Winter Moon

If it was a psychological problem, there was no doubt about the

cause.

They'd been through a traumatic year, enough to drive a grown man--let

alone a child--to a breakdown.

But what was the trigger, why now, why here, why after all these many

months, during which the poor kid had seemed to cope so well?

"In what bodies?" Toby demanded sharply.

"Come on," Jack said, taking the boy's gloved hand. "Let's go back to

the house."

"In what bodies did they go on?"

"Toby, stop this."

"Need to know. Tell me now. Tell me."

"Oh, dear God, don't let this happen."

Still on his knees, Jack said, "Listen, come back to the house with me

so we can--" Toby wrenched his hand out of his father's grasp, leaving

Jack with the empty glove.

"In what bodies?"

The small face was without expression, as placid as still water, yet

the words burst from the boy in a tone of ice-cold rage.

Jack had the eerie feeling that he was conversing with a

ventriloquist's dummy that could not match its wooden features to the

tenor of its words.

"In what bodies?"

This wasn't a breakdown. A mental collapse didn't happen this

suddenly, completely, without warning signs.

"In what bodies?"

This wasn't Toby. Not Toby at all. Ridiculous. Of course it was

Toby. Who else?

Someone talking through Toby. Crazy thought, weird. Through Toby?

Nevertheless, kneeling there in the graveyard, gazing into his son's

eyes, Jack no longer saw the blankness of a mirror, although he was

aware of his own frightened eyes in twin reflections. He didn't see

the innocence of a child, either, or any familiar quality. He

perceived--or was imagining--another presence, something both less and

more than human, a strangeness beyond comprehension, peering out at him

from within Toby.

"In what bodies?"

Jack couldn't work up any saliva. Tongue stuck to the roof of his

mouth. Couldn't swallow, either. He was colder than the wintry day

could explain. Suddenly much colder. Beyond freezing.

He'd never felt anything like it before. A cynical part of him thought

he was being ridiculous, hysterical, leting himself be swept away by

primitive superstition-- because he could not face the thought of Toby

having a psychotic episode and slipping into mental chaos. On the

other hand, it was precisely the primitive nature of the perception

that convinced him another presence shared the body of his son: he felt

it on a primal level, deeper than he had ever felt anything before, it

was a knowledge more certain than any that could be arrived at by

intellect, a profound and irrefutable animal instinct, as if he'd

captured the scent of an enemy's pheromones, his skin was tingling with

the vibrations of an inhuman aura. His gut clenched with fear. Sweat

broke out on his forehead the flesh crimped along the nape of his

neck.

He wanted to spring to his feet, scoop Toby into his arms, run down the

hill to the house, and remove him from the influence of the entity that

held him in its thrall. Ghost, demon, ancient Indian spirit?

No, ridiculous. But something, damn it. Something.

He hesitated, partly because he was transfixed by what he thought he

saw in the boy's eyes, partly because he feared that forcing a break of

the connection between Toby and whatever was linked with him would

somehow harm the boy, perhaps damage him mentally. Which didn't make

any sense, no sense at all. But then none of it made sense.

A dreamlike quality characterized the moment and the place. It was

Toby's voice, yes, but not his usual speech patterns or inflections:

"In what bodies did they go on from here?"

Jack decided to answer.

Holding Toby's empty glove in his hand, he had the terrible feeling

that he must play along or be left with a son as limp and hollow as the

glove, a drained shell of a boy, form without content, those beloved

eyes vacant forever.

And how insane was that? His mind spun. He seemed poised on the brink

of an abyss, teetering out of balance. Maybe he was the one having the

breakdown.

He said, "They didn't need bodies, Skipper. You know that. Nobody

needs bodies in heaven."

"They are bodies," the Toby-thing said cryptically. "Their bodies

are."

"Not any more. They're spirits now."

"Don't understand."

"Sure you do. Souls. Their souls went to heaven."

"Bodies are."

"Went to heaven to be with God."

"Bodies are."

Toby stared through him. Deep in Toby's eyes, however, like a coiling

thread of smoke, something moved. Jack sensed that something was

regarding him intensely.

"Bodies are. Puppets are. What else?" Jack didn't know how to

respond.

The breeze coming across the flank of the sloped yard was as cold as if

it had skimmed over a glacier on its way to them. The Toby-thing

returned to the first question that it had asked: "What are they doing

down there?"

Jack glanced at the graves, then into the boy's eyes, deciding to be

straightforward. He wasn't actually talking to a little boy, so he

didn't need to use euphemisms. He was crazy, imagining the whole

conversation as well as the inhuman presence. Either way, what he said

didn't matter.

"They're dead."

"What is dead?"

"They are. These three people buried here."