“I don’t know what the hell’s the matter,” he said. “Maybe it’s some kind of silly hysteria. Maybe Toby’s transmitting it to me. But I can tell you something, Susan, I saw that face tonight. I saw that face for real.”

“Did it look like anyone you knew?”

He shook his head. “I never saw anyone like that in my whole life.”

They switched off Toby’s light, but they left the door ajar and the light burning in the passage outside. Then they went downstairs to the kitchen, and Neil poured them both a glass of red wine. It was the only liquor they had in the house.

“I’m really worried,” said Susan. “It seems to be getting worse. And it doesn’t seem to sound like the usual kind of nightmare at all. I mean, he saw this man in the daylight.”

Neil took a large swallow of wine, and grimaced. “If you ask me, it’s a ghost. Or a poltergeist. Or whatever they call those damned mischievous spirits.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I don’t know what the hell I am. But all I know is that I walked in there and saw this old man’s face right on top of Toby’s body. It had wrinkles around the eyes, and a little black mustache, and those deep-lined cheeks that some old folks have. It was so clear. If I saw the old guy again, I’d know him at once.”

Susan sipped her wine and sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I believe you, Neil, and I believe Toby. But maybe it just isn’t what it seems.”

“Then what could it be?”

“I don’t know. But I think we ought to call Doctor Crowder in the morning. And Mrs. Novato.”

Neil sat down at the kitchen table and took her hand. “Right now, I feel more like calling a shrink.”

Susan stroked the back of his fingers, briefly touching the worn gold wedding band. “You don’t need a psychiatrist. If you ask me, Toby’s had a recurring nightmare, and because you love him so much, you’re kind of identifying with it. Taking the fright onto yourself, because you want to protect Toby.”

“I don’t know. Is there any more wine in that bottle?”

They drained the Pinot Noir, and then they went back to bed. It was almost dawn, five o’clock, and Neil lay there for the rest of the night without sleeping, staring at the ceiling. The Pacific wind began to warm, and the lace curtains stirred themselves, casting flowery patterns across the room. Could that really be true—that he was trying to take Toby’s nightmares onto himself? Or was there something really inside that wardrobe, and had that old-timer’s face really superimposed itself on Toby’s features?