"All right, Ben," Amos Hall replied. "I'll take care of it."

Michael lay in bed, wishing he'd never promised Ryan and Eric that he'd take them into old man Findley's barn. This afternoon, when they'd been at the swimming hole, it had seemed like it might be a great adventure. But now he wasn't so sure-ever since he'd been in Potter's Field and his head had started hurting, he'd begun to remember Nathaniel's warnings once again. Now, in spite of his grandmother's words, he was frightened, but he'd told Eric and Ryan he'd meet them, and if he didn't, they'd think he was chicken.

At last, when he was sure his mother was asleep, he slowly began getting dressed. Only when he had double-knotted his tennis shoes and checked his pocket for his house key three times did he finally open the door to his room and whisper to Shadow, "Go on." The dog obediently slipped through the narrow opening and padded silently down the stairs. Closing the door, Michael went to the window and peered out into the darkness. As Eric had said, there was no moon, but the night was clear, and the soft glow of starlight softened the blackness. Michael opened the dormer window, then climbed gingerly out onto the steeply sloping roof. A shingle cracked under his weight, and Michael froze for a moment, listening for any slight movements from within the house. When he heard nothing, he began making his way carefully toward the eave.

He crouched at the edge, his eyes fixed on the rain gutter. The pipe seemed as if it was about to collapse under its own weight, and finally he decided not to risk it. Surely his mother would awaken if the gutter pulled loose, and the jump looked pretty easy. He lowered himself to a sitting position and let his legs dangle over the edge. A moment later he launched himself off the roof, letting his knees buckle as he hit the ground so that he rolled into the kind of somersault he'd seen his father use when he was skydiving. He lay still for a moment-something else his father had always done-and then stood up to brush the dust off his jeans. Then he went to the front door, unlocked it, and let Shadow out.

Ryan and Eric were waiting for him next to the storm cellar.

"How we gonna do it?" Ryan whispered. "Old man Findley hasn't gone to bed yet. There's a light on in the downstairs window."

"Maybe we better not try it," Michael suggested.

"You chickening out?" Eric asked.

"N-no. But what if he catches us?"

"If we do it right, he won't," Eric said. "We can cut down to the river, then come back through Potter's Field. That way the barn'll be between him and us. Come on."

They moved out of the shelter of the storm cellar's slanting roof and began zigzagging down the length of the pasture, hunched low, pausing every few seconds to watch and listen.

Except for the soft chirping of insects and the lowing of cattle floating over the prairie, the night was silent. They came to a stop at the fence separating the pasture from the whgat field beyond, and Michael peered intently into the darkness. The night seemed to thicken over Potter's Field, just to the west. Shadow, crouching at his master's feet, whined softly.

"What is it?" Ryan asked, his voice barely audible.

Michael said nothing. His head was beginning to hurt, and in the darkness he was almost sure he could see a slight movement. And as if from a great distance, a voice- Nathaniel's voice-was whispering to him. The words were indistinct, but Michael knew it was a warning.

"Something's out there," he said at last. "In Potter's Field. I can feel it."

"Come on," Eric said. He climbed the fence and began making his way down the wheat field toward the woods next to the river. Ryan followed him, and, a moment later, so did Michael. But even as he came to the strip of cottonwoods and stepped into the near-total darkness beneath the trees, Michael's headache grew worse, and the voice in his head became more urgent.

Their progress slowed. They moved with all the care their imaginations demanded, and every time a twig snapped under their feet, they came to a halt, waiting for an answering movement that would tell them they were not alone in the woods. After what seemed an eternity, they emerged from the forest, and found themselves at the south end of Potter's Field. They gazed out at it. In the gloom of the night, its growth of tumbleweeds seemed to have turned threatening.

– "Maybe Michael's right," Ryan whispered. "Maybe we ought to go home."

"You scared?" Eric asked.

Ryan nodded.

"Well, I'm not," Eric declared. "Come on." He started to worm his way through the barbed wire fence that surrounded the field, but suddenly Michael's hand closed around his arm.

"There's something out there."

Eric hesitated. "Bullshit." Then: "What?"

"I-I don't know. But I know there's something in the field. I can-I can sort of feel it."

The three boys, their eyes squinting against the darkness, peered into the field, but saw nothing more than the blackness of the night and the strange forms of the tumbleweeds etched vaguely against the horizon.

Suddenly Shadow tensed, and a low growl rolled up from the depths of his throat.

"Oh, Jeez," Ryan whispered. "Let's go home."

And then, in the distance, a light appeared, and Shadow's growl turned into a vicious snarl.

"It's Abby," Ryan breathed. "It's gotta be Abby, lookin' for her kids."

"M-maybe it's not," Eric said, but his voice had suddenly lost its conviction. "Maybe it's old man Findley- maybe he saw us."

Only Michael remained silent, his eyes concentrating on the light, his ears hearing only the words that were being whispered within his head.

"If he finds you, you will die."

The light moved, bobbing slowly through the field, stopping every few feet. With every movement, it seemed to come closer, almost as if whatever was in the field knew the three boys were there, and was searching for them.

Shadow, too, seemed to be concentrating on the light. Every muscle in his body was hard with tension under Michael's hands, and the end of his tail twitched spasmodically. A menacing sound, barely audible, welled up from deep within him, and his ears lay flat against the back of his head.

And then, as if he'd responded to the hunter's instinct buried deep in his genes, he shot off into the night, disappearing almost instantly, as his black fur blended into the darkness.

The dog's sudden movement triggered Ryan and Eric, and suddenly they were running, oblivious now to the sounds of their feet pounding through the underbrush as they dashed back into the cover of the forest.

Only Michael, his head throbbing, stayed where he was, peering into the darkness, searching the field for someone -or something-he knew was there, but couldn't quite find. And then, following the voice that seemed to come from within, he carefully crept through the fence and began making his way across Potter's Field toward the barn beyond.

Amos Hall had been making his way carefully through the field. He knew where each of the markers lay, which were the stones that marked the children's graves. He paused at each of them, though only for a second at the ones that still lay undisturbed.

The stones that had been turned over that afternoon took more of his time, for when he came to those, he knelt in the earth, carefully sifted the soft soil through his fingers, smoothing it as well as he could, then replacing the stone markers with an odd sense of reverence.

He'd been in this field only four times since the day when he was a young man and his father had brought him out here, shown him the stones, and told him the story of Abby Randolph.

"And our children still die," his father had told him. "It's as if there's ar curse on us, almost as if Abby and Nathaniel want us to remember how they felt, want us to feel the pain they must have felt that winter." Amos had started to protest his father's words, but his father had stopped him. "It'll happen to you, too, Amos. You'll have children, and some of them will be all right. But there will be others who will be born dead. Bring them here, Amos. Bring them here and bury them with Abby's children."