Odd Thomas Series Books 1-5. Dean Koontz

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       CHAPTER 26

      TWO SINISTER SHAPES STOOD AT EACH bed, visitors from one hell or another, travelers out of the black room.

      They hunched over the girls and appeared to be studying them with keen interest. Their hands, if they had hands, floated a few inches above the sheets, and seemed slowly to trace the shrouded contours of the children’s bodies.

      I couldn’t know for sure what they were doing, but I imagined that they were drawn to the very life energy of Nicolina and Levanna —and were somehow basking in it.

      These creatures seemed to be unaware that we had entered the room. They were enthralled if not half hypnotized by some radiance that the girls emitted, a radiance invisible to me but evidently dazzling to them.

      The fifth beast crawled the bedroom floor, its movements as fluid and serpentine as those of any reptile. Under Levanna’s bed it slithered, seemed to coil there, but a moment later emerged with a salamandrian wriggle, only to glide under Nicolina’s bed and whip itself silently back and forth, like a thrashing snake in slomo.

      Unable to repress a shudder, I sensed that this fifth intruder must be savoring some exquisite spoor, some ethereal residue left by the passage of the little girls’ feet. And I imagined—or hope I did —that I saw this squirming bodach repeatedly lick the carpet with a cold thin tongue.

      When I would not venture far past the doorway, Viola whispered, “It’s all right. They’re deep sleepers, both of them.”

      “They’re beautiful,” Stormy said.

      Viola brightened with pride. “They’re such good girls.” Seeing in my face a faint reflection of the abhorrence that gripped my mind, she said, “What’s wrong?”

      Glancing at me as I summoned an unconvincing smile, Stormy at once suspected the truth. She squinted into the shadowy corners of the room—left, right, and toward the ceiling—hoping to catch at least a fleeting glimpse of whatever supernatural presence revealed itself to me.

      At the beds, the four hunched bodachs might have been priests of a diabolic religion, Aztecs at the altar of human sacrifice, as their hands moved sinuously and ceaselessly in ritualistic pantomime over the sleeping girls.

      When I failed to answer Viola’s question at once, she thought that I’d seen something wrong with her daughters, and she took a step toward the bed.

      Gently I gripped her arm and held her back. “I’m sorry, Viola. Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to be sure the girls were safe. And with those bars on the windows, they are.”

      “They know how to work the emergency release,” she said.

      One of the entities at Nicolina’s bedside appeared to rise out of its swoon and recognize our presence. Its hands slowed but did not entirely stop their eerie movements, and it raised its wolfish head to peer in our direction with disturbing, eyeless intensity.

      I was loath to leave the girls alone with those five phantoms, but I could do nothing to banish them.

      Besides, from everything that I have seen of bodachs, they can experience this world with some if not all of the usual five senses, but they don’t seem to have any effect on things here. I have never heard them make a sound, have never seen them move an object or, by their passage, disturb so much as the dust motes floating in the air.

      They are of less substance than an ectoplasmic wraith drifting above the table at a seance. They are dream creatures on the wrong side of sleep.

      The girls would not be harmed. Not here. Not yet.

      Or so I hoped.

      I suspected that these spirit travelers, having come to Pico Mundo for ringside seats at a festival of blood, were entertaining themselves on the eve of the main event. Perhaps they took pleasure in studying the victims before the shots were fired; they might be amused and excited to watch innocent people progress all unknowing toward imminent death.

      Pretending to be unaware of the nightmarish intruders, putting one finger to my lips as if suggesting to Viola and Stormy that we be careful not to wake the girls, I drew both women with me, out of the room. I pushed the door two-thirds shut, just as it had been when we’d arrived, leaving the bodachs to slither on the floor, to sniff and thrash, to weave their patterns of sinuous gesticulations with mysterious purpose.

      I worried that one or more of them would follow us to the living room, but we reached the front door without a supernatural escort.

      Speaking almost as quietly as in the girls’ bedroom, I said to Viola, “One thing I better clarify. When I tell you not to go to the movies tomorrow, I mean the girls shouldn’t go, either. Don’t send them out with a relative. Not to the movies, not anywhere.”

      Viola’s smooth satin brow became brown corduroy. “But my sweet babies ... they weren’t shot in the dream.”

      “No prophetic dream reveals everything that’s coming. Just fragments.”

      Instead of merely sharpening her anxiety, the implications of my statement hardened her features with anger. Good. She needed fear and anger to stay sharp, to make wise decisions in the day ahead.

      To stiffen her resolve, I said, “Even if you had seen your girls shot ... God forbid, dead ... you might’ve blocked it from your memory when you woke.”

      Stormy rested her hand on Viola’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t have wanted those images in your mind.”

      Tense with determination, Viola said, “We’ll stay home, have a little party, just ourselves.”