The same cold feeling that I'd had in Golding's home overcame me again. I felt a tremble of fear-real fear-begin to grow.

Around the edges of the instrument panel welled droplets of red ichor. They grew and linked together to run down the sides of the dashboard.

The same thick, warm fluid pulsed out of the ignition switch, soaking my fingers.

Ann pushed away from the panel. Her hands wildly sought the door handle.

"He's on to us," she murmured. "Get awa-"

She touched the handle and shrieked.

Blood was trickling down from the roof in rivulets and streaks across the sideglass.

"Get me out!"

I flung my door open, ignoring the sheet of red that splashed over me. Blood squirted from around the edges of the passenger door as I yanked it open. Her shuddering form collapsed into my blood-soaked arms.

"Get me out!" she cried. "Get me away!" She clamped her eyes shut.

In an instant, the carnelian stains vanished from our clothing. It didn't dry up or fade or anything. It just wasn't there anymore. The Porsche's interior sparkled like new.

"It's gone," I said, standing her up carefully.

"It'll be back," she said with grim certainty. Nervous hands wiped at her eyes. Her heels clacked loudly against the sidewalk.

I strode up alongside her. "Where are you going?"

"I've got to get to Hollywood Boulevard. There's a place there…" Her golden mane fluttered in the breeze that blew from the north. Her skirt rippled, clinging and sliding around her legs and thighs. Not a bad sight, had I been in a more receptive mood.

I looked back at the car. Shadows flitted around it like an outtake from Fantasia. I didn't go back to find out if they could drive.

I fell in stride with Ann. She took long, leggy steps with a panicky determination.

"What's on Hollywood? More gremlins?"

The walk calmed her a bit. She inhaled deeply the afternoon air. After a moment's thought, she said, "It's a sort of shop. It's been there for years. The woman who currently runs it is… sensitive to these things."

"Splendid," I said. "Now we're dragging in fortune tellers."

She stopped to stare at me as straight and as pointedly as a spear. "Maybe you can explain the blood. And why the others didn't see it."

I tried to think of causes, reasons, rational explanations. "The drugs?"

She frowned. "I'm not having a flashback, if that's what you're getting at." She smiled stiffly. "A friend of mine once told me that practically no one is so lucky as to get a free trip that way." She increased her stride with even greater intent.

The hair on my arms prickled. The icy feeling spread across my shoulders and up the back of my head.

Something was happening. The air grew rank and stale. More so than usual for Hollywood, that is.

Ann pointed to the side of a building on Melrose Boulevard. With a tone of hysterical triumph, she said, "See?"

I squinted. The vague outline of something-it looked like a moosehead with drooping antlers-shimmered almost invisibly on the south side of the building.

Blood flowed down the building, staining brick and glass, turning brown where it dried.

We weren't the only ones to notice it this time. Scores of cars squealed to a halt at the intersection. Not all of them did, though. The traffic jam was almost instantaneous.

Dozens of people climbed out of their cars, pointing and staring. One man gestured wildly at the building. The woman with him shook her head in confusion. He pointed again. She shrugged as if nothing were wrong with the building but plenty were wrong with him. He looked one last time, gave up, and drove into the snarl of confusion at Melrose and Van Ness.

"See that?" Ann asked again, pointing to the crowd. Some people stared in shock at the building. Others stared in amazement at the people craning their necks. "Some see it. Some don't."

"Can't be holograms," I offered weakly.

"Holograms don't feel slick. Or taste salty."

We walked past the crowd on the south side of the street, moving through a whirlwind of chatter.

I glanced up again. The building appeared normal. Yet that chill was still with me.

A hand seized my shoulder. I whipped about to grab it.

My fingers clamped air.

The crowd had dissipated, and no one but Ann stood within a yard of me.

Another something stroked the side of my face.

"They're touching you, too?" Ann asked. She snapped her right arm sharply as if to free her wrist.

"Ann-what is this? Ghosts in broad daylight?" A bunch of wet fingers dragged over my face like snails. Voices hissed in my ears.

Ann gritted her teeth and broke into a run.

I ignored the invisible tentacles that clutched at my hair and raced after her. She ran wildly, trying to escape the phantasmal hands. The effort was pointless. They kept pace with us, tapping and stroking and grabbing and tugging. Shadows darted about at the edge of my vision, always vanishing at the turn of my head.

My longer strides brought me to Ann's side in a few frenzied paces. The Hollywood Cemetery blurred by to our left. I half-expected the graves to pop open and expel dead actors, looking as pale and grey as their fading images trapped in silver.

Despite my jitters, nothing arose from the graveyard. The trouble lay ahead on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Ann screamed, stopping suddenly to clutch at me. At first I thought hers was another invisible hand and ignored it. She nearly pulled me to the concrete.

"Look, Dell!"

A runny red fluid gurgled up out of the storm drains and sewers, filling the street with blood. Once again, some cars stopped, others honked angrily and sped about. Wheels splashed blood in crimson sheets across pedestrians. Dozens of people stopped in midstride to scream. Or vomit. Or faint. Others noticed nothing but their fellowtravelers' strange behavior.

"It's not real!" I shouted to Ann and the crowds. "We know it! How come it's still there?"

Ann looked as if she'd been worked over by a cop. She still flinched at the hands running over her, but she ignored them as much as she could, same as I.

She took shallow, long breaths to control her panic. "We're getting psychic impressions from an outside source. It'll affect us regardless of what we believe. Let's go!"

The light changed. She delicately lowered a petite foot into the flowing ichorous river. A couple of cars tried to run the light while swerving around the petrified rubberneckers. They skidded to a halt, splashing gore in all directions. Ann nodded at them and crossed.

I followed. Though our crossing produced a queasy sloshing sound, it didn't feel as if we were fighting a torrential stream. Even the slap of the blood against my ankles-a warm and sticky sensation-didn't feel like wetness.

We managed to make it across Santa Monica without serious consequences. The clamor of terrified pedestrians and motorists made the streets sound like an insane Shriner's convention. The air was drenched with the smell of blood, like a low, dank fog.

When we stepped out of the stream, blood stained our legs all the way up to midcalf. I felt as if we'd taken a stroll through a slaughterhouse.

I can't say when, but the stains vanished a few seconds after we were out. I looked down and they were gone.

So was the river.

My mind felt weak and dull. I was watching my nice, solid, normal world fragmenting about me.

"We're at the center of it, that's fairly certain." Ann removed her shoes when we reached Fernwood. She ran faster without them.

We got halfway past the Channel 11 building when she doubled over and stopped, one hand against the paint-scrawled wall. She looked like someone who'd been kicked in the guts.

"What's wrong?"

"Cramps." She clenched her teeth. "Worst I've ever had."