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mass, after all. See? The great cross above the altar—out of her range on TV—had even been inverted for the occasion.
    The head priest recoiled, lifting one arm to shield himself—itself—from Devin’s offering. But it was not for him anyway. She knelt before the bodies of the sacrificed, gently positioned her hands over the brow of her son, with his sad, troubled face.
    Much of the water had wound down her wrists, despite her efforts. Only drops remained, but they splashed his small round head. Devin even shook loose the last two drops onto the head of the Madonna.
    A howling of wind or voices erupted, and the congregation rushed into that dark doorway in the corner. The head priest went last, casting one last hateful look over his shoulder. The touch of his gaze made Devin scream.
    The door slammed shut.
    *     *     *
    One of the nurses found Devin there, on the floor of the chapel. She screamed also.
    It was first thought, naturally, that Devin had somehow stolen both the body of her stillborn son and that of the woman from the emergency ward, and moved them into this room. After all, a nurse had inadvisably told Devin about the victim. But after interviewing her, and talking with the nurses from postpartum recovery, police were willing to at least accept the possibility that some sort of cult had broken into the hospital and transported the bodies into the chapel. After all, one drugged and hurting woman could scarcely have turned that heavy cross upside-down by herself.
    She was released after questioning, though there were problems with her story. For instance, there was no door in that shadowy comer of the chapel where she claimed the congregation had emerged, and fled.
    It was no wonder they thought her responsible, at first, and still wondered about her later. For when the nurse found her, Devin was sitting beside the body of the murdered girl, and rocking her dead son in her arms. And laughing, of all things. Laughing as if with joy. Or at least, with relief. And her words sounded like the rantings of a madwoman.
    Because she was laughing, “I saved him. I saved him.” Over and over. Her eyes bright and fervent, like those of an acolyte.

The Yellow House
    When I was a boy the Yellow House was as much a part of Halloween as the jack-o’-lanterns it so closely resembled on that night, its black windows gaping sightlessly in its bright yellow face. You could see the Yellow House way down the street, glowing in the dark, almost, and the dread excitement would build. We had to go up the walk and knock on the door. Every year we did this and no one answered, but we were always convinced (okay, half convinced) that this would be the time the door would crack open and there would stand some resurrected something-or-other, decayed, grinning and glaring at the same time. So we’d knock and then run, screaming and laughing. That’s how we confront what we’re afraid of, right?—give it a quick close look and a touch and then run. But without having really seen inside.
    Every town has its Yellow House, so to speak: a house where a mad old woman (witch) lived, or where someone had been murdered, or where the Devil once looked out of the fireplace. The Yellow House wasn’t located up on some desolate hill, and structurally or architecturally speaking, my old family house looked much, much more foreboding. It was a small two-story crammed between two similar houses, with only a scrap of front yard. But it had that weird color, for one. A sort of traffic sign yellow, the yellow they paint bulldozers and such. And damned if I ever saw anybody repaint the thing, but the paint never peeled or flaked away or faded in all those years I knew it as a boy. My father remarked on it more than once. As did my grandfather whom I helped repaint our family home, and he knew his painting. Of course, I moved out of state for nine years, and in that time only saw the house on a few occasions during visits home, but once I asked