Serenity, Michigan
November 1879
Harold Coburn awoke to deafening silence. And yet, he was almost certain that something—some noise—had been responsible for jarring him from the lovely slumber of just moments ago.
He sat up and wished he had a bedside lamp. As it was, he’d have to get out of bed to ignite the wall-mounted gas light. And there was something that made getting out of bed seem highly unappealing ... some feeling that pervaded the darkness of the room. It was almost like a presence occupied the black mass of emptiness around the bed, a presence that did not feel at all benevolent.
His heart pounding, Coburn opened his mouth and uttered a wavering, uncertain, “Hello?”
He felt supremely foolish. His case of nerves was no doubt due to being in a strange room in a strange town, where he knew no one. The unfamiliarity of everything about his surroundings was causing his mind to play tricks on him.
He should have gone downstairs and requested his customary glass of warm milk, which always helped him sleep well. But, being a new boarder, he hadn’t wanted to impose any specific requests on Parré or the housemaid, a generally pleasant woman named Mrs. Chance whom he’d met at dinner a few hours earlier. Perhaps once he was settled in and felt more comfortable—
There was a slight shuffling sound, like the heel of a shoe catching the edge of a rug, and Coburn sensed that same presence draw nearer. Surely it was his imagination—wasn’t it?
Even though the rational part of his brain fought for supremacy, he could feel the icy tendrils of panic beginning to wrap around his senses, choking them into surrender, crowding out the cries for reason.
“Stay calm,” he whispered, but the words rang hollow as his pulse spiked, sending blood surging through his veins to distribute the adrenaline needed to support either fight or flight.
He had to get to the light. There was no other way to prove to his own traitorous mind that all was well. He wished now that he’d left the curtains open; perhaps the moon would have provided just enough illumination to rule out intruder … or apparition.
Reaching one trembling hand out to the bedside table, Coburn felt for the box of matches he knew was sitting there, for the express purpose of lighting the gas lamp. At last, he felt the box and he grabbed it like a drowning man clutching a lifebuoy. Then, with a rush of courage, Coburn threw the covers back and jumped from the bed, his feet hitting rug flat and hard before dashing to the far wall. He fumbled with the box of matches, opened it, and then swore viciously as he heard the matches fall out and onto the floor. He’d opened the box upside down!
Coburn dropped the box and fell to his knees, groping on the dark floor until he found an errant match. Then he shot up like a jack-in-the-box and began rubbing his hand along the wall, feeling for the key that would turn on the gas to the bracket.
And he stopped cold as his fumbling hand landed directly upon the warm flesh of another hand ... one that was not his own.
Coburn let out a yell of beastly terror, a primeval howl ripped from the most ancient part of his soul. With hands trembling like a sapling in a hurricane, he struck the match against the wall, praying it would ignite.
And it did.
In the flash and glare of the match, Coburn saw the sharp, angular face of Dr. Michael Parré. But it no longer held the refined expression of a gentleman. Now it was dark and twisted with a strange and terrible evil, the decided Hyde of the good doctor’s apparent dual personality.
Another cry of terror tore at Coburn’s throat. He dropped the match and whirled toward the door, expecting any moment to feel Parré’s hands grasping at his back. He opened the door with the brute force of a madman, sending it rebounding from the wall as it flung wide open, and stumbled into the hallway. Where were the stairs? To the right? The left?
To his unutterable relief, he saw the glow of a lamp attached to the newel post of the staircase as it met the ground floor, and he ran toward the light, scarcely feeling his feet as they pounded down the rug-lined hallway. He whirled onto the stairs like a cyclone and pounded downward, his nightclothes flapping around his body as if he had multiple sets of wings.
He hazarded one glance back and saw Parré on the landing overhead, standing stock still and staring down at him with coal black eyes that glittered in the dim light.
The bile of terror rose in Coburn’s throat and he pushed forward, hitting the foot of the staircase with a might thud. Another glance back showed Parré now moving slowly down the stairs, his gaze steady and unmoving. Coburn looked forward, searching for the best escape route, when he saw a flash of fabric around a corner near the kitchen—Mrs. Chance!
“Help!” he called out, a single trickle of hope running through him like spring water in a desert. “Mrs. Chance!”
The kitchen—surely there was a way out of the house from the kitchen—a back door, a servant’s entrance, anything. He ran for it, pushing all his chips into one desperate bid for escape.
He skidded around the corner where he’d seen the movement and heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Mrs. Chance standing by a door at the rear of the kitchen. She was unlocking the door!
No—she was ... locking it?
Coburn heard the unmistakable snick of the latch sliding closed.
“Mrs. Chance!”
The woman turned slowly, and Coburn’s heart sank. Her face, which at dinner had been pleasant and gentle, now held the same malevolent expression that he’d seen on Mr. Parré’s—a look of vile intent—and her eyes were dark and glittering, just like his.
Coburn heard a sound behind, a light step, and he knew that Mr. Parré was right behind him.
I’m strong, he thought. I can force my way out through sheer physical strength.
Then he heard a quick rustling of fabric and an airy whoosh, just before something hard and unrelenting came crashing down on the back of his head. His vision blinked out with the speed of a train rushing into a tunnel and he felt himself falling ... falling ... falling.