Read F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 for Free Online

upper back— Bernadette was too old-country
to approach the church with her head uncovered.
                 "Oh, Bern ," Carole whispered, pressing her face
against the glass. " Bern , don't!"
                 She
watched as Bernadette ran up to St. Anthony's side entrance and began clanking
the heavy brass knocker against the thick oak door. Her high, clear voice
filtered faintly through the window glass.
                 "Father!
Father Palmeri! Please open up! There's a dead girl in the convent who needs
anointing!"
                 She
kept banging, kept calling, but the door never opened. Carole thought she saw
Father Palmeri's pale face float into view to Bern 's right through the glass of one of the
church's few unstained windows. It hovered there for a few seconds, then
disappeared.
                 But
the door remained closed.
                 That
didn't seem to faze Bern . She only increased the force of her blows with the knocker, and raised
her voice even higher until it echoed off the stone walls and reverberated
through the night.
                 Carole's
heart went out to her. She shared Bern 's need, if not her desperation.
                 Why
doesn't Father Palmeri at least let her in? she thought. The poor thing's
making enough racket to wake the dead.
                 Sudden
terror tightened along the back of Carole's neck .... wake the dead...
                 Bern was too loud. She thought only of
attracting the attention of Father Palmeri, but what if she attracted ...
others?
                 Even
as the thought crawled across her mind, Carole saw a dark, rangy figure creep
onto the lawn from the street side, slinking from shadow to shadow, closing in
on her unsuspecting friend.
                 "Oh,
dear God!" she cried, and fumbled with the window lock. She twisted it
open and yanked up the sash.
                 Carole
screamed into the night. "Bernadette! Behind you! There's someone coming!
Get back here now, Bernadette! NOW!"
                 Bernadette
turned and looked up toward Carole, then stared around her. The approaching
figure had dissolved into the shadows at the sound of the shouted warnings. But
Bernadette must have sensed something in Carole's voice, for she started back
toward the convent.
                 She
didn't get far—ten paces, maybe—before the shadowy form caught up to her.
                 "NO!"
Carole screamed as she saw it leap upon her friend.
                 She
stood frozen at the window, her fingers clawing the molding on each side as
Bernadette's high wail of terror and pain cut the night.
                 For
the span of an endless, helpless, paralyzed heartbeat, Carole watched the form
drag her down to the silver lawn, tear open her raincoat, and fall upon her,
watched her arms and legs flail wildly, frantically in the moonlight, and all
the while her screams, oh, dear God in Heaven, her screams for help were slim,
white-hot nails driven into Carole's ears.
                 And
then, out of the corner of her eye, Carole saw the pale face appear again at
the window of St. Anthony's, watch for a moment, then once more fade into the
inner darkness.
                 With
a low moan of horror, fear, and desperation, Carole pushed herself away from
the window and stumbled toward the hall. Someone had to help. Along the way she
snatched the foot-long wooden crucifix from Bernadette's wall and clutched it
against her chest with both hands. As she picked up speed, graduating from a
lurch to a walk to a loping run, she began to scream—not a wail of fear, but a
long, seamless ululation of rage.
                 Something
was killing her friend.
                 The
rage was good. It shredded the fear and the horror and the loathing that had
paralyzed her. It allowed her to move, to keep