The room was larger than the living room and shrouded in black velvet. There was no furniture and the light was coming from recessed lamps above the velvet draperies. Then the boy turned a dimmer switch, increasing the illumination, and I saw the thing I dreaded, but strangely half-­expected to see.

It was a large photograph hanging on the rear wall. It was of General Duffin Caine, and it had apparently been made from the same negative as the one in Father Fogarty’s book. Evidently the priest was wrong in his speculation about graven images.

“When do they have their meetings here?” My voice was quavering.

“At night.”

“How often?”

“About one time in a month. Sometimes more often.”

“Who comes to the meetings?”

“Lots of people. I don’t know them.”

“Ten, twenty people?”

“Sometimes more than that.”

“Who’s in charge of the meetings?”

“Mrs. Reddy. She’s in charge of everything.”

“What about the Webers?”

“Mrs. Weber goes to all the meetings. Some of the time Mr. Weber doesn’t go. He sits in the kitchen and drinks beer. Then Mrs. Reddy yells at him.”

A sudden chilling thought struck me. “Did you ever go to a meeting, George?”

“Once.”

“What happened?”

“Everybody prayed.”

“Were they praying to God, do you think?”

He paused. “I think it was more like they were praying to that picture up there.”

“Do you know who that man is?”

“They call him Father.” He paused again. “Maybe he’s supposed to be God.”

“How did you happen to go to the meeting, George? Did you sneak in?”

“No, Mrs. Reddy told me to come.”

“Did you pray with the rest of them?”

“No, I didn’t know the words. A lot of it was in a foreign language. Also after a while it was sort of like they were praying to me.” He grinned.

“Praying to you?”

“Yeah. They made me stand over there under the picture. Next to the table with the candles on it.” He pointed to a folded table, black like the draperies, and resting against the wall. “Then they all bowed to me and said a lot more prayers.” He was embarrassed now. “They take their clothes off at those meetings.”

Another frightening thought. “Was there a meeting here last night, George?”

“Yes.”

A car came into the yard. George moved quickly to turn out the lights, then grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the room.

“They can see the lights from outside if they go into the backyard,” he whispered. “There are windows behind the curtains.” He closed the door of the meeting room and hurried me to the front of the house.

“They can’t drive to the back, George,” I assured him. “My car is in the way. Let me ask you one more question. Did you see a boy here last night—a boy with light hair, rather thin and tall?”