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garden, or did I just have vivid nightmares? Were my neighbors killers, or was my imagination making up the most ridiculous story of all time?
    Was I still sane?
    This last question shook me badly.
    “I think maybe Ben would like to come for lunch,” I said to Kelvin, reaching out a cold and shaky hand to pet my great-grandfather’s cat. “And maybe he would like to read that dumb book too. At his house. Frankly, I never want to see it again.”
    Kelvin chuffed and Barney waggled his stumpy tail.
    “Okay. I’ll call him.”
    And later I would start looking at the family Bible and trying to work out if Kelvin had been born into an unlucky third generation who was slated to be Bane food. Because if he was third generation—and he really believed in the curse—then that might explain why he had left behind his home, his wealth, and every friend he had ever known, and tried for a new life somewhere else. Not that he would have much time left to enjoy his new life, having left his escape so late, but I couldn’t blame him for wanting to enjoy those few remaining days in peace and not worry about some freaked-out neighbors trying to feed him to a monster.
    In the back of my mind, I also made note that if he were third generation, then I also could be in danger somewhere down the line. After all, I was his great-granddaughter. If there weren’t any other Wendovers around, this fate—assuming I wasn’t crazy and making the whole thing up—could fall on me too.
     
     

Chapter 5
     
    It was no surprise that I had bad dreams that night, though the dream was very different than any other I have had. It began with choking which threatened to wake me. My nose filled up with the putrid smell of things rotting on the shore and made me gag. Aware that my body was still in bed, I was also standing on the low side of the island, just beyond the reach of the surf. It was dark, but the moon was full and I could see clearly as the glowing fogbank moved in.
    My muscles trembled, telling me to run, but I stood with bare feet rooted to the rough sand. It wasn’t the fog I feared but the shape growing within it. Tall, almost boneless, luminescent except for the craterous eyes and the needle fangs thrusting out of its mouth. It lurched but its haunches were strong, dragging its tail behind it.
    Terror is an extraordinary thing. It can be nauseating, an urgent warning from that inner voice of reason to stay away from something deadly. But sometimes it is oddly captivating, even addicting, and adrenaline gives us the imprudent urge to rush out into the dark when we hear a noise, or to look in the basement to see if perhaps a monster does wait beneath the stairs that can be very strong.
    But there is another kind of terror, a sort I had not known before. Closer the thing came and I understood then why prey freezes, why deer stand in front of onrushing cars, why sometimes hares refuse to flee the hound. Horror and a sense of fatal inevitability overwhelm the survival instinct.
    Then there came a wind rushing up from the sea and all around were torrents of smothering fog which hid the monster and hid me. At last I turned and ran, but every way I turned, within a few steps I was again in the cold water, and the horrible smell grew ever stronger.
    Waves, reaching ever higher, hit my legs, almost unbalancing me. I feared the ocean then as I never had before, because anything could lurk below the surface of the turning tide. The Bane did not need to walk, it could slither and swim. The wet nightgown I wore chafed my flesh as I again attempted to run, and the long hem became a winding shroud.
    Something grabbed my calf. Through the silvered foam I saw a clawed hand. The pain was sharp and bad enough to make me feel sick. I pulled away, letting the claws slice my flesh, using blasphemous language as I staggered away. My blood was hot as it flowed away.
    There was no sign of daylight. I didn’t know if the sun would save me, but I did not want to