touch him, half to see what was on the computer screen. She arrived: architectural plans.
“Okay,” she said.
Twice miffed, she tuned her husband out the rest of the evening. And she felt a pang of loneliness, on the other side of the continent from her best friends and passively ignored by her husband.
And this “Ronny” nonsense didn’t help, either.
In fact, the uneasiness about “Ronny” carried over for several more days. Twice a week, Rebecca phoned her widowed mother in Illinois. Somehow, in their next conversation, Rebecca drifted toward what was bothering her: the imaginary friend both her children saw.
This Ronny.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rebecca’s mother answered. “Patrick and Karen left friends behind in the East. So they’re imagining new ones until they’re secure with their new playmates at school.”
Rebecca thought about it. And her instincts were at work again, the same extra sense that had once told her in a Connecticut parking lot that her life was in danger. Here she didn’t feel danger. She just felt… well,
creepy
.
Silly, she told herself, but sometimes in the house she had that old sense of being watched again. Under observation, from an unknown point, someone hidden somewhere.
“It still unnerves me a little,” she admitted to her mother.
“Don’t let it, dear. Your nerves are still tingling from that horrible incident in Connecticut. And Ronny will be replaced by real friends in a matter of days.”
“I guess,” she said with a sigh. Sometimes mothers are right, even on the long distance horn.
Like clockwork, within the next few days, Patrick and Karen started talking more about new acquaintances at school. No more mention of Ronny. And Rebecca didn’t ask about him. Somehow she associated him with trouble, though she didn’t quite know why.
But indeed, he had vanished. To celebrate, Rebecca convinced Bill that they should throw their party on the first Saturday in October.
Silently, he brooded about the date for several minutes. Then he gave his blessing.
“Yeah. That’ll work,” he said. “It’ll give us time to fix the place up a little. It won’t look so bare when we have people in.”
She smiled and kissed her husband on the cheek. She went out the next day and picked out fifty invitations. Almost without notice, her sense of being observed vanished at the same time.
There was another positive note, too. Over the next two days, Bill stripped the walls in the turret room and prepared them with white primer. Rebecca held her breath as her husband worked. Deep down, as she was afraid to admit to anyone, she had this horrible sense of dread that something terrible was about to happen.
But the first step of renewing the room went without incident. It was a complete success. The stench even receded when the old wallpaper was torn away.
And best of all, she thought to herself, no Ronny.
Chapter 7
Two afternoons later, a sunny Wednesday, Rebecca was stepping out of her car in front of her new home. She heard another vehicle on the road. She turned. She saw the dark haired woman in the yellow Mustang convertible. The woman — California plates HOTCHIK — drove past her without acknowledgment. Rebecca had been about to raise her own hand to wave, but the convertible passed too quickly.
As she unloaded her own car, without being obvious, Rebecca watched the yellow car. A garage door rose automatically in the house three doors down and the car disappeared within.
Then, again with unseen hands, the garage door closed.
Rebecca turned her attention back to the contents of her car’s trunk. Paint and rollers. Brushes and pans. The turret room was soon to undergo phase two of the Moores’ full attack. Rebecca made two trips into the house with her purchases. She came back outside to make sure she had locked the car. She thought she was alone when someone spoke to her.
“Hi!” The voice was female and came from behind her. Rebecca turned. There was a
“Okay,” she said.
Twice miffed, she tuned her husband out the rest of the evening. And she felt a pang of loneliness, on the other side of the continent from her best friends and passively ignored by her husband.
And this “Ronny” nonsense didn’t help, either.
In fact, the uneasiness about “Ronny” carried over for several more days. Twice a week, Rebecca phoned her widowed mother in Illinois. Somehow, in their next conversation, Rebecca drifted toward what was bothering her: the imaginary friend both her children saw.
This Ronny.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rebecca’s mother answered. “Patrick and Karen left friends behind in the East. So they’re imagining new ones until they’re secure with their new playmates at school.”
Rebecca thought about it. And her instincts were at work again, the same extra sense that had once told her in a Connecticut parking lot that her life was in danger. Here she didn’t feel danger. She just felt… well,
creepy
.
Silly, she told herself, but sometimes in the house she had that old sense of being watched again. Under observation, from an unknown point, someone hidden somewhere.
“It still unnerves me a little,” she admitted to her mother.
“Don’t let it, dear. Your nerves are still tingling from that horrible incident in Connecticut. And Ronny will be replaced by real friends in a matter of days.”
“I guess,” she said with a sigh. Sometimes mothers are right, even on the long distance horn.
Like clockwork, within the next few days, Patrick and Karen started talking more about new acquaintances at school. No more mention of Ronny. And Rebecca didn’t ask about him. Somehow she associated him with trouble, though she didn’t quite know why.
But indeed, he had vanished. To celebrate, Rebecca convinced Bill that they should throw their party on the first Saturday in October.
Silently, he brooded about the date for several minutes. Then he gave his blessing.
“Yeah. That’ll work,” he said. “It’ll give us time to fix the place up a little. It won’t look so bare when we have people in.”
She smiled and kissed her husband on the cheek. She went out the next day and picked out fifty invitations. Almost without notice, her sense of being observed vanished at the same time.
There was another positive note, too. Over the next two days, Bill stripped the walls in the turret room and prepared them with white primer. Rebecca held her breath as her husband worked. Deep down, as she was afraid to admit to anyone, she had this horrible sense of dread that something terrible was about to happen.
But the first step of renewing the room went without incident. It was a complete success. The stench even receded when the old wallpaper was torn away.
And best of all, she thought to herself, no Ronny.
Chapter 7
Two afternoons later, a sunny Wednesday, Rebecca was stepping out of her car in front of her new home. She heard another vehicle on the road. She turned. She saw the dark haired woman in the yellow Mustang convertible. The woman — California plates HOTCHIK — drove past her without acknowledgment. Rebecca had been about to raise her own hand to wave, but the convertible passed too quickly.
As she unloaded her own car, without being obvious, Rebecca watched the yellow car. A garage door rose automatically in the house three doors down and the car disappeared within.
Then, again with unseen hands, the garage door closed.
Rebecca turned her attention back to the contents of her car’s trunk. Paint and rollers. Brushes and pans. The turret room was soon to undergo phase two of the Moores’ full attack. Rebecca made two trips into the house with her purchases. She came back outside to make sure she had locked the car. She thought she was alone when someone spoke to her.
“Hi!” The voice was female and came from behind her. Rebecca turned. There was a
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