He'd been seen! Jake's heart pounded and his eyes searched the darkness for some means of escape. But the woods were too far away, and there was no other shelter to protect him. A frightened cry rose in his throat, but just as it was about to slip from his lips, Conway disappeared through a door into the building against which he was huddled.

Safe! He hadn't been seen at all; he was safe.

Still, Jake held his breath; any sound he made would betray him. After what seemed an eternity, George Conway reappeared, carrying something in his right hand.

As the man started back toward his mama, Jake finally let out his breath and took another.

"I'm telling you for the last time, Eulalie," he heard Conway say. "Go home."

But his mama didn't budge, and when George Conway used both his hands to raise the object above her head, Jake was certain he was going to smash her with it. But instead he tipped it, and water began to flow over his mama's head.

Another second went by, and then the acrid odor hit Jake's nostrils.

Not water.

Gasoline.

"Last chance, Eulalie," Jake heard George Conway say.

Jake's mama peered up at the man who loomed above her. "I ain't afraid of you, and I ain't afraid of what you been messin' with." As her incantations began again, the flare of a match illuminated the face of George Conway. The man gazed down at his mama for another second or two, then stepped back a pace.

With no change in his expression at all, George Conway tossed the match into the puddle of gasoline that surrounded Eulalie Cumberland. There was a strange whooshing sound as the gasoline exploded into flames, and George Conway stepped back two more paces as the first flash of heat struck him.

Jake's eyes widened in horror and his hands clamped over his mouth. He wanted to race forward, wanted to jerk his mama out of the fire, wanted to rescue her from the flames suddenly dancing around her, but his muscles wouldn't work.

As he stared numbly at the horrifying spectacle before him, he was vaguely aware of a hot wetness spreading through the crotch of his jeans. But even as he lost control of his bladder, he could do nothing to free himself from the paralysis that held him, couldn't even bring himself to tear his eyes away from the fire consuming his mother.

Eulalie Cumberland made no sound at all as her clothes caught fire and the flames began eating away at her flesh. Nor did she make any effort to save herself. But her hands reached out of the flames and closed on two of the objects she'd spread around her.

In her left hand she held the effigy doll, suspended from a noose she'd tied around its neck.

In her right hand she held the knife.

While Jake and George Conway watched her, she plunged the knife deep into the body of the doll, then jerked it downward. As the thin cotton from which she'd made the doll ripped open, the entrails of the frog poured forth from its belly.

The flames, higher now, engulfed her head, but still she held the doll high. The bloody guts hanging from its belly glimmered in the firelight, and as George Conway stared at them, his own eyes widening in terror, Eulalie Cumberland began to laugh.

It was an unearthly sound, erupting from her throat in peal after peal, and even after she finally pitched forward into the flames, her laughter still seemed to hang in the night air.

Jake, transfixed by the horror of watching his mother burn, trembled in the darkness as the flames died slowly away.

Even when the fire had finally burned itself out, he couldn't bring himself to leave. He watched from the shadows as George Conway disposed of the remains of his mama, wrapping them in a thick blanket, then disappearing back into the great dark house, carrying his burden with him.

All through the rest of the night, Jake Cumberland stayed by the carriage house.

He tried to tell himself that what he'd seen couldn't have happened, that it had to be some kind of terrible nightmare.

Pretty soon he'd wake up and be back home in the cabin, and his mama would be at the stove, frying up the grits she always fixed for breakfast.

Only when the sun finally crept over the horizon did Jake finally go home. He stayed in the cabin as long as he could, not coming out for three days and three nights. And when finally the sister came looking for him and asked him where his mother was, he didn't tell her what he'd seen that night.

He didn't tell anyone, ever.

But when he heard that they'd found George Conway the afternoon after his mother died, hanging from the magnolia tree behind his house, still clutching the knife he'd used to tear his own belly open, Jake heard something.

He heard his mama laughing.

He'd known right away why she was laughing. It was because even though Conway had killed her, she'd still won. But he'd still never understood what she meant when she talked about feeling the evil.

Not until last night when the hounds started up.

For the first time, he'd known exactly what his mama had meant.

He had felt something.

Something evil.

Something outside in the darkness, lurking somewhere just beyond the circle of yellow light cast by the lantern.

Usually, he would have turned the dogs loose, but not last night. Something held him back, something whispered to him to keep them inside the cabin.

This afternoon, though, when he'd left the cabin to take the little boat out, he chained them up outside-couldn't keep them inside all day long. But even as he'd tossed his fishing pole, bait, and bucket into the boat and shoved it out onto the water, he wondered if maybe he shouldn't put them back in the cabin.

Or maybe even take them along.

In the end he told himself that whatever had been skulking around the cabin last night was long gone. And in the bright light of the afternoon sun, he was pretty sure he'd just imagined it anyway. Probably just feeling jumpy after his own midnight outing. Not that he'd done anything wrong-in fact, he'd been doing that whole family a favor. If they had any smarts at all, they'd pack up and move themselves right back to wherever they came from. And there sure wasn't any way they'd know who it was nailed the cat skin on the back of their carriage house. Even if anyone suspected, they couldn't prove it.

No, he'd just been jumpy.

Finally letting himself relax for the first time since he'd opened his mother's trunk last night, Jake lay back on the bottom of the boat, holding his fishing pole loosely in his right hand, his feet propped up on the bench across the middle, his head resting comfortably in the bow. He tipped his straw hat down over his face and closed his eyes.

And then the dogs began baying.

Jake jerked bolt upright, recognizing the sound at once. It was his hounds that had set to wailing, no question about it-even from a mile, maybe two miles away-he could recognize the sound of his dogs. And they were letting out with the same howling they'd set up last night-not all excited, like when they caught the scent of a 'coon or a rabbit. Just like last night, they sounded mad.

Worried, and mad.

Jake reeled in his line, stowed the pole, and started rowing back toward shore. He'd been drifting quite a while, and the cabin looked to be nearly a mile away now, though the dogs' baying carried so clearly over the water they sounded like they weren't more than a couple hundred yards away.

He'd only pulled a few strokes on the oars when the baying died away. He stopped rowing; shipping the oars for a minute while he listened.

Nothing but a fish jumping off to the left, and the whining of a mosquito as it zeroed in on his neck. Then, just as he slapped at the mosquito, he heard it.