His eyelids fluttered, and then opened, unfocused. They closed again, as I swirled the music at a semi-conscious state. The bedroom was dark; the moon was new, there was little for him to see in the dimness.

He opened his eyes again, and saw me. I relaxed my vigil, waiting for the first sleepy smile, the recognition of a loved one, but his reaction held none of the intimacy I expected. His mouth opened in horror as he saw me; he filled his lungs, ready for a shout; his brown eyes grew huge in terrified madness. In my surprise, I hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do; my first impulse was to smother the brat with his own pillow, but his bouncing would throw me right off onto the floor.

The music. I brought it up, loud, powerful, and he lost consciousness immediately.

Sweat poured from me and my limbs shook. He would remember this; I could not erase my simple-minded act. What a fool I was.

There were no others like me.

I stayed there, next to him, until I felt the tug of dawn. I stroked his back and played deep, dark tones of restful sleep for him, hoping he would awaken sleep-drugged and mistake my blunder for a simple night terror.

Or I could kill him.

No. This house must be kept sacred, no one must search the cellar for clues in this house.

The dawn drew near and I patted my Daniel on the cheek, then jumped lightly from the bed. I pulled my dark green cloak around me and slunk, feeling lonelier than ever, to the cellar, to crawl into my dirty, makeshift box beneath the stairs and lie, quietly, waiting for the next evening.

When I next awoke, a crucifix hung from the stairs directly over my box.

I had felt the change coming over Wilton. Interesting, a town under siege. First I smelled the paranoia that lay like thick fog over the streets and around the homes. No one walked the streets after nightfall; no children played in the pleasant spring evenings; doors were locked and curtains drawn. The whole town retreated into a private sort of mourning.