He almost hadn't survived the fire.

It demolished the kitchen and had only just started burning the dining room and up the stairs by the time the fire department showed up in their big red trucks. They worked efficiently, managing to save the living room and the second floor.

In 1985, two years after the fire, the Barrows Bay Historical Society funded the house's reconstruction. It was apparently the oldest house in town, built by one of the town founders. Ruby had lived there since she was a child, or so she'd claimed to Aunt Norma, who was born and raised in Stratford. Ruby's parents died when she was still in her teens. She'd lived in the big old house alone for decades, until Martin had come into her life. Her health had been spotty at the best of times. After Martin's arrival she'd brought in Norma to serve as a live-in nanny.

He'd never known his father. Ruby had never told him who the man was, as far as he could recall. Aunt Norma either didn't know or had been sworn to secrecy.

Ruby had been the oldest mother of any of his friends. Kids older than him had called him a bastard. They said his mother was a witch, an old hag, a crone. They said she found him in a pumpkin patch after making a human sacrifice to the Lord of Hallowe'en. Stupid stuff that only made sense to children. The three of them never celebrated any of his birthdays and his friends had never been allowed over to play.

He'd had a strange childhood. No worse than anyone else's, he supposed. Just strange.

He fell asleep picturing the old woman Norma had chased into the dark the night of the fire. He could remember her very clearly. Her face rosy and plump under the hat, smiling a devil's smile.

I should write a book about it, he thought as he drifted off. I bet if I could find her picture in the paper or some ancient school yearbooks, I could ask around, see if any old-timers remember her, if they know anything about who she might have been hanging around at the time of the fire. It's a longshot, but maybe I can figure out who Norma's Them really was, find out who tried to kill us in our sleep.

Thinking this, Martin finally passed out.

They had a somewhat late start that morning. The Rye Police officers woke them at eight, informing them they were going off duty and no one would be taking over.

Martin drank several plastic cups full of water and Sheila let him sleep it off on the bed for another few hours while she went out looking for coffee. She returned to her room, drank her coffee with a small breakfast, took a shower, then knocked on the door separating her room from his.

He woke, still groggy, his back sore from having spent half the night on the floor. He cracked a mini bottle of scotch and drank it in one go.