And the Reverend thought to himself: I, on the other hand, have plenty to feel guilty for.

"It still doesn't explain the similar wounds on the necks of Foster and Nolan. The man in the street."

"All right, Doc. Let's say that all this is true. What do we do?"

"I'm not sure," Doc said. "But I've come to believe there is more at work here than my guilt or imagination. I believe there really is a curse, and if there's any way of finding out how to deal with it," Doc waved a hand, "it's in these books."

The trio sat silent for a while.

"Hell," Doc said finally. "I feel like an old fool. You're right, of course " He poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it. "It's in my head. All of it."

II

The Reverend and Abby walked outside along the alley that led to the street.

"You have to forgive Dad his mumbo jumbo" Abby said. "He's gotten fanatic about it since Mama died."

"No apology necessary. I think your dad's a fascinating man." What he was thinking and didn't add, lest Abby feel the need to apologize for him, was that he thought Doc might be onto something.

"Perhaps this is a little undignified, Jeb. But I'd like to see you again."

"You will."

She took his hand. The next moment she was in his arms and their lips pressed together.

It was even better than he thought it would be.

When they pulled apart, he looked a little flustered.

Confused even.

"Bad for your business, huh, Jeb?"

"A Reverend shouldn't be kissing beautiful women in an alley."

She smiled. "Remember, you promised to see me again." "Tomorrow." They kissed again, and the Reverend told her bye. Quickly.

III

Doc knew Abby and the Reverend were struck with each other, and it did not bother him.

He was actually pleased. The Reverend impressed him as a good man, though there was a personal streak of torment in him. About what, he did not know, but he understood. He bore a similar scar because of the Indian.

But he didn't think guilt was entirely the problem. He hadn't changed his mind completely. Mud Creek was cursed.

Doc did not go back to his office that afternoon. He had no patients and nothing pressing to do. He combed through his books and made notes. What he found was very disturbing.

IV

The Reverend went back to his room and opened his Bible to Revelations.

The blood drops were still there. They had not been a dream.

He walked over to the window and looked out. It was easing toward evening. Another hour maybe.

He sat on the bed and cleaned his revolver.

Then he loaded six and made sure his coat pockets were full of ammunition. He didn't know exactly why.

V

Joe Bob Rhine left the livery shortly before dark, leaving David a few chores to finish up, including carrying some old harness up to the loft for storage.

Usually, the loft was of no concern to David. But in the last few days, though he had not consciously thought about it until this moment, he found that the idea of going up there disturbed him.

He found himself even wishing his father were still in the livery, and that was most certainly not a common thought. Generally, anytime he was around his father, he felt ill at ease, never knowing when the man would be angered and fly off the handle—either verbally or physically.

If his father were in the shop, he thought, the idea of going up the ladder with the harness wouldn't be so bad. But being alone with darkness setting in, he felt most uncomfortable.

The horses weren't happy either. They hadn't been for days. They rolled their eyes and snorted and were hard to manage. His pa said it was the weather. That it made them skittish.

Maybe so. But David couldn't remember ever seeing them like this. They didn't seem so much skittish, as just outright scared.

Looking up at the loft, he felt as if eyes were on him, and he sensed something—the word came to him—EVIL.

It was dumb, but that's what came to him. Evil in the loft.

It made no sense. About the evilest thing in that loft were rats. Nothing else.

He told himself that twice, took a deep breath, took hold of the harness, and started up the ladder.

Closer he got to the top, the stranger he felt. As if he was certain something was lurking up there at the edge of the loft, waiting to reach out and clamp down on him. He had a vision of a great hand snatching him about the top of the head, lifting him from the ladder like a hound dog pup, and dashing him to the ground below.

Another step on the ladder, and he thought he heard a creak from above. Like rusty hinges.

And he could smell a dead odor.

Maybe a nest of rats had died up there.

The creak again.

He stopped.

Now he heard nothing. But the smell was strong. Almost overwhelming.

Another step and he was peering over the edge of the loft.

There was an old plow crate up there. Dirt was caked on its sides, as if it had been buried.

And for an instant—a quick instant—he thought he had seen the lid settle down, as if someone were hiding inside the crate and had closed the lid quickly.

He found he could not swallow. He didn't remember that crate.

All he had to do was take another step, then another, and he would be level with the loft.

Then he could walk across the loft through the maze of hay up there and hang the harness on a peg against the wall.

That's all he had to do.

But he couldn't.

Pa was going to beat him with a knotted plowline for sure, but he couldn't. There was no way he could move his feet. He felt cold, as if it were the dead of winter. And above all, he felt frightened. It was like knowing a snake was coiled nearby, ready to strike, but you didn't know where it was.

David swung the harness off his shoulder and tossed it up onto the loft as hard as he could, then started down the ladder.

Halfway down he heard the creaking again and stopped.

Looking up, he thought he saw through the cracks in the loft, a set of blazing eyes and the thinnest definitions of a face.

He dropped the rest of the way to the ground, rushed out of the livery, and pushed the doors shut. He slipped the padlock in place, and then, leaning against the doors with his palms out, he breathed hard.

Placing his ear against the door, he listened. But there was nothing to hear except the horses moving about restlessly.

He thought about the eyes in the loft and felt foolish. Rat eyes most likely. He ought to unlock the padlock, go back inside, and put that harness up right. That's what he ought to do. Spare himself a beating from his pa by hanging the harness up right.

But it was getting darker, and inside the livery it would be darker yet. And he just couldn't bring himself to go back in there.

He began walking briskly toward home.

VI

Darkness had not taken full hold, but it had set in, and fingers of its shadow clutched the town, drawing it slowly into its fists.

And the nightwalkers were almost to town.

And in the livery the horses trembled in their stalls, rolled their eyes to the loft and finally to the ladder, as a shape—fluid as water—descended.

VII

The sheriff, in his office, looked out at the darkening street and locked his door.

He put on his new hat and sat down at his desk, the barred window at his back, got out the whisky and a glass and poured himself a healthy shot.

He wasn't going to make his rounds tonight. No way. In fact, he might never make them again. He was considering moving on. Maybe to West Texas, or Oklahoma. He wanted to be shut of Mud Creek, and fast.

He poured another shot. Then another.

Damn. He couldn't even get drunk.