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the medication?"

"Yes, but it's not being so effective tonight" She frowned and shook her head.

"Restless, is she?" The wind coming off the sea picked up and even in the deepest parts of the big house we could hear it rush over the roof and windows, sounding more like the sea than the air.

"Yes. She's been muttering about Abdulla Bar. She claims she hears the horse galloping around the house, whinnying. She was so intent about it, so positive she heard it, she got to me, I have to confess. I actually sent Curtis out earlier to see if any of the horses had broken loose. Of course, none had."

"Oh, dear. Should I inform Mr. Tatterton? Perhaps we--"

"No, no. I just wanted to have a moment's conversation with someone, other than one of the servants. They sometimes get me more unnerved than Mrs. Tatterton does." She squeezed my hand. "It's all right. It will be all right. We'll all go to sleep now. Don't worry."

"Just call me if there is any problem. Don't hesitate."

"Thank you, Mrs. Stonewall. I'm so happy you've decided to stay here. It's comforting knowing you are just down the corridor," she said, an audible tone of relief in her voice.

"Good night, Martha." I patted her hand and went to my suite.

As I prepared for bed the rain began, heavy, hard, pounding and scratching at the windows. To me it sounded like so many small creatures scurrying up and down the glass. When I looked out, it was like looking into a black velvet curtain. Only an occasional streak of lightning permitted any visibility and when that jolt of heavenly electricity ripped across the cold, coal-black sky, it distorted everything below--trees, gazebo, lawn furniture. Everything looked liquid, oozing across my field of vision, changing shapes, elongating, heaving. It was a nightmare world. A night it would be easy to see ghosts in. I closed my curtains tightly and pulled back the quilt on my bed, anxious to go to sleep and wake up to the warm, morning sun.

I turned out the lights and pulled the quilt up to my shoulders, snuggled in the warmth, and closed my heavy eyelids. Fortunately, I fell asleep almost immediately.

But I wasn't asleep long before something woke me. It was pitch black in my bedroom, but I sensed another presence. What had awoken me, I realized, was the sound of the door being opened, the small click of the handle. For a few moments I stared into the darkness, vaguely making out a shape.

"Who's there?" I asked in a hoarse whisper. My heart began to pound. I felt cold terror creep up my body. "Is someone there? Tony?"

I heard the sound of footsteps and then saw the door open and close, getting only a glimpse of the figure who had entered and left. This mysterious person was too much in darkness for me to make out any identity.

I leapt out of bed, turning on the small night lamp on the table by my side. Then I put on my robe and went to the door. The lights in the corridor had been dimmed, so that all the shadows were wider, longer. I thought I heard a door close and I stepped farther out to listen and look, but there was no one in sight. Could it have been Jillian? I wondered. Had she gotten past a sleeping Martha Goodman and come down to my suite? Or had it been Tony, coming to tell me something and then changing his mind? I listened a little longer and then turned to go back into my suite, when I felt the dampness beneath my feet. I knelt down and touched the carpet. Whoever it was had brought the rain in with him

Troubled and confused, I returned to bed. It hadn't occurred to me to lock my bedroom door before, but this time I did. Still, I remained awake for the longest time, and when I finally did fall asleep, it was a relief. I awoke to the sounds of the house coming alive-- servants moving about, windows and curtains being opened, breakfast being prepared. I listened for a few moments and then quickly sat up in bed.

Had I imagined a nocturnal visitor last night? Dreamt it? Or had someone been here? I slipped into my robe and slippers and went to my bedroom door. It was locked. If I hadn't dreamt doing that, I couldn't have dreamt the other things. I opened the door to the suite and looked down at the hallway carpet. The dampness was gone, but there was other evidence. Someone had tracked in a little mud. Who had it been?

I dressed quickly, determined to solve the mystery, but I couldn't question Tony. He had already had his early breakfast and left Farthy for work. So I cornered Curtis in the dining room and asked him if he knew anything about it. Obviously, it was not a wise thing to do. The man became absolutely terrified. He obviously thought I had confirmed one of Rye Whiskey's tales of the supernatural.

"No, Mrs. Stonewall," he said. "I wasn't walking about and I didn't see anyone, but it's not the first time someone has been heard wandering about the house at night Rye Whiskey says it's got to be one of Mr. Tatterton's ancestors. He says one might have been murdered and his soul's still lost."

"That's ridiculous. Tell Rye I want to speak to him "

"Very good, ma'am," Curtis said and

disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later Rye appeared. The burly gray-haired black man looked as if he had been up all night himself.

"What is this about a murdered ancestor wandering through the halls at night? Don't you think that maybe you're taking these stories too far, Rye? You have Curtis believing it and Martha Goodman says many of the other servants shiver in their bones."

He smiled at me and shook his head.

"You heard him last night, is that it, Miss Heaven?" He nodded as if coaching me to answer.

"I heard something and saw someone, a glimpse, but it wasn't a ghost," I said, looking away.

"I heard him, too," Rye said.

"And you drank your fears away, drank yourself to sleep?" I demanded, turning back to him. "Is that it?" He didn't have to confess; I could see it in his face. "The servants are really becoming spooked, Rye. Do you want me to tell Mr. Tatterton what's happening here?"

"He already knows, Miss Heaven," Rye said, leaning toward me. "I've seen him up at night wandering about himself, listening, searching. Who knows?" Rye said, standing straight again. "Maybe Mr. Tatterton has met his dead relative?"

For a moment I just stared at him.