Prologue 
 

      The woman glanced blearily at the clock. Three am, and Studley obviously needed to go out. He was whimpering, deep in his throat, and his cold nose kept nudging her arm.

      Damn dog! She reached out and gave the rough coat a pat. Zombielike, she stumbled across the room, to the front door, and unfastened the lock. “Out!” she commanded, punctuating it with a squeaky yawn.

      When she opened her eyes again, He was there. The man was standing on the grass, just off the porch.

      It was a very small porch.

      She slammed the door and locked it, then raced through the house. In her mind she kept picturing Him running, trying to beat her to the back door. It’s locked...it’s gotta be locked.

      It was, but she didn’t feel any better. No one had any business standing there, on her property, at three in the morning.

      He was up to no good. She ran for the kitchen and picked up a knife in one hand and the phone in the other. The knife shook in her frozen fingers. Not a good thing. He’ll use it on me.

      He damn well better not try. Her shadowy reflection in the window glass was that of a madwoman, brandishing a blade. Her staccato movements glinted across the toaster face, and she jumped, slashing the air.

      Hysteria burbled up, like an unwanted belch...before sense clunked in with a nearly audible jolt. Window...nightlight...he’ll see me. Frantic, she dropped onto the floor, and punched in a fumbling “911”.

      If he saw me, I hope he saw the knife, too.

      She shouted into the phone, “There was—!”, realised she was shouting, and quickly hissed, “There was a man!”

      Why the hell hadn’t Studley barked?! The damned dog had practically dumped her in the killer’s lap!

      The Police Operator was offering instructions now, and the woman listened to them blankly. She’d just recalled something very pertinent to her case.

      “N-Never mind,” she said, replacing the receiver with shaking hands.

      A dream. It had to be a dream.

      But it wasn’t and she knew it. It was what she’d tell them, though, when they asked.

      She sat there, huddled, too scared to challenge the near-dark. Her eyes were already scrunched closed, but now she drew up her knees and buried her face in her arms.

      Shielded...safer.

      Not really...

      She couldn’t afford to move now, even if it meant lighting the house. She was too afraid of what she might see.

      She nestled her head deeper, to block her ears. Too afraid of what she might hear.

      She hummed a little whimper, deep in her throat the way Studley had. Just enough noise to challenge any other whimpers in the room.

      When they came with the squad car to check out her call, she’d have to get up—but not till then. Then, it’d be okay—maybe even safe.

      Why hadn’t Studley barked? That one was easy—now that she’d remembered.

      About Studley. He’d been dead...for almost a week.

*

      Chapter One 
 

      Some people spend their entire lives “on the edge.” I’m not alone.

      Hers was merely a variation on a theme. And I can put up with anything...

      That’s what people believed, anyway. Emma sighed. The reality was a lot different. Basically, she lived for those days when her life was as normal as anyone else’s...and tried, a little desperately sometimes, to appear undaunted by the rest.

      There’s always someone, who has it worse...

      At least, she had acceptance on her side. Maybe.

      There were moments when Emma doubted that almost more than she doubted herself. The friends, the acceptance, could all be faked, like the mask she wore marked “normal”.

      This was one of those times. After a near-sleepless night, she was finding it difficult to dredge up optimism. As she walked into the lab, and set up her work station, she made a conscious effort to shake off her depressing thoughts.

      Face it: your life’s good...

      ...save for a few cyclic “disturbances”. The last was such an obvious understatement that she gave an unwilling snort of amusement.

      “It” always happened in cycles, and Emma had never been able to figure out whether the trigger was some kind of lunar influence, a biorhythmic discrepancy, or perhaps, a weird metaphysical imbalance.

      Maybe the planets are lined up or my chakra is hyperactive or...

      Whatever the reason, it was damned annoying. One incident would never satisfy her system, either, and she sometimes wondered whether she was meting out tribute to the gods in the form of embarrassment and panic attacks. And those blasted deities didn’t seem to be satisfied with anything less than her total mortification.

      To think she’d moved to improve the situation! She let out another exasperated snort, then gave Dale, at the next lab bench, an apologetic smile.

      “Problems?” he asked, eyeing the paper in her hand. Then, correctly interpreting the expression on her face, he quickly lifted his feet off the floor. “Now?!” he asked, startled.

      Dale was one of her oldest friends. He’d been the most tolerant of her flatmates during her attempt at communal living in college. Now, he worked in the same research lab. Amazingly enough, he wasn’t put off by her problem. Most of the time, he seemed to find it amusing.

      That seemed to be most people’s reaction—until they had a close encounter. She couldn’t figure out why she still had so many friends.

      I’d’ve run the other way, she admitted. She sighed again.

      “I don’t hear anything,” Dale remarked. Usually an episode was punctuated by squeaks and rumbles, scratches and thumps.

      “Because it’s not that problem,” she whispered, with a quick glance at Nicola and Chang. “It’s the other one.”

      Dale smirked. “Do you really think they don’t know, about the ‘other’ one? Earth to brainless: there’s no need to whisper.”

      “I’d sure as hell rather be prepared,” Chang murmured, carefully pipetting into an Eppendorf tube.

      “Same here,” Nicola agreed. “I want to get my feet up off the ground.”

      “How can you all be so calm?!” Emma complained. “Don’t you know what I’m capable of?!”

      “Havoc.” Dale shrugged. “Think how boring it’d be without you. Besides, they had the place fumigated last month. Chances are we won’t see a thing.”

      “Sure.” Chang chuckled. “You just go on thinking that, Iverson. I, for one, am backing things up.” He reached over, clicked the “Save” icon on the laptop, and recorded his file on disk, just in case. Then, to prove his point, he put two tubes on ice, covered the test tube with cotton again, stripped off his gloves and crossed his arms. “Ready.”

      “You are sooo cold,” Nicola chided. “Think of the poor girl’s feelings.” But she saved her work, too.

      “Poor menace,” Dale retorted. “Think how I feel when they run over my feet.”

      “It’s not that problem,” Emma said again. “It’s the other one. I must have alienated my tenth policeman last night—”

      “Eighteenth,” Chang argued. At her outraged look he grinned mockingly. “I’ve been keeping track. It’s how I get my kicks. Beats the Internet.”

      “Nothing beats the Internet,” Dale argued.

      “Thus speaks the game addict.” He strolled over to Dale’s computer and maximised a file on the desktop. “Oh, lookie here...”

      Dale reached past him and “X”ed the corner. “Not during work hours. You know that.”

      “Sure, Dale,” Nicola said sweetly.

      Emma was getting frustrated. “Be that as it may, and add in the codicil that you are all insane, and it still doesn’t help. Last night it was a man, j-just off my porch.”

      “You thought he was real,” Nicola said sympathetically.

      “Duh. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have phoned the police. Only logical,” Chang remarked. “Coffee, anyone?”

      “I don’t think you understand the significance,” Emma argued. “The last fifteen times have been people!”

      Dale shrugged. “So? I fail to see the significance.” He sniggered. “I’m up for coffee.” He strolled from the room.

      Nicola came behind, with Emma. “Jack will be gunning for you now—since you called the cops?”

      “Oh, yeah,” Emma said miserably. “It was his precinct. No way he won’t know.”

      “I wish you luck,” Nicola told her. She put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “When he starts shouting, whatever you do, don’t get carried away.”

      Chang poked his head back into the room. “Alternatively, if you decide to go for it, call me, so I can come over and watch.”

*

      It could have gotten her fired, and it would have, if it hadn’t been for Dale, Chang, and Nicola. Whatever they told the bosses about seasonal migrations, or underground flooding, or environmental disturbances had covered her ass. Nor would they let her attend the meeting no matter how much she insisted. The other three felt she wouldn’t have played hapless victim well enough to fool anybody. There was too much guilt in her face.

      It had been six years since then, and she loved her job at Biopath. She’d even developed a reputation in her field, which would help her with future funding, as long as she didn’t blow it in the present.

      Dale was worried about tonight. When Emma was nervous, her control was a little shaky. Not exactly where he wanted to be, he had to admit, but he’d promised his wife he’d keep an eye on her. Marie, like almost everyone else Emma knew, was (if occasionally a trifle disgusted) for the most part, fascinated rather than appalled, by Emma’s ability. Marie’s initial intro had been a moment of shocked horror, and it had taken a while for her to come to terms with Emma’s “talent”, but she’d eventually overcome her aversion.

      You had to see it, though, to believe it. After hearing Dale’s stories, Marie would have done anything to avoid Emma—and then there she’d been, on the opening night of opera. A big group of them had shared a box, and Emma had unexpectedly “shared” her secret. When Dale had started laughing, during Pamina’s aria, Marie hadn’t been able to help herself: she’d joined in.

      That was six years ago, about the time of the incidents in the lab. Since then, with the help of a lot of biofeedback books checked out of the university library, Emma had gradually acquired more control.

      The recent bout of sightings were different, though. Sometimes Emma released some of her tension—whether it was metaphysical or not, Dale had no idea—with the occasional mediumistic stunt. She didn’t mean to, but it seemed to be a saner alternative than her usual, and Dale, for one, preferred it. But, he could imagine on a dark night, when you were half asleep...

      He’d have to talk to her about it, though. She’d conjured up the last guy in her sleep. Same with her dog.

      Must be missing Studley. He was a good mutt, and he’d put up with a lot. He’d been protection for her; warning her when things were getting out of hand.

      Dale sighed. Home for dinner, then off to Emma’s. He couldn’t help but wish tonight it could still be Studley standing guard, rather than him.

*

      Harley crawled in for a coffee at the end of his shift. Paperwork, and then home. He was half-asleep, which was probably why it took him a while to notice that Jock Jamieson was livid.

      So, what else was new? The man’s real name was Jack, but he insisted on Jock—said it reminded him of his football days.

      Jock was a jerk.

      And Harley Chalmers wasn’t ready for him this early in the morning—not after eight hours of night duty. It wasn’t his usual shift, and it never would be—not if he had to finish it with idiots like Jamieson. Harley liked days. He could handle Jock a lot more easily when he was awake. “Don’t look at me, Jock. I’m still coercing coffee into driving me home.” Harley took a loud slurp to end the conversation.

      It would have worked with anyone but Jamieson.

      Or maybe it wouldn’t have, Harley realised, when he finally tuned in to what Jamieson was saying.

      “But Nichols said it was you, who took the call.”

      Harley stared at him blankly. Do ya think he’ll figure out I haven’t been listening, and disappear?

      No. Not Jock.

      “My sister...” Jock prompted. “A prowler...?”

      “The nut case.” It was out before Harley realised, and for the first time, Jock looked a little peeved.

      “Fuck it, Chalmers! It’s not like her to call. There must’ve been a reason.”

      “There was—a nightmare.” I rest my case. Harley drained his cup. If he’d known the woman was Jock’s relation, he’d have made his visit more cursory than it was. Obviously, a history of insanity...

      He smiled kindly at Jock and turned to go.

      “It’s not her fault.” Jock gripped Harley’s shoulder.

      Big mistake. Harley was just glad Jamieson couldn’t see his face.

      Jock was fumbling for excuses now. “Rat’s just missing her dog.” He frowned. “She should have called me first.”

      Harley’s fist was itching to contact Jock’s jaw. His fingers were actually twitching. “‘Rat’?” he asked.

      Jock shifted nervously, and lost some of the attitude which had acquired him a shiftful of enemies. It was obvious he thought he’d given too much away. “Sh-Short for Rathburn...o-or Ratbag. Pet name.” At the last he sniggered.

      “Not a Jamieson, eh?” Lucky girl.

      “No. Stepsister.” Jock added, with a mocking grin, “Gives me more freedom, if you know what I mean.”

      Harley thought he did. Sick bastard. No wonder she didn’t call him.

      Harley’s fist was positively aching now, and he poured himself another cup of coffee, so his fingers would be kept too busy to react. The only way to get rid of Jock at this point was to give him some information. “I took the call, but she was really tense, so I checked out the house for her.”

      “Find anything?”

      “Nope.” Harley shook his head wearily. “Afterwards, she seemed convinced it was a nightmare.” End of story. Slurp. “Kept apologising.” One thing was bothering Harley, though, and he hated to bring it up. Prolonging the agony. “You said she’s missing her dog?” Slurp. “How many does she have?”

      “None, now. ‘Studley’ was her one and only.” Jock sniggered again. “Dog hated me. Glad to see him go.”

      Harley nodded. He didn’t dare open his mouth to comment. His dog Choco would no doubt hate this guy, too. Harley waited until the impulse to pummel the man had passed, then said mildly, “Could have sworn I heard a dog—when I was going through the house.”

      Jock’s eyes flickered with some emotion Harley didn’t recognise. He averted his face, and said tensely, “I’ll stop by and see her later. Make sure everything’s okay.”

      Jock Jamieson had turned into The Mechanical Man. Interesting...

      “Thanks f-for taking care of it.”

      “It”, not “her”. Even more interesting.

      Harley found he recognised the emotion in Jock’s eyes after all. It was echoed in the thin line of his lips.

      Hate. That little show about “Ratbag” was dated—it belonged to years, maybe decades, before. Whatever had transpired during the interim had changed his outlook—especially if it involved paying her a visit.

      Jock Jamieson hated his sister.

      He was also afraid of her.

      “I’ll tell her to lay off the phoney calls.” Jock flicked his crunched coffee cup in the trash and stomped out of the room.

*

      Harley didn’t know why he was interested, but it damn well made him feel like a fool. Any long association with people like Jamieson did that to him. “Long”, in Jamieson’s case, was anything over five minutes. Jock Jamieson’s unique attribute was his singular ability to inflict rectal pain, wherever he went.

      Harley justified what came next by telling himself just how much it would please him to find a skeleton or two in Jocko’s closet.

      You’re taking advantage of his mental deficiencies...

      Harley searched his conscience for traces of guilt, but couldn’t find any. Jock took advantage of their relatively sane minds with his sadistic sense of humour every day. He was a perverted type, with too much interest in the unsavoury, an overblown sense of his own authority, and he frequently used far too much “constraint” during an arrest. Nobody wanted to work with him. They all knew how easy it was to be drawn into a confrontation initiated by someone else.

      The hell with principles. Harley ran a check to see how many calls had been made to the woman’s address.

      Only the one.

      He was about to take off when he decided to cross-reference the file, running the name “Emma Rathburn” instead. The results were rather different.

      She’d called in eighteen reports from nearly as many locations. None of them had resulted in any suspicious activity whatsoever, let alone an arrest. It seemed that the only suspicious activity was Emma Rathburn’s. The most positive report filed by investigating officers referred to the results as “inconclusive”. “Non-existent” would probably have fit just as well.

      He recalled Jock’s words: “It’s not like her to call.” Apparently, Jock didn’t know her as well as he thought. Obviously, she didn’t make a habit of phoning him to bail her out of trouble.

      Harley wished he could dismiss the woman as easily as her stepbrother’s prattle. But there’d been fear in her eyes—enough to make him search the house. It occurred to him Jock might be the source of her troubles. That would explain the fear in Jock’s eyes: he didn’t want to get caught.

      Don’t get involved...

      But then there was Jock’s warning—the one he planned to deliver later today. Harley wondered what form it would take. The girl was tiny, compared to Jock’s big frame. Mental and physical torment would be in keeping with the rest of his personality traits. Abuse was the kind of thing he enjoyed.

      Don’t jump to conclusions.

      The numerous incidents could have been initiated by some old boyfriend, now playing stalker. The lack of physical evidence suggested mental assault, rather than physical.

      Or it could all be a farce. Maybe the reason Jock hates her is because she’s crazy—too crazy even for him to put up with. This could all be some delusion.

      He recalled her expression.

      A delusion she believes.

      Whatever her gene pool, she arose out of the same environment. Jock’s sister, for crissake! Chances were, she was as self-centred as he was. If this was some sort of game she was playing, for attention, he wasn’t the only officer who’d been misled. If, like him, they got involved enough to run her name and background, they would have wondered, just as he was, whether they were being played for fools.

      Contrary to everything he was reading, though, Harley didn’t think she was playing games. Her delusions were too real for that. Whatever was eating at her, she really believed it. As Jock had said, “There must’ve been a reason.”

      Maybe the same reason I heard dog whines and scratches in a house with no dog.

      Cursing himself for stupidity, and more for listening to Jock, Harley clicked the files closed, logged out, and left the building. Sleep was what he needed now, before he ended up as crazy as Emma Rathburn.

*

      Emma dreaded Jack’s arrival.

      But that goes without saying, she thought dismally. After all, I ruined his life. He wouldn’t be such a jerk if it weren’t for me.

      No doubt about it, he wouldn’t spend so much of his life over-compensating if he hadn’t been stuck covering for her all those years.

      And being a dick became a habit with him. If he were tough enough, and manly enough, he’d be untouchable. Nothing could sour his life—not even Emma Rathburn.

      He was the one who’d christened her “Rat”, but it hadn’t been out of goodwill. He’d hated her then because she had, in essence, cost him his family. When Emma’s mom had met his dad it had been mere months after his own mom had left. Jack had taken to his second mother wholeheartedly, and Emma had been the younger sister he’d never wanted, but learned to love.

      Later he’d say that Emma had been such a little thing, and so cute, that he’d had no idea Satan lurked inside her.

      That was when he’d been going through his religious phase—when he’d thought he could evict her inner demons with staunch prayers and holy water.

      What bothered Jack most was how much he’d let himself love her and her mom. He’d accepted them, without reservation, because he was needy. He missed his own mom, and hers had greeted him with open arms.

      The trouble had begun when Emma turned nine. Jack was thirteen, and full of rebellion. She’d kicked his rebellion right in the butt. Rather than despising his family in a normal progression toward separation, poor Jack had been forced into the role of protector. He was always scared—for his dad, for his mom, for himself, and even a little for Emma. At the same time he’d be screeching and yelling, he’d be afraid to leave the house, for fear that They would come. The spectre of all that docility turning into a feeding frenzy horrified him, and filled his nightmares for years. He’d reacted the only way he knew how; the only way he could cope.

      Under the pressure of Emma’s freak show, and Jack’s explosive temper, their family unit had crumbled, and their parents had split. The pressure wasn’t off Jack, though. His stepmother and Emma still lived in the same school district. Emma’s arrival at his high school had set the pattern for Jack’s future existence.

      Protection. Aversion. Calculation. Cover. Jack had been tough, staunch, and—at times—downright mean. Like most bullies, he had a following, and he remembered high school as the best years of his life. He’d covered for Emma, even though their parents were no longer together, but he’d gotten back at her by nicknaming her “The Rat”, and then, “Rat”. It had stuck with her. Even Dale called her “Rat” sometimes—a leftover from college days, when Jack had paid her the occasional visit. Anyone who’d ever experienced Emma’s particular brand of mania could see how appropriate the name was.

      No wonder it had stuck.

      Emma really felt—most days—her life was getting under control. Running smoothly, with few unexpected surprises and fewer unwanted visitors. Her friends were really her friends, and they’d stuck with her, through deluge and onslaught. She no longer worried about the nature of her efforts, either. She’d discovered it didn’t matter what mood she was in—things might not always be peaceful, but they never turned out to be the ravenous feeding fests she’d once feared. She’d managed to leave those concerns behind her. The only people who feared that now were newcomers to her life. The others treated her occasional lapse the way Dale, Chang, and Nicola did—amusing, sometimes dismaying, but not really threatening. In fact, she guessed the uncertainty of her existence was what kept them—and others—coming round for more. “You never know what Emma’s gonna do next,” she’d once overheard. To which had come the laughing response, “I can give you a pretty good idea.” Words like that, followed by friendly laughter, did a lot for a self-esteem which had frequently been near rock-bottom.

      Yes, things were pretty good these days, except for her occasional very odd visitor. Emma still didn’t know what to do about it—him—them, but given her past experiences with odd phenomena, she was...almost...confident she could figure it out. For the moment, though, physical encounters were about to become much more problematic than metaphysical ones. Her dear ex-brother Jack was, even now, striding up her front walk.

*

      If he’d been there once, he could almost always find his way back again. Harley was good that way. Patterns were his thing. Whether it was the gridlike interface of a map, the layout of city streets, or the reconstruction of a car wreck from words and evidence, he excelled. Lately, he’d had a feeling they were grooming him for more. His conclusions had been considered a “vital contribution” to a murder investigation—i.e., he’d solved it for them—and he was pretty certain they were lining him up for detective. He had the schooling, he had the brains, and he now had the experience. The last thing he needed was to have his name associated in any way with Jock Jamieson’s. It’d be certain death to his career.

      I might just as well murder myself...

      Then why am I doing this? Harley blamed it on the change of schedule, residual fatigue from the night before, curiosity, and lastly—and perhaps most honestly—stupidity. He’d always had a secret fascination with the paranormal, too, and he couldn’t forget the dog’s bark from the night before. It’d had a hollowness to it, as though the bark itself had a residual, echoing quality. Yet, the sound had been loud, and it had responded to his movements around the house.

      Almost as if it were trying to thwart my entry. What had freaked him out even more, though, were those tip-tapping dog claws. When the barking failed to bar his passage, those damned claws would follow him around a room, and he could have sworn once or twice, a canine nose had sniffed at his legs and privates. It was the kind of behaviour he would have berated Choco for, and it wasn’t until he’d growled, almost under his breath, “Cut it out!” that the invisible mutt in Emma Rathburn’s house had backed off, and left him to it.

      Then why am I going back for more?

      Because it was the most interesting callout he’d experienced in the past eight years. He could admit it now: he would have come back today anyway, on some lame pretext, whether Jock was involved or not. Jock was actually the biggest obstacle, because it was his sister, and—either way—he’d know that Harley had been there. It might even make Jocko think Harley wanted to know him.

      Biiiig mistake...

      Harley was still thinking it when he came around the corner, just in time to see Emma pull into her driveway.

*

      Harley sat in his car and watched her for a full ten minutes.

      What am I—some kind of stalker?

      No, you dumbass, you’re a wannabe detective, who’s about to blow away all his opportunities nosing around in what’s none of his business.

      It actually took less than five minutes to figure out what was bothering her: Emma Rathburn was deliberately procrastinating. She was wandering, a little aimlessly, to the mailbox and back; watering the flowers by the walk; straightening the hanging basket on the porch. Every once in a while she’d stare at one of the windows, as though expecting the curtains to twitch. Then, she’d hurriedly go back to fussing with something else. Harley fully expected her to wash the car or mow the grass next—anything rather than enter her front door.

      Finally, she took a deep breath, and if Harley hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn she held it for the full time it took her to dig the key out of her pocket, and open the door. Harley actually had his hand on the car door handle, when Jock Jamieson’s car came tearing around the corner. When Jock stepped out of his car, Harley took the coward’s way out, and did the only thing he could think of: he ducked.

*

      Jack was going to be difficult. Emma could see it now, and she blamed herself for the signs of stress on his face. Her “Hi, Jack!” was cheerful, but sounded false, even to her own ears. Her added, “I wouldn’t have called unless I really thought I had a problem,” didn’t make things any better.

      Jack, wearing his thunder brow, stormed in, slammed the door, then thumped through to the living room. He plunked down on her couch. “What’s the story now, Rat?” he shouted.

      Emma flinched. “Just a mistake. I thought he—”

      Jack didn’t give her a chance to finish. “It’s always a mistake! You’re a mistake!” he continued, his voice rising. “A genetic accident, that never should have happened!” He couldn’t sit still after all. Jumping to his feet, he pounded across the floor, his mouth working, but no words coming out.

      “I’ve been working on biofeedback—” she began.

      His eyes widened. “‘Biofeedback’?” He knocked over her designer-copy lamp, and booted her table. “Maybe a little destructive feedback’s what you need—!” His face tight with fury, he slammed her bookshelves sideways, sending them spilling across the wood floor. “How ’bout some noise?! Will that help?” He stalked into the kitchen, and Emma grimaced as she heard her dishes go flying. He came back into the room with a knife, and cheerfully shredded her just-paid-for lounge suite. “That help?! Enough ‘feedback’?!”

      His initial fury exhausted, Jack dropped down on the shredded chair and flung the knife across the room. It embedded with a twang in the far wall. “I need you out of my life,” he told her. “Every time I feel I’m getting somewhere, it blows up, right in my face.”

      “Sorry, Jack,” she murmured. It was her fault. What had she cost him this time? A promotion? Maybe, even, his job? It didn’t seem fair that hers seemed relatively secure, while he—one of my victims, she thought dismally—always caught hell for her mistakes. “I’m so sorry—”

      The words weren’t even out when she heard it—them. It began with a squeak, and was followed by a low rumble. “Oh, God!” she murmured.

      “Aw, hell!” The last thing Jack wanted was to be caught here during one of her episodes. Shit, it was bad enough he’d admitted to Chalmers that he knew her. Biggest, fuckin’ mistake I’ve made yet. “I hate you!” Jack snarled. He twisted her way, and she knew he wanted to hurt her then—to get back at her for this...for everything. His grasp on her arm dented the muscle, ragged fingernails ripping flesh.

      Crush her, the way she’s crushed me... She could read it...him. His fury shimmered the air between them.

      He won’t...! He was always angry—had always been angry. Most of the time she took it as her due—the blame so much hers that it wasn’t worth discussing—but this? This was something else. Jack was so furious she could smell it. It emanated from him like some kind of molten wave. His teeth were bared, and the fingers gripping her arm were now tipped in red. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted, shaking her so hard her teeth rattled.

      It was the trigger. They’d been coming before, but now their numbers tripled. Like water seeping in through the cracks, they poured into the room—a solid stream of undulating brown bodies, rough tails, and whiskered snouts. On and on, in numbers like Emma’d never seen before. Under the doors, along the pipes, in through the cupboards, dropping from the ceiling, racing down the stairs, running along the doorjambs and windowsills, along the picture sill, across the drapes, through holes in the window screens...on and on and on...

*

      Harley didn’t know what prompted him to move. Maybe it was Jock’s bearing as he’d headed toward her house. He’d looked like a man who needed subduing. More than that: he looked ready to kill. Harley was halfway up her walkway when Jock’s “I’ll kill you!” rang out.

      Harley hit the porch at a run. His hand was on the front knob when a voice at his back shouted, “I’d find a tree if I were you—!”

      Harley never heard the rest. The words were lost in vibration. A thunderous rumble juddered the planks beneath his feet, and—convinced it was an earthquake—Harley latched onto the porch rail. He wobbled, lost his footing and fell to his knees.

      Then, he saw It—Them.

      My God! His eyes wild, his jaw gaping, he hesitated but an instant before leaping up on the railing and clinging to the struts above.

      Rats. Hundreds—no, thousands—of rats. They were pouring in from everywhere: under landscaped shrubs, from the vacant lot across the street, out of neighbouring basements, across roofs, up out of the stormdrains, from everywhere. He gasped in horror as they ran past him—over his feet, over each other, across the railing, then down onto the porch—before pouring in through a narrowing gap of doorway.

      I opened it! he thought in horror.

      In his eagerness to help, he’d turned that knob, and given the hordes entrance. True, they were pouring in through windowscreens, too, but by far the greatest numbers were skittering in through the front door.

      The numbers seemed endless, but they gradually tapered off till only a few latecomers were left. The lawn, which had been slightly on the long side, was now scalped in some places, and littered with rat droppings on the rest. The squeaks and thuds gradually quietened, but if there’d been screams from the people inside, they’d been drowned by the deluge.

      Either that, or they never had the chance to scream...

      Harley clung there, lost in the horror, and dreading what he had to do next. His feet wanted to lead him onto the grass and streak for home, while his mouth hung open in a silent scream for help.

      Duty first, God help me. He sniffed, gagged on the stink of rat urine, and pulled out his phone.

      “Wait!” It was the guy from before, and now Harley recalled his shouted words, “I’d find a tree if I were you—!”

      Harley froze, phone in hand. “You knew.”

      “Yeah,” the guy said calmly. “But don’t call. Emma doesn’t need that kind of notoriety.” As though reading the question in Harley’s eyes, he added helpfully, “It’s okay. I work with her.”

      At what? Harley remembered the job description in the file: “researcher”. “Rat research?” he asked.

      “Yeah,” the guy replied. He seemed to think it was hilarious. “We’re into rat mesmerisation. Brand new field.” He sniggered, noted that Harley was taking it wrong and had his finger back on the phone buttons. “Wait till you see. Please.”

      Harley knew he was a fool for complying, but he nodded curtly. He didn’t want to speak any more. Breathing all that rat stink made him feel like he had it in his mouth. He fought down the urge to gag again.

      If you get eaten, Chalmers, it’s your own fault.

      This has to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.

      No—that was coming here, in the first place...

      It wasn’t difficult to see where the rats had gone. They overflowed the living room and out into the hall. Piles of them, many of them upside down, all in peaceful repose. Their scrabbling, running feet and nasty squeaks had been universally replaced by soft snores, that sent a rumble of vibration through the air.

      Jock Jamieson sat there, as if made of stone. He was buried up to his chest. Only his eyes made a frantic acknowledgment of Harley’s presence. Harley could almost hear the “Oh, shit!” he didn’t dare vocalise, as Jock raised his eyes heavenwards, in what Harley could only presume was a prayer for deliverance.

      The girl was halfway buried, too. The highest pile radiated from her, and she sat there impatiently. Harley could read it in her face. But she didn’t dare move...

      Did she still think they were going to eat her—them? It was a very real possibility, in Harley’s mind. He lifted his phone, and Emma’s head shook, by just a fraction. No! Her eyes were frantic.

      She’s right. Might set them off...

      But, Emma’s eyes weren’t panicked—just frantic. She was using them now to convey some message, and it included the man at his side. Harley silently backed out of the room and looked inquiringly at Dale.

      “It always happens this way,” Dale whispered, into Harley’s ear. He eyed the rat pile. “Few more this time, though.”

      “‘Alw-’” Some of the slumberers shifted, and Harley lowered his voice. “‘Always’?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

      Dale nodded. “She was trying to tell you there’s nothing to worry about.” He actually looked as though he was trying not to laugh. Harley couldn’t believe it. “Most of the time,” Dale hissed, “she’s right.”

      Harley looked warily back into the living room. Emma Rathburn nodded almost imperceptibly and forced a smile.

      Harley turned back to Dale, incredulity in his eyes. His whispered “And when she’s wrong?” was barely out when the alarm on his phone burst into a loud sing-song wail. Time to wake up.

      “Shit!” Dale shouted, no longer worrying about keeping his voice down. For the first time, he looked scared. He shouted the answer to Harley’s question back over his shoulder, as he tore out the front door. “Y’ run like hell!”

*

Chapter Two 
 

      They hit him before he hit the bottom of the steps. The other guy made it back to his tree, but Harley never had a chance. He tripped over rats, landed on rat-cushioned brick, wriggled and fought to get up on all fours—while the weight of the onslaught crunched him down. His world was squeaks, squeals, groans, squawks; scraping, scratching, thudding, pummelling. Tiny toenails snagged his clothes, and rat panic tore at his hair as they fled. He was cheek against brick, arms flailing, fending them off, but that was their mission, anyway—over and off and away, furry body after furry body after furry body. Harley’s eyes were scrunched closed against a thousand tiny claws. His face was stinging; raw with scratches.

      They’ll eat me now!

      The blood... He buried his face in his arms, but he couldn’t hide it all. Better an ear than an eye. His toes were safe in shoes, but his jeans suddenly seemed such a flimsy fabric. His legs, his genitals. His back and spine. The horde came on.

      Like a pack of piranhas, he kept thinking.

      He gagged again, burrowing his face deeper under his arm.

      It-It’ll be o-over in seconds...

      It was. The weight of sheer numbers had been pinning him prone, and suddenly, it dwindled. Harley peeled himself off the brick with jerky, save-yourself desperation, and pulled out his gun. Fire off a shot, and they’ll all run... He got up on brick-beaten knees, unable to control his all-over shaking. Nothing to be ashamed of—just reaction, he thought bravely. Shock. He twisted, gun at the ready, searching out his intended victims.

      They were gone. He’d expected corpses to be littering the ground—half-eaten tributes to rat appetites, but there was nothing. No blood, no fur, nothing. Even the rats he’d pounded when he’d fallen had somehow vanished, down some hole in the Earth.

      He shuddered. Their tiny needlish claws were still ghosting his skin, doing their scratchy dance on his back. If they were to come back now, they’d come right for him—go straight for the raw meat. His whimper of terror surprised him, and he cleared his throat loudly to cover, then twisted madly—afraid that any sound of weakness would lead them to suspect they had a victim to claim.

      Nothing. His tension eased a notch...and then Dale tapped him on the shoulder.

      The gun should have fired, but instead, it flew. Harley shamed himself with a yelp; overreacting with a panicky roll that brought him back to his feet, and let him reclaim his weapon.

      His eyes flicked back and forth. It was only Tree Man.

      “N-Nev-v-ver t-touch a m-man with-th a l-loaded-d w-weap-pon-n.” The teeth chattering didn’t do much to enforce his message. Harley’s eyes shifted from the man’s face back to their flick-flick wary watch of their surroundings. Not a rat in sight.

      Yeah—but you know how fast they came on last time. They’re everywhere. Houses, fields, sewers.

      He held his gun at the ready.

      Yeah, they were real, Harley. Don’t doubt yourself... He tilted his head, and shook a rat pellet out of his ear. I must look like a madman, he realised.

      Hell, I am one. What he’d just experienced was insane. He crouched there, semi-stunned, as the shivery sensation slowly faded. It was the first time he could ever recall feeling this rattled.

      “Rat”-tled, he thought hysterically. How appropriate...

      Hysteria. In a minute, he’d be giggling like a schoolgirl.

      Tree Man hesitated for an instant, then placed a wary hand on Harley’s shoulder. “You okay?” he asked. There was an element of sympathy to his voice.

      In a moment of lucidity, Harley recognised a fellow sufferer. His eyes quit their panicky searching, and lifted to other man’s face. “I-Is it s-safe now?” he whispered hoarsely. His voice hardly shook at all.

      Dale nodded. “Happened to me in the lab,” he admitted. “Glass everywhere. It was a mess.” At the sudden heat in Harley’s expression, Dale said grimly, “You woke them up. Do you set your damned alarm on stake-outs, too?” So obvious he was a policeman, and a lot too eager with his damned gun. Another asshole like Jack. Jack Jamieson had tainted Dale’s opinion of all policemen.

      Nor did his words help. Dale had a feeling the man was ready to arrest Emma and haul her off to the Big House. His protested, “Most of the time they’re docile. They run in, sure, but then they sleep it off, and disappear.” Something flickered in Harley’s eyes at that one, and Dale hastily shook his head. “They go back where they came from. Nobody ever gets hurt.” He added, “I’ve known Emma ten years—more than half the time she’s had this...” His eyes lifted heavenwards as he sought the right phrase. “...attraction for animals.” For emphasis, Dale said reasonably, “Some of the saints had it, too, if I recall my St. Francis of Assisi correctly.”

      “All animals?” Harley asked.

      Dale cleared his throat. “Limited to a few species, but...” He held up his hands against the argument in Harley’s face. “...who’s to say the derivation of Francis’ gift?”

      “So, now she’s a saint,” Harley said flatly. He couldn’t help it—a glint of amusement appeared in his eyes. At least he no longer had any question about the source of her nickname. He had to fight against the sudden urge to laugh like a buffoon.

      Hysteria. Control it, Chalmers.

      In his efforts to counter his moment of weakness, it came out more brutally than he intended. “She’s a public nuisance,” he spat out. After that, he found himself, literally, spitting. The insides of his cheeks were raw from biting them, and he couldn’t get the rat taste out of his mouth. Not that he’d actually tasted rat, but the taint was everywhere.

      Hairs. Rat hairs, in your nose.

      He fought the embarrassing urge to gag again. He was stained, disgusting, and those damned little feet had left their marks on his skin. He gave an inadvertent shudder. “Just reaction,” he grunted.

      It was the other man’s turn to look amused, but Harley appreciated how he tried to hide it.

      “She’s more of a private nuisance,” Dale said. “It’s not her fault you took them by surprise.”

      “So, now it’s my fault?” Harley couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

      Dale appeared to consider it. “Well...yeah.”

      He was about to say more, when a woman’s voice interrupted him. “I agree with him,” she said staunchly, nodding towards Harley. “Lock me up and toss away the key.” She had a roll of toilet paper in her hand and began awkwardly brushing at Harley’s clothes, picking off the worst of the rat pellets. “I’m sooo sorry.”

      Dammit, if it didn’t sound like she meant it, but Harley tried not to let it sway him. “Saint and martyr,” he muttered. He was surprised by the flash of anger in her eyes. “‘You have the right to remain—”

      “It should have been done years ago.” Jock’s interruption was both harsh and unforgiving. “Those rats of hers are gonna kill somebody some day.”

      Dale turned on him. “You make ’em sound like pets! Emma can’t help it!”

      Emma shook her head. “I bet a psychopath can’t help it, either.” Dale opened his mouth to argue again, but she held up a hand. “They’re both mental conditions, Dale!”

      “States of mind,” he debated. “This’s a metaphysical phenomenon!”

      So much for his arrest. Harley appeared to be clinging to his temper by threads. “What about injuries?!” he barked.

      Emma’s eyes widened in alarm. “Did they hurt you?” she asked, anxiously. She looked him up and down. Other than some scrapes, where his nose and chin had contacted the pathway, and some claw scratches, he seemed okay. “Are you hurt?”

      “And property damage!” Jock stormed. “What about that?”

      “Bullshit!” Dale argued. “The only damage is right here, to this residence—and Emma’ll fix it, the way she always does.” He looked to Emma for concurrence, and she nodded.

      Fix it. “What about my neighbours?” Emma asked now, in near-despair. Jack’s friend had his gun stowed now, but one lady was out on her porch, and there were a number of twitchy curtains. Somebody must have seen them...

      It was the nightmare of her existence—never being able to live in peace.

      Move, move, move. Good thing I don’t have all my boxes unpacked, she thought dismally. She forced a smile and gave a wave to the neighbour across the street. The woman had brought over cookies on her first day there. “Damn!” she whispered.

      Harley saw the direction her eyes had taken, and the other woman’s glare. “Let’s take this inside,” he said firmly.

      “No way!” Jack argued. “What about my shirt—m-my jeans!” Jack looked to Harley for approval, which immediately set Harley’s back up. Somehow, Jack read his blank face as agreement. More confident now, he sneered, “What about them? Who’s gonna pay for them? If you don’t arrest her ass, Harley, I sure as hell will.”

      “Did she invite you over?” Dale asked him pointedly. “Or you?” He turned his narrowed eyes on Harley. “Did she threaten anybody? Arrange this scenario to—in any way—harm you?! Are you injured? Were—you—attacked?”

      No, Harley had to admit. The rats ran over him. I just happened to be standing in their way. Hit and run.

      You can’t arrest a rat. His lips twitched.

      Jock wasn’t through. He’d sensed some kind of victory in the air—maybe he wanted his sister locked up, in some kind of institution. Harley could almost feel pity for him then. Years of this. It must have been hell.

      “I’m a cop!” Jack roared. “So’s he—!”

      “Does he have a warrant?” Dale pushed.

      Jack looked at Harley, and Harley sighed. “No. ‘He’ doesn’t,” he admitted.

      “Well, there you are,” Dale said, looking pleased with himself.

      Jack’s grunt was almost a growl. He grabbed Dale’s wrist.

      Dale looked pointedly at Jack’s hand. “What’s this? An arrest, for ‘aiding and abetting’? Try to make that one stick.”

      Harley yanked Jack’s hand back.

      Dale glanced at his watch and sighed. “Now, if you’re finished with these accusations,” he said, dismissing them casually, “Emma and I have some lab work to discuss.” He put a hand on Emma’s back, and firmly propelled her in through the front door.

*

      “I am sooo damn good!” Dale was practically dancing. “Did you see the way I handled them? Did you?” He grinned. “I’ve always wanted to do that!”

      “You were a master,” Emma told him distractedly. She was already pulling out the vacuum.

      Dale shook his head in disbelief. “And I used to think my life was dull. I’ll tell you, Rat—around you, opportunity knocks.” He grinned again.

      “Yeah,” Emma said dryly. “Knocks, thuds, and squeaks.”

      “Only noise.” He made a big point of looking innocently around. “Do you see any rats? I don’t see any rats.”

      Emma snorted, pointing to the scratch marks on her table, and the rat pellets littering the floor. “Some people would call that evidence. Disinfectant time,” she sighed, “again.”

      “I think the good Lord knows how much you hate doing housework—”

      “So He’s cursed me?”

      Dale’s smile was overly sweet. “Hey, you said it—I didn’t.”

      “Shut up, Dale. Go home and brag to Marie.”

      “Damn right I will. She, at least, appreciates me.” He spotted the remains of her lounge suite, and asked, appalled, “Did the rats do that? Didn’t you just pay that off?”

      “I forgot to tell them,” she said sarcastically. Her smirk faded, and she sighed. “Jack did it. He was,” she put it mildly, “a little pissed off.”

      Dale twitched the curtain aside to peek out. Jack and Harley were still standing there, arguing. “So, there is still a rat on the premises. Maybe two of them.”

      “You can’t blame Jack for being mad,” she said. “If it were you—”

      “Don’t go there, Rathburn, or I’ll take you on a quick trip down Memory Lane.” He shifted anxiously. “Good! They’re leaving.” He grinned.

      Emma smirked. “Bested ‘The Man’, huh?”

      “Damn straight,” he retorted. “Can’t wait to tell Marie...”

      “If your story needs backing-up, just have her call me.”

      Dale checked at that. He looked slightly insulted. “Think she won’t believe me?”

      “I think she knows how prone to exaggeration you are.”

      Dale thought about it, and his huffiness vanished. “Why are women so cynical?” he asked.

      “Not cynical—just not totally gullible, either.”

      Dale grinned. “I’ll have her call you.” 
 “And I’ll confirm your hero-hood.” She smiled, and told him sincerely, “You bailed me out, Dale. I don’t know if my freedom is deserved, but I appreciate it. You have my thanks.”

      Dale dismissed it with a wave of his hand and yanked open the door. A little belatedly, he mumbled, “Shouldn’t leave you with the mess.”

      He was already halfway to his car when he heard Emma’s, “It’s my mess...” She’d lost the formal tone, and he recalled the number of times she’d bailed him out of trouble. He might be a good talker, but he wasn’t the best scientist, and they both knew it.

      Oh, well, he thought. Next time. That was one thing with Emma: you could always figure there’d be a next time for catastrophe.

      “...and you know how I love to clean!” A blatant hint, if ever he’d heard one.

      “Great!” he said, no longer listening. Wait’ll Marie heard about the way he’d handled things! As she called it, “The latest in The Emma Chronicles.” Women might not be gullible, but they were suckers for heroes. His eyes lit up. He was gone almost as soon as the policeman’s car had pulled away from the curb.

*

      The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk sense into Jock Jamieson’s head, but he had a nasty suspicion Jamieson planned to get even with his stepsister. He’d probably never seriously considered arresting her before, but now that someone else had suggested it, all those dammed-up family loyalties were off. His, “If you don’t arrest her ass, Harley, I sure as hell will”, had sounded a little too determined to be dissuaded by logic.

      And it had been far too easy to make him leave her house.

      No, this afternoon’s events weren’t finished—not by Jock Jamieson’s standards. Harley just wasn’t sure which way his temper was heading. An arrest was likely to draw Jock under scrutiny, too—something he wouldn’t want.

      There was always the remedy Jock had been about to deal out when the rats had turned up. Harley would have thought he’d be too scared of rousing the masses again to hit her, but maybe Jock knew something Harley didn’t—like she could only muster rats at certain times of day, or one assault used her up for a while.

      It was certain she wouldn’t want word leaking out, either—not if she’d managed to keep her problems a secret this long. Her dismay over the neighbour’s reaction hadn’t been feigned. Emma Rathburn really did want to maintain a low profile.

      Harley wondered whether her co-worker was more than an associate. If so, Jock would have a difficult time getting to Emma. Her “friend” might not be as dirty a fighter as Jock, but he had brains.

      He wasn’t there last night when I searched her place.

      Harley couldn’t recall any signs of male habitation, and he tried to remember exactly what the man had said. He’d been so familiar with the rat problem that Harley had assumed he and Emma had a closer-than-co-worker relationship, but now Harley had a feeling he was wrong. The guy had claimed he’d known her ten years, yet he hadn’t done anything to counter whatever demons were stalking her during the last five. Otherwise, why would she have phoned for help seventeen, eighteen times?

      Could it be she was just being spooked by her rats? Had she phoned because they were making more noise than usual, and she’d thought it was something else?

      Stupid, Chalmers. He’d seen her buried up to her neck in rats, and she hadn’t been afraid.

      But she was last night. Therefore, it wasn’t rats.

      Jock, trying to scare her away? Getting her to move again in hopes this time, she’d leave the area?

      If that was it, he’d be back there tonight—Harley would have bet money on it. He still didn’t have much use for Jock Jamieson, but he had a lot more understanding. It said something for the man that he hadn’t turned her in before now.

      Jock’s attitude at this point would depend on how much he’d been threatened by her activities. Harley knew his own presence at the scene was definitely a contributing factor. If Jock believed his career was damaged, or that he was about to become the precinct joke, he’d want to take it out on somebody. He had too much of the bully in him. It might be the result of a lifetime of provocation, but he wasn’t good at playing victim. Maybe he thought he’d already borne more than his share.

      No matter what, Harley knew he needed to talk to Jock, before the man did something stupid.

      Like asking tidal backwash to stay on the beach, or the sun not to rise...

      He flashed his lights at Jock’s car, and pulled over. Then, he waited, lead in the pit of his stomach. Time to have it out with one of his least favourite people.

*

      Twenty minutes later Harley’s mouth was dry from talking. “The only way anyone’s gonna know you’re related is if you make the association. Different last names, Jock.” Harley gripped the other man’s arm. “You don’t have to know her.”

      A flicker of something like relief shone in Jock’s eyes.

      He wasn’t the only one feeling relieved. Harley could only admire the thickness of the man’s skull. Harley concluded it wasn’t concern for a sibling which had prevailed over the years as much as gross insensitivity to anything but Jock’s own interests. Everything he said was relative to the degree of persecution Emma had inflicted on him, and he’d revealed far more than he’d probably intended about how much persecution he’d inflicted back. Then the dickwit had grinned, and expected Harley to appreciate the “subtlety” of his retribution.

      Jock had gone on at length regarding the ways he’d “covered” for her, and more on how much today’s episode was just one more example of how little control she actually had. “She should be locked up,” he insisted, sure he was speaking with a sympathetic fellow-sufferer. “Did I tell you the latest? Biofeedback,” he spat out, shaking his head in disbelief. “I practiced ‘biofeedback’ on her often enough,” he said scornfully, “and it’s never done a damn thing. She still drives me crazy, every chance she gets.” He unconsciously ground one fist into the other. It was a real “Jock” gesture, and he had no idea how revealing it was. Now, he grumbled, “If it’s negative feedback she wants, I can supply it.” He’d actually smiled at the thought, his fist grinding his palm all the harder.

      “Bet she’s not too happy about her situation, either.” As soon as he’d said it, Harley knew he’d made a mistake. Jock was the victim here...only Jock. Harley shrugged it off with a “Who wouldn’t be?”.

      That unleashed another flood, which Harley finally stopped with a “How long’s she been at it?”. It held just the right amount of ambiguity. Jock interpreted it as “How long have you been tortured?”.

      Harley came away feeling coated in more than rat shit, but endowed with a sense of purpose. He understood now why Emma’s co-worker had stood up for her—somebody had to. As much as Jock may have suffered from Emma’s episodes, it could be nothing to the amount Emma had. Jock hadn’t been the only one who’d lost a family—plus, Emma’d had to live with the guilt. Guilt for her mother’s failed relationship, and her stepfather’s disillusionment, and mainly, according to Jock, for the damage to her brother. No matter how much Jock claimed he’d protected her over the years, it wasn’t worth the persecution he’d subjected her to.

      Besides, after his own experiences with Emma’s personal brand of mayhem, it seemed to Harley that Emma Rathburn didn’t need the kind of help Jock was offering. She was quite capable of protecting herself. Jock might like to think she was still dependent on him, but it was more imagined than real. Harley had to press it home maybe five times to get his point past Jock’s anger. The man had held onto his grudges so long he didn’t know how to function without them. A power trip for Jock—a persecution trip for her?

      “You don’t have to know her...ever again,” Harley pressed.

      Jock was still deliberating. His social status was based on coercing people to recognise him. Harley could almost read his mind. He was weighing whether deliverance from his sister’s problems could balance against the social standing she gave him. Apparently, according to Jock, Emma had quite a rep as the scientist. Not exactly his usual social circles, but he’d acted as her escort at times.

      And Emma was the one person in the world who would forgive him anything. He’d lived on her guilt for so long—excusing it as “she’s family”—that he wasn’t sure how to eliminate her influence. Her rats gave him an excuse; a reason to be less than he was supposed to be. Could he manage without them...without her?

      No one to beat up. No one to ridicule. No one to give him a reason to hate his life. Lots of reasons he shouldn’t let her go. “She’s not so bad. And hell, she’s my sister—” he began.

      Harley cut him off with a sharp, “No, she’s not. You told me your parents broke up when Emma turned ten. Eight years together. That labworker friend of hers has known her longer than that.”

      “She went to my school—”

      Harley shrugged. “So, you knew her. I knew lots of kids who went to my school—hated a bunch, too. Did you two hang out or something?”

      Jock looked horrified. “Sure, Harley.” He snorted in derision.

      “The point is, she’s not a relative—she’s not even a friend. Neither one of us called in a report, and neither one of us has to know her.”

      “What were you doing there, anyway?” Jock asked suspiciously. It had only now occurred to him to ask why Harley was there.

      Just passing by...

      Not even Jock would buy that crock, so Harley decided on partial honesty. It might be enough to dissuade Jock from further action. He knew better than to suggest a paranormal element. Jerks like Jamieson thrived on anything they perceived as a weakness. Harley refused to offer him any ammunition. “She seemed really scared last night, and I wondered if there was something more to her report...like a stalker.” He watched Jock closely. No reaction. Harley continued, “So I decided to sit there; watch for a while. Just curious.”

      The latter sounded bad, Harley realised. After all, Emma was the man’s sister. He’d made himself sound like some kind of voyeur. Secretly watching...

      Jock nodded eagerly, though, as if he’d indulged in something similar himself. It made Harley feel sick.

      Harley frowned. “Then, I saw you head in and you looked damn mad,” he said grimly. “I heard your threats.”

      Jock tensed. “I wouldn’t have done anything—”

      “I know, Jock,” Harley lied. “But I needed to follow it through, if you know what I mean.”

      It took a few seconds, but Jock figured it out. Harley knew, because he gulped, and his voice squeaked a little as he said, “Yeah, Harley. I think I do.”

*

      Jock had taken off pretty quickly after that. “I wouldn’t worry about the stalker,” he’d argued. “Probably more rat noises. It comes in waves, y’know.”

      “No, I didn’t,” Harley had said mildly.

      “Yeah.” Jock sighed and nodded. “Happens two, three times over a week, then that’s it for a while.”

      “Good to know,” Harley said.

      “Yeah,” Jock grunted, then burst out laughing. “Good to know, even if she’s not!” He was still laughing as he climbed back into his car.

*

      Two hours later, Emma was on the phone to Marie. She listened, then laughed. “Yeah, I’m embellishing a little. It was a near thing, though. I was almost behind bars.”

      “Dale would have loved that,” Marie admitted, a smile in her voice, “‘being behind bars’, I mean. I sometimes think it’s his goal in life, to be dissociated from society.”

      Emma heard Dale’s voice in the background. “As long as I’m not dissociated from you...”

      Marie giggled, and her next words were garbled. “The martyr complex—” She laughed again. “Look, E-Emma—I’ve gotta go...” Her laughter made a hissing sound in the receiver.

      Emma found herself smiling in sync. “Have fun!” She hung up the phone, and looked dismally around her living room.

      It was picked up, disinfected, and she hated it. The part she hated most was her suspicion that she was responsible for the new “aura” in the room. Not a smell, and not the damage by knife or claws. She’d taped and patched those parts of her life back together, by working like a fiend. Cleaning up after her “visitors” was always a horrible prospect, but she had it down now.

      Tools of my trade...

      Hose outside, then a sprinkler and grass seed. Water in as much as possible. She frequently wished she could take the hose to the inside, but a shop vac worked its industrial action on the mess. The only signs of a problem now lay in her trash bin outside, a close inspection of her grass, and a new, damp, antiseptic shabbiness to her furnishings.

      It could have been worse...

      It could have been the kitchen, or my bedroom. Visits like that would haunt her dreams.

      Why can’t I get used to this? She downplayed it, sure, but Dale and Chang and Nicky were better at casual acceptance of her episodes than she was.

      Would someone get used to a cyclic series of car wrecks, even if they transpired only intermittently? Emma didn’t think so. Maybe the increase in paranormal activity was actually an improvement. Maybe, in another year or two, the rat incidents would cease altogether, to be replaced by visual phenomena.

      Then I can be batty Emma Rathburn, more of a neighbourhood weirdo than I already am. Medium to the middle class.

      Hey, at least people don’t have to know how weird you are, then.

      Nobody except the police. She considered his visit last night, and again today. That indicated a level of suspicion she knew she deserved.

      Maybe he’s just Jack’s friend. There were excuses for Jack, but none for the people who chose to befriend him. She could excuse or even deny Jack’s jerkiness, but not that of those who admired his traits enough to hang out with him. Emma knew it wasn’t fair, and subjectively, she was glad he had someone with similar interests to spend time with, but objectively, she also recognised, somewhere deep inside, Jack’s essential stupidity. His brutality was another issue she didn’t want to explore too deeply. Suffice it to say he no doubt resolved a lot of his angst with his police work.

      I wish he were out of my life.

      Words. I’m glad he can’t hear them. She was being unfamilial, nonsisterly, and cold as hell. Guilt and exasperation warred.

      Jack was a constant reminder of what she was and what she’d done. Past and present, with a nasty prognosis for her future. Just once, she thought in dismal contemplation, it would be nice to be an only child...

      She’d been able to put up with her mother’s grievances. Blame could be tolerated if it was referred to only on expired wedding anniversaries and Christmas. Emma couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live without guilt.

      Maybe that’s where she was headed. If the rat stuff stopped, and the ghost stuff took over, she might be able to help people.

      The thought gave her the creeps. Summoning the dead. She shivered.

      Maybe the ghosts would disappear, too, if she could learn to ignore them. What you refused to see doesn’t really exist. That maxim worked for scores of tightassed people every day.

      Emma scanned her living room. No movement, nothing dire. It was dark outside, and no matter how many lights she put on, the room wouldn’t get any brighter.

      No big deal. The dark stuff didn’t exist. She’d made up her mind.

      You can always call Chang. He’d come around, just for the novelty. Emma’s hand was halfway to the phone when she pulled back. If she brought him into this now, and he ended up as scared as she was, the novelty of it would be lost. Work was the only place where people met with her on a regular basis, and accepted her. It wasn’t worth jeopardising that for the odd goosebump or two.

      Besides, he was a friend—not a boyfriend. An engaged friend. How would Janice interpret a late-night visit to her house?

      She could come, too.

      Emma knew she’d been lucky with Marie and the rats. If Janice were to have a paranormal encounter with either ghosts or rats, it could severely damage Chang’s personal life—and their work relationship.

      Emma wished there was someone—anyone—she could call.

      Even Jack?

      She searched her brain.  No, God help her, not Jack...for any reason.

      There was a thunk outside, on the porch, and the lights flickered slightly. When they came back on they were dimmer than before. Emma curled into the big chair, pulling her feet up on the seat. She gave a frightened shiver.

      Not Jack—not even now.

*

Chapter Three 
 

      Harley had tonight off, then he’d be back on days tomorrow. He’d been filling in for Ricker, but it wasn’t something he planned on doing again.

      After he’d logged off the computer, it must have been social hour for half the people he knew. Actually, by the time he’d finished reports, research, and that little interlude with Jocko, it had been coffee break time for those with a liberal interpretation of “break”. They saw him almost every day, but that morning he’d worn the gloss of the night shifter. His workmates wanted to know how it’d been to “be a rookie again”.

      Joke for the day...

      Accommodating was the name of the game, though. If they were short-staffed, you filled in. What was that saying? “A supervisor not only had to know every job, but be willing to do it.” It was the way to earn respect.

      Also, a way to get ahead. Harley liked the people he worked with (for just a moment, Jock Jamieson strolled behind his eyes, and he grimaced)—most of the people he worked with—but he was a man who needed challenges. He was trying to move up the ranks, and it wasn’t only his own co-workers who mattered. It wouldn’t hurt to get to know the people on other shifts.

      One person he didn’t want to know better was Jock. He wondered whether the man would prove a problem. Maybe Jock would think they’d forged some secret bond or alliance; some conspiracy of secrecy. It was the last thing Harley wanted, and he planned on disabusing Jock of the notion if it had entered his feeble brain.

      To disabuse him meant he’d have to talk to the moron...again. It made Harley dread the morrow. Not only would there be a few lame comments from people who wanted to play out his night shift “lapse”, and didn’t have anything better to talk about, but he’d probably have to counter a few subtle and not-so-subtle queries regarding his new “friendship” with Jock.

      Hey, I have broad shoulders...

      His recollected his dad’s words with a smile: “Broad shoulders weren’t made for bearing loads of bullshit—they were made so you could turn your back on it, and avoid getting hit in the face.”

      Words of wisdom. If I’m so wise, why can’t I turn my back on Emma Rathburn?

      He was still wondering it half an hour later, when he pulled up in front of her house...again.

*

      She held off as long as she could, hoarding her sense of normalcy, and holding her imagination in check, but was finally coerced by the silence. It was thick and oppressive, her microcosm muffled, as though she’d been stricken deaf to the world outside.

      Doom. If doom had a sound, it would be this dense and bottomless void.

      Once triggered, her imagination rode her fear. Grim visions chased each other behind her eyes—their star, the man she’d seen lurking, just off her porch.

      Dead and buried. Weighted down and muffled by tonnes of earth. Stricken with eternal silence.

      Stop it!

      TV. She jumped up and, reluctant to put her feet on the ground, ran lopsidedly across the sofa and grabbed the remote off the side table. The TV came on with a loud blast that made her start, and almost made her topple off the couch. She headed back to the chair—the only island in the room. Not only was it blessed with a high back and big, cushy arms, but it backed up against a wall. She grabbed the decorative throw off its seat and wrapped up in it.

      I should go. Leave. Get out of here.

      She thought with longing of people and places with lights and buzzing conversation and endless action. The phone sat in her lap now but she knew she couldn’t use it. There was no one to call.

      Wait it out. Sooner or later, it’ll be over. By tomorrow, everything’ll be okay...

      The lights flickered again, the TV cutting in and out. The reception was going now, and static sizzling filled the screen. Ghost images moved in negative stances, and she couldn’t stand it. Emma averted her eyes and wondered how far she’d get.

      I’d have to make it to the car first. Through the lounge, the hall, the kitchen. Into the garage...

      But then there’d be the car windows. All those places for someone to lurk, just beyond the glass. At every intersection...every stop sign.

      Hiding in her rearview mirror...

      Because it wasn’t this house, this place. It’s me.

      Emma was hit by inspiration. With shaking fingers, she punched in a number she’d seen on a billboard. It would cost her, but it might break the cycle. Then, she scrunched her eyes closed, and settled down to wait.

*

      He was halfway into hating himself, and feeling way too much like Jock Jamieson for comfort. Did he really believe she was guilty of illegal activity? Could he justify his presence, if some neighbour reported him?

      They’re not going to, Harley. If they didn’t acknowledge the rats, why the hell would they acknowledge you? More than likely, it was yet another instance of induced oblivion. If it didn’t directly impact them, it didn’t exist. Harley had seen the look on that neighbour lady’s face, though. For her, Emma no longer existed, either. He couldn’t help but feel a little pity for her predicament.

      He’d started up his car, fed up with his own nosiness, when the lights flickered in her house and nearly went out. Even after they were back on, they remained dim compared to the other houses on the block. It wasn’t a singular phenomena, limited to her living room or front hall. The entire house possessed a wavery dimness, like a weak fluorescent tube.

      Uh-oh.

      In severe need of rewiring? Overloaded, maybe?

      Or someone playing around with the circuit breakers? He deliberated for a few minutes, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. There was too much Jock Jamieson in the air, and he didn’t want to get involved.

      Then, why are you?

      The truth was, he had no idea.

      He gave a loud and frustrated sigh, rested his head briefly on the steering wheel, and pounded it with his fist. It didn’t do much to relieve his frustration. He’d been stupid enough to get himself into this situation. Now, his sense of duty wouldn’t let him leave without at least checking things out.

      Remember, Chalmers, she phoned for assistance, just last night. Maybe it would provide enough of a reason for him to be hanging around her house, especially if no one mentioned his appearance earlier today.

      She won’t. You know too much about her rats...

      Feeling slightly dirty again rather than heroic, now that all his coercive tactics were in place, Harley grabbed a flashlight and climbed out of his car. He’d taken only one determined step toward her house when he halted in his tracks.

      A purple VW with gigantic pink bunny ears had pulled up, into her driveway. A big pink rabbit, basket in hand, trotted up to Emma’s front door and hastily rang the bell.

*

      Emma heard the front doorbell and dashed across the darkness like a sprinter going for the gold.

      Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look...

      She wouldn’t let her attention be diverted, but focussed on the floor, and her feet moving speedily across it. The door was just ahead. If she looked neither right nor left, and didn’t eye that wooden bulwark as a blockade to freedom, she had it made.

      But in that last instant, she knew she wasn’t alone. Her breath was so tight in her chest her gasp was a wheeze. The front hall was chill and still; her shaky exhalations coming out in swirling white.

      Like a ghost...

      A squeak escaped her lips, but she wouldn’t let the feeling of being surrounded...of being wedged in by ice floes...stop her. Her progress was suddenly as choppy and erratic as a ship scraping a berg, but determination won out. The fingers that clenched the door handle stuck like damp meat to frozen metal, and there was an audible crackling as she twisted the knob. It took both hands and a solid yank, foot against the jamb, to lever it open.

      A few more seconds and it would have been stuck...frozen in place. Emma whimpered again, and barrelled outside, into the arms of the bunny.

*

      It looked to Harley—standing in the shadows next to his car—like she was assaulting the giant rabbit. She’d come diving out of the house, and he watched as the bunny, already awkward in an over-sized costume, overcompensated. He went tumbling backwards, rolling them both onto the mushy grass.

      Could it be the rabbit wasn’t the innocuous symbol he seemed? Harley took a couple of steps, automatically moving to the rescue, before he remembered the rats. He checked, scanning the neighbourhood warily for signs of movement. Nothing. Either Emma wasn’t “active”, or her attention had been diverted.

      Diverted, all right, he thought, watching with unanticipated amusement her tussle with the overdressed performer. Harley had finally remembered where he’d seen the big bunny before—on a billboard downtown. He was the latest in a trend of happiness delivery services. More than likely, he’d come here, song in mid-warble, and been flattened for his efforts.

      If this is the kind of hazard she’s reporting, something has to be done. The humour faded from Harley’s eyes. If, in her confusion, she was attacking people, it needed to be stopped. Add her rats to the equation, and the situation became untenable.

      If I don’t stop it—her—now, I’ll be responsible. Because I saw it happening, and did nothing about it.

      If the rabbit wanted to press charges for assault, Harley could arrest her now—maybe get her the help she needed.

      Maybe ruin her life...her career. He recalled what her co-worker had said. He’d seemed to have a lot of respect for her.

      Harley deliberated for nearly thirty seconds more, then jogged over to help Emma extricate herself from the rabbit’s clutches. The support of her co-worker was more than matched on the down side by her relationship with Jocko. And the balance had just been tipped by Harley’s own observations. Assault was assault, whether you were the one directing the punch, or the rats.

      But when Harley bent down to lift her up, off the bunny, Emma went nuts. She’d been clinging to the pink fur, but now she began pummelling...Harley. He’d seen that kind of reaction before—enough to recognise it wasn’t anger, any more than her bunny hug had been affection. Emma Rathburn was reacting...in terror.

      And she thought Harley Chalmers was the source. She was squealing, kicking, pounding on him with her fists. Twisting like a mad thing in his arms as she fought to escape. Finally, he did the only thing he could think of: he shouted, “Emma! It’s me—Jack’s friend—Harley!”

      She froze, absorbing that information. Then she twisted slowly to look at him. Her eyes were dilated and her skin coated with sweat. She was shivering with reaction, but her relief was rapidly being replaced by mortification.

      The rabbit was on his feet by this time, his mask a little menacing, and his paws on his hips. He looked ready to attack. At that moment, he stamped his foot and Harley lost it. His arm, still around Emma’s waist, shook with silent laughter.

      Emma was back in possession of her senses. She slipped out of Harley’s grasp, retrieved her wallet from the shrubbery, and paid the rabbit generously. Her smile was wavery. “I threw in a big tip—for your services.”

      Harley’s laughter went from silent to uncontrolled. He was offending Mr. Bunny, though, so he added a ten from his own pocket. “D-Dry cleaning b-bill,” he managed.

      The rabbit gave an abrupt nod, his ears flapping with the gesture. He stomped toward his VW Beetle, and was about to climb in when he relented, with a grumbled expletive. It was clear he was struggling, but finally, magnanimity won out. The rabbit turned their way, and offered them a sweeping bow, then tossed Harley’s ten onto the ground, under the sprinkler’s sweep. “Renaldo Rabbit,” he said, elegantly. “Rescue Rodent.” Harley was sure he was grinning behind the mask. “Endangered damsels are my specialty.” He opened the car door with flair, then awkwardly clambered in.

      He drove away with a grinding of gears, and Harley scrambled to retrieve his cash. “Who sent the rabbit?” he asked Emma.

      Emma’s eyes flicked toward her front door, her sigh a gusty admission, and lifted one hand. “Guilty.” To his raised eyebrows, she explained, “Merely a case of subliminal conditioning, billboard style.” Emma shook her head and sighed again—with relief, this time. “Have to say, he’s the only rodent I’ve ever met with a decent sense of timing.”

*

      Afterwards, Harley wondered how long it was going to take her to go back inside. Someone should talk with her about this afternoon’s rat marathon, and tonight’s terror trip—he just didn’t know whether the someone should be him.

      It suddenly occurred to him that she might have been running from a “they”, rather than a “he”. “Are they inside?” he asked softly. “The rats?”

      Guilty, until proven innocent. “No rats,” she told him, a little testily.

      Why the attitude? Maybe she thinks I plan on coming in. He had, but only to talk. Something had frightened her, and he wanted to find out what it was.

      But Emma showed no interest in re-entering her house. She seemed predisposed to silence, rather than any more action, unless action included turning off the sprinkler. After that, she hung around the porch, her eyes on the garage door.

      Was she heading somewhere? He’d opened his mouth to offer her a lift, when she blurted, “They’re not, you know.”

      He realised she’d been debating whether to speak with him any more at all. His rat inquiry must have offended her. What did she expect? “Not what?” he asked now, confused.

      “Not rodents.”

      All he could think of were rats. Occupational hazard, if you intended to spend much time with Emma Rathburn. “Of course they are.”

      She smirked at him. “Rabbits,” she explained. “Not rats.” Obviously, he was hung up on her rat problem. Probably all he could think of when he looked at her. She knew he wouldn’t believe her if she told him that for tonight, at least, rats were not her biggest problem.

      It was just as obvious he liked to be in control. He gave a speaking glance toward her front door. “Staying out all night?”

      “No,” Emma retorted. She opened the garage door, thought again about the abundance of glass and visibility beyond her car windows, and ran the options through her head. If I drive fast, I won’t have time to worry about Him “showing up”.

      Yeah, but if He hops out in front of you, and you don’t stop, you might actually be running over someone else.

      She needed people and company. Suddenly, she had an inspiration. “Leo’s!” she shouted triumphantly. Heaps of people, tonnes of noise, and it was open all night. She could miss a few nights’ sleep until this little paranormal cycle passed.

      Harley jumped at her shout, and did that wary glance-around thing.

      It hit Emma wrong—as though he thought everything she did was either about to endanger him personally, or cause trouble for everyone else. As a person who was generally liked, she didn’t appreciate being treated like some kind of lethal weapon.

      Maybe, like Jack, this Harley was trying to be deliberately annoying. As her brother, Jack could be excused, but Harley? Hadn’t Jack warned him, about how important it was to be discreet? “Stop it!” she hissed, frustrated anew. “You’re making a scene.”

      His face reflected his disbelief, but there was a tremor in his voice as he retorted calmly, “I wasn’t the one beating up the pink bunny.”

      She’d heard the tremor, but misinterpreted it, as suppressed rage. She’d heard it in Jack’s voice before, and nodded wisely. For years she’d assumed that all policepeople had anger management issues. It was why they became policepeople. “I fell on him,” she explained coolly. “Or, more precisely, tripped over him.”

      “While you were running,” Harley prompted.

      She nodded again. “That’s about it. He seemed okay, didn’t he?” she suddenly asked, concerned.

      “He has a lot of padding. Maybe more, under the costume.” Harley grinned. “What were you running from?”

      “Disarming,” she said. “That smile. Now I know what the phrase means: you’re trying to disarm me with charm.”

      “Is it working?”

      “Did my plan with the rabbit?” she countered.

      “Now who’s disarming whom?” He noticed her eyes glinted with approval at his use of the “whom”. It was all he could do not to start laughing again. “Why were you running?”

      “How did Jack do it?” He was looking blank again, so she elaborated, “Get you to spy on me this way?”

      Mr. Police folded his arms, and for a moment, Emma was tempted to do something blatantly illegal, right in his face. Let him arrest my ass, she thought boldly. It might be a better solution: company on the ride, lots of people. Or would they put her in some kind of holding cell, all alone?

      Where I couldn’t get away...

      The shiver took her by surprise. Mr. Police saw it, too. “Let’s go in,” he said.

      “No!” Her answer was too sharp.

      “Rats?” he asked, in a whisper.

      “Is that all you can think about?!” Emma shook her head.

      Harley grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the door, his whisper an urgent, “Who’s in there? Why’d you run?”

      The eyes which met his held elements of the misery and terror which had shunted her out the door. “Because I knew it’d be safer,” she admitted, in a wry whisper. It was so obvious she was surprised that Harley hadn’t guessed it. “If I’d called a cab—instead of the rabbit—he would’ve known I planned to leave.”

*

      Harley was really forceful after that. “Where is he?” he asked, his voice a sharp hiss. She’d been on the run. “Your living room?” He fingered his gun.

      Emma deliberately widened her eyes, and crouched down warily at his side. “Block of ice!” she whispered. “Behind the front door...”

      Harley straightened, lowered his hands, and stared at her as though she were nuts. “What are you on?” he asked harshly. He didn’t enjoy being played for a fool.

      “Earth,” she told him. “I’ve got a paranormal problem, and no hothead with a gun can fix it.”

      Harley’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need aggravation. “You’re more like Jock than I thought.”

      It wasn’t a compliment, and Emma knew it. Her face flushed with shame, and she swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” she said to his stiff back, as he walked away.

      He checked slightly, nodded, then carried on.

      “You’re nothing like Jack!” she blurted, and she suddenly realised it was true. The man was leaving, and she was going to be left alone.

      In the dark.

      “I’m in distress!” she shouted.

      “Call your rabbit!” he shouted back, and could’ve kicked himself for letting provocation overcome his common sense. Nevertheless he paused, and pounded a pensive fist on the limb of a nearby tree. Aggravating, yes. Worth staying for? He wasn’t sure. “Your neighbours must hate you,” he told her, turning around, and wondering why he was doing it. He couldn’t recall when he’d acted like such an idiot. “I shouldn’t even be here.” 

      “I wish I weren’t,” Emma admitted. She came over to him, desperate to keep him talking—anything so he wouldn’t walk away. “The neighbours don’t hate me.”

      “Why? What did you tell them, about the rats?”

      “Why would you assume I’d lie to the people around me?” She almost, but not quite, managed to sound outraged. “That’s the trouble with police these days: negative thinking.” She saw the annoyance flicker in his eyes. “Not that I mean you,” she added sweetly.

      Harley snorted, then asked again, “Okay, so what did you tell them?”

      Emma sighed, and it sounded heartfelt. “Same old story. I bought one of those gadgets that deters insects and rodents, except it didn’t—deter, that is.”

      “It drew them in, instead.”

      She nodded. “Liar, thief...”

      He frowned at that.

      “I did buy five of those gadgets, then told them they didn’t work. They gave me my money back.” At his expression she added, “And I’ve stolen at least a dozen rolls of toilet paper from work, and never replaced them. I could have used paper towels. Or-Or newspaper.”

      “Spoiled.” He shook his head. Harley couldn’t remember when he’d been this amused, and it bothered him that he couldn’t hang onto his irritation. Somehow, this woman had taken him from terror to hilarity in less than twenty-four hours. “That’s how it begins,” he added darkly.

      “So now I’m evil.” She looked up at him, worried. “I was serious, though, when I said I had a paranormal problem.”

      “I know. I heard the dog when I was walking around.”

      “You heard Studley?!” She sniffed sadly. “Still trying to protect me.” Her eyes were slightly glassy now.

      “From the rat-?” He noted her expression, and hastily changed it to: “From what?”

      “A man.”

      Harley frowned.

      “Not a real man. I mean, I thought he was real then, but not later. He’s dead...a-a ghost.” Her eyes were huge. Harley was reminded of those kids at camp who sit around the campfire telling horror stories.

      “Can’t you just ignore him? Tune him out or something?”

      “You believe me!” Emma sounded pleased.

      “Only because I heard the dog myself,” Harley admitted. “I don’t handle hauntings. Are you sure this isn’t some nut case playing tricks on you?” He was thinking of Jack, but this seemed too subtle an exercise for him. It was more likely Emma had infuriated someone else with her “problem”, but he hesitated to say so.

      Emma shrugged. “That would make any physiological phenomena—”

      “Like the ‘block of ice’ behind the door?” Harley interrupted.

      “That was merely a metaphor,” she admitted, “for the intense, gravelike chill I felt.” She shivered.

      “Lots of people see ghosts, Emma. My Aunt Jenny used to see one of my cousins in her bathtub. A friend of mine was bothered