They were certifiably nuts, all of them, but the lead was intriguing, and Peter Dulaney had endured worse than a few hours of psychic mumbo jumbo to get a story. He stood in his apartment living room and ran a final check: notebooks, pens, tape recorder ready to roll. He'd even remembered to wind the tape to the proper starting point. Tonight's interview would smoothly follow the last interview he'd conducted in this dopey investigation.

For this he'd passed up an evening with Katie?

He shook his head. What a good little doobie he was!

This story probably wasn't worth the sacrifice. He already felt more like a reporter for the National Enquirer than for the respectable Baltimore Sun. Here he was, traipsing around after psychic readers, disembodied spirits, and cult members. Even his Journalism 101 professor would have recoiled in disgust.

There'd been, however, something undeniably pathetic about the quaver in his source's voice, about his utter conviction that a very real danger existed. "Please be careful," Mr. Toohey constantly implored, and while Peter doubted that the cult could do anything worse than bore him silly, Mr. Toohey's fear was too real to dismiss without adequate investigation.

Peter checked his watch. Maybe the cult members would cast a spell on him, turn him into a newt or something.

Seven forty-five. Time to hit the road. He bent toward his notebooks, then snapped ramrod-straight as a now-familiar chill crept up his spine. Damn, it was happening again! Worse, the attacks were definitely increasing in frequency. They'd started sporadically, right after he'd begun investigating this story. Now he could count on at least two a day.

The chill raced through his body. His teeth began to chatter. Resigned, Peter sank to the sofa to wait it out.

Now he'd be late.

No doubt about it, tonight's attack was worse than usual. The chills raced up and down as if searching for corners they might have missed. His stomach felt like a goddamned roller coaster.

"Okay!" he said as violent spasms racked his body. "I'll see a doctor. I promise!"

A bang on the front door made him jump. The chills stopped. Maybe they were like hiccups, requiring only a good scare to startle them out of the system. Peter leaped from the couch and hurried toward the door, then stopped halfway to reconsider. He wasn't expecting visitors and had no time to waste with Girl Scouts, Jehovah's Witnesses, or salespeople. Why answer? Surely whoever stood in the hallway would take the hint and leave.

Another thud. Peter furrowed his brow. Sounded like the next approach would involve a battering ram. He shifted his weight somewhat uneasily and took a tentative step forward.

The chills were back, but they were different from anything he'd experienced before. His apartment felt frigid. He passed a shaky hand in front of the window air conditioner. No, the air blew as ineffectively as always.

He suddenly recognized that the cold emanated from a definite source. Swallowing hard, he turned to stare at the front door.

The knock pounded again, more insistently. Peter drew in a wavering breath. "Okay," he said.

He walked cautiously toward the door, stopping only to press the red button on his tape recorder.

Copyright © 2003 by Jill Morrow