That night Eugene dreamed of Mary Beth walking hand in hand with the man, who was tall and slim as a cypress tree, dressed too finely to come from Chanlarivyè, and who spoke with a hushed, secret voice Eugene couldn’t remember on waking. In the dream, they turned as one to look at him, and Mary Beth put a finger to her lips, smiling. When Eugene woke he crossed himself reflexively, though he had the unsettling feeling it wouldn’t do any good.

* * *

The dreams kept up all week. Every time he shut his eyes he felt haunted. In the dreams, Mary Beth was ambivalent, and the man was a shadowy, intriguing figure that tugged at his attention, luring him deeper every night. Waking up became a struggle, consciousness a heavy weight, and he flinched from every shape and shadow, expecting to see the man solidify in the waking world. It was an unsettling sensation, but intoxicating, too. Eugene doubled his prayers, head down and hands clasped till they were sweating. Lord keep me, God save me. Protect me from the eyes of that stranger. Save my soul from these hauntings I can't control. He didn't know whether he was more afraid of the stranger, or of his reaction to him.

On Saturday night he dreamed he was in the church courtyard, rooted to the ground like the rose bushes. The air shivered around him, the flower petals trembling, silken against his skin.

The man watched him from the church's shadow. Eugene couldn't see his face except for his eyes, which glittered sharply from the darkness and held Eugene enthralled. Even the roses had thorns to defend themselves, but Eugene had nothing. His anxiety clawed its way up his throat until he was choking on it, the air pressing in thick on all sides. The clouds dropped low to hang above his head like a ceiling, gray and oppressive with a threatening storm.

The man raised one arm to point at something over Eugene's shoulder. His heart was cold in his chest, and he turned his head in slow motion to follow the line of the man's finger. He pointed into the bayou, into the mass of gnarled tree trunks, their branches hanging with Spanish moss like a mourner's veil. Staring into the fog, Eugene screamed inside his own head, begging himself to wake up before he saw whatever it was the man was pointing to. He couldn't blink; he couldn't turn away. His eyes were frozen wide open and he was sick with terror as he waited.

Something huge lurched forward from behind the tree line. It walked hunched over but upright like a man, long-limbed with a pointed snout, its panting, slavering breaths growing louder and louder until they echoed all around the churchyard, the only thing Eugene could hear. The breeze shifted and the beast caught Eugene's scent, swinging its great shaggy head around to find him. Father Latimer's eyes stared out at him from that distorted, wolfish face, tongue lolling as its lip curled up in a snarl.