There was silence, and Owen had to cover his mouth, as he knew he was breathing too desperately.

“My Sleeping Beauty,” came the chilling voice. “It’s disappearing, as perhaps you might soon as well.”

Owen got on his hands and knees and crawled as fast as he could back through his office, down the short hallway, directly to the back door of the library. He slowly stood up and remained motionless. Crenshaw was banging on the bell at the counter. “Service, my good man,” he yelled. “Service.” He went on a tirade on the bell, banging it mercilessly, and when that storm of noise was at its most intense, Owen opened the door, which squealed more than he’d have liked, and bolted across the field of weeds toward the woods. It was the fastest he’d ever run, powered by sheer terror. When he reached the cover of the trees, he realized he’d left the pistol in the desk drawer of his office.

He ducked behind a tree and gathered himself into a ball with his arms around his knees. From behind him he heard the back door of the library squeal open. At this point, he was stunned and couldn’t bring himself to look.

“See you tonight,” called the voice across the field. A brief spell later, he heard the door close with a bang. And a few moments after, the old Buick out front started up and pulled away from the curb. Owen waited a good half hour before he ventured into the library. The back door locked on its own, so he had to go around the front. He was afraid the old man had only moved the car a way down the street to then return to ambush him. Eventually, it was clear he was gone for good, although Owen’s fear of him pouncing never diminished.

In his office, on his desk, Owen found a painting, 10×13, done in a reddish-brown color. It took him a minute to process what he was looking at. At the same time, he realized the piece was a portrait of him and Melody in the night world, Crenshaw cutting their silver cords with his monstrous incisors. It had surely been executed in that poor fellow’s blood who was suffering his last on the gurney on the third floor of the old man’s house. The gore had not completely dried in one small patch, and the canvas stank like death. He lifted the painting with a pen shoved under the back of the frame and walked it directly outside to the dumpster behind the library, lifted the lid, and let it and the pen drop in. On his walk back to the front door, he allowed himself to stop breathing through his mouth.

15