The sinking feeling started in the pit of her stomach. It was slightly nauseating, but familiar. She went with it—let’s get inside, gently, please, gently, this is my baby, my only baby, what’s wrong here, let me find out what’s wrong. She felt herself in a dark tunnel, like a mine shaft, with roughhewn walls. Light from an indeterminate source glinted along the chips and ridges in the walls and ceiling. She passed wooden doors, each one locked securely with solid wrought-iron hinges and handles. She pulled and tugged and tried to find locks on each one as she passed, but nothing. They wouldn’t budge.

She continued down the corridor, perplexed, looking for an answer; she found herself amazed that the mind held such hallways, such rooms. What on earth was behind the doors?

Then she heard the noise, or felt it more than heard it. A deep, throaty rumbling, so low as to make the floor of the tunnel vibrate. Just ahead she could see a larger door, and the light seemed to come from its translucent surface. Got to get there, got to get that open to release my daughter. She kept on, carefully, the vibration growing as she progressed.

The rumbling increased. She suddenly identified it as a growl, and she stopped, heart pounding, as the nastiness spread toward her. The protective growl increased in volume, a warning to stay away, go away, leave it all alone. She took one more step, and a snarl, an open-mouthed, teeth-bared snarl, made her flesh crawl. The thought of teeth biting into her flesh made her shiver; her next thought—of those teeth rending her daughter’s mind—strengthened her. She stepped out again.

Out of the darkness charged a giant animal, yellow eyes bright with fury. Pure-white canine teeth flashed in the light, as foamy saliva flew in all directions. She fell back in surprise, in terror, and the jaws snapped shut on air just a fraction of an inch in front of her.

Fern opened her eyes. She was on her back on the hard wooden floor. Martha was sitting up, staring straight ahead, perspiration standing out on her upper lip. Fern caught her breath and stood up slowly, feeling the bruises already stiffening her back and arms. She sat again on the edge of the bed, and stroked Martha’s hand. It was cool and damp. She gathered the stiff child to her and rocked her back and forth until she could feel Martha relax. Fern laid her back down on the bed, and Martha’s eyes closed. Soon she was softly snoring the sleep of childhood. In fear and wonderment, Fern sat and watched her sleep.

15

CHAPTER 15