He stopped then, angry at her for interfering. He shape-shifted right in front of her. First he was a man, and then he was a demon with horns, the classic image of the Devil: bloodred, his tongue as forked as his long thrashing tail…
Then he was a man again, the stereotypical swami in his turban and long cape flowing as if in the breeze, though the air around her was still, so still.
“You see me,” he said. “You can see me.”
She didn’t know if the words were an invitation or a realization.
“Look,” he commanded, pointing.
And there, in front of her, was the tomb.
The tomb that bore her name.
Dread filled her, but she dragged her eyes away from it to face him again. “You are in my mind. You are only in my mind. You are not real. None of this is real.”
He laughed, a high-pitched sound that assaulted her like a weapon.
“You’re wrong. I am real. And I am here.”
The cemetery disappeared in a sudden fog, and then she was no longer there at all. She was in a field.
Rows and rows of cornstalks stretched out before her.
And there were scarecrows. She knew she had to reach the one closest to her, had to see it, and yet it was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Go to it,” he whispered in her ear.
Because he, too, was there, in all his dark evil.
But she couldn’t go, couldn’t look. Because she knew that if she went, if she lifted her eyes to see, she would see herself. She would see that she had been staked out in the cornfield, a sacrifice to his ego and insanity.
“The queen of scarecrows, the queen of blood,” he mocked.
“No!”
She had to fight it. She had to fight him. He was real, and yet he was not. To best him, she had to fight him in her mind as well as in the real world.
“No!” she said again.
His laughter deepened, and against her will, she found herself moving closer and closer to the scarecrow, knowing that in moments she would see…
Herself.
Blinded by the pecking crows.
Dripping blood…
Feeding the harvest gods.
15
“Rowenna!”
At first Jeremy had been disturbed but not alarmed. She had nightmares that tormented her? He understood. He had his own.
When she was just tossing and turning, he didn’t wake her up.
But then her breathing grew shallow. Beneath their delicate lids and long black lashes, her eyes were rolling and in a frenzy.
“Rowenna?” He shook her gently, but when she didn’t respond and he drew her into his arms, she was like a rag doll.
“Rowenna?” He laid her back down, straddled her and shook her shoulders firmly.
She gasped, her eyes flying open, and stared at him in raw panic.
“Rowenna, it’s me. You were having a nightmare.”
She blinked, nodded, then closed her eyes for a long moment. Her rapid breathing began to subside.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
She tried to smile, but it was a weak effort at best. “I’m fine. That was one hell of a nightmare.”
“What was it about?” he asked, lying down by her side again and taking her into his arms.
She was silent for a moment, and he was certain she was carefully crafting her answer.
“All this,” she said softly.
“‘All this’ meaning…? The body in the cornfield? Mary’s disappearance?” he asked.
She nodded.
He held her closer.
“You know, you have some terrible dreams, too,” she told him.
He shifted slightly. “Yeah, I know. We all have nightmares. Every kid’s afraid of the monster in the closet at one time or another.”
“Your dreams aren’t about a monster in a closet, though, are they?” she asked him.
“I’ve seen a lot of bad things,” he said, shrugging.
She drew away from him, propped herself up on an elbow and stared at him. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she teased.
He smiled, and realized that exploring the scary realms within their souls was, for the two of them, more intimate than lying together, sweaty and naked, in bed.
“You haven’t really told me yours,” he reminded her.
“You just told me—”
“What every woman in the area is probably having nightmares about right now,” he said flatly.
“I beg to differ,” she told him solemnly. “Every woman in the area did not find that corpse staked out like a scarecrow in the cornfield.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you’re not telling me everything. You were having nightmares before you found that body, weren’t you?”
She inhaled, her eyes on his, honest and wide in the shadows of the night. “I dream of the cornfields, the way I used to see them when I was young. I dream of them stretching forever. I see the scarecrows Eric Rolfe used to make—they were terrifying, and so real. I promise you, one day he’s going to win the Oscar for special effects—”
“If he’s not doing life,” Jeremy interrupted her, his tone deadly serious.
She gave him a scathing glance.
“Sorry. Please, go on,” he urged her.