I cried out, clutching my head. Stars and purple blotches flashed in front of me. I sat there on the barn floor, half-upright, holding the bruised place, my body wavering back and forth as I fought down nausea.
The wind kept blowing. And that high-pitched keening sound hidden in the wind grew louder, steadier. What was it?
Harry Mac . . .
I fought down the pain. I had to help him. I turned to the box in the center of the room. I could just make it out in the shadows that grew lighter and darker as the door moved in the wind, as it let in sunlight from outside and then blocked it again.
But the box was still there, just as I’d left it. The lid was as I’d left it too, thrown off, leaning against the side.
Flinching at the pain, I moved to the box, took hold of the side, drew myself up over it. I looked down into it.
Harry Mac was still there, still bound, still gagged, still staring up at me with his white eyes. I reached in and grabbed his shoulder.
“Harry Mac, you all right?”
He didn’t answer.
“Harry . . .”
I tried to lift him, but he was limp, too heavy. I leaned forward into the box and tried to get a better grip. And as I did, I saw . . .
“Oh!” I said. The breath rushed out of me.
Harry Mac was still staring at me, but now I realized: His eyes were no longer filled with fear. His eyes were empty. Completely empty.
Harry Mac was dead. A round bullet hole showed darkly in the center of his chest.
I fell back from the box, scrambling away. The images and words on the wall seemed to swirl around me on every side. The grinning skull. The grinning devil. Death.
As I scrambled back, my hand touched cold metal. I saw something lying under my fingers. A pistol.
The door rattled. The wind blew. That high-pitched keening sound grew louder and louder, closer and closer.
I knew what it was now. It was a siren.
The police. They were almost here.