A savory aroma filled the brightly tiled kitchen of the Flanagan apartment. On the stove top, a thick stew simmered merrily, with bubbles making a happy little dance on its steaming surface. The rich, brown gravy spiraled at the touch of a gently swirling spoon. That spoon, dripping with goodness, was raised to touch a pair of neatly rouged lips.

"Mmmm..." purred the cook.

The cook was in her mid-thirties, a pert brunette whose hair was carefully styled. Under her apron and full-skirted, yellow dress, she was slim and shapely. Her long, arching neck was decorated with a tasteful strand of pearls. Her face beamed with vivacity and maternal love.

"Mommy's darlings hungry?" she asked.

An incoherent mewling sound was her answer.

A broad and indulgent smile spread over the cook's face. With a casual gesture of her hand, a few flecks of spice were drifted across the stew's surface. Big chunks of potatoes and carrots bobbed within the liquid contents of the pot, shouldering for space with cubes of savory meat. She continued to stir.

"Almost perfect," she said. "It makes Mommy so happy to know her babies will have a hot, healthy dinner so that they can grow up to be big and strong."

She frowned, and abruptly, she brought the spoon up out of the hot broth to peer into it. A shiny object glistened in the bowl.

The woman sighed. "So there is where Mrs. Flanagan's wedding ring disappeared to. Aren't we lucky I found it? Heaven forbid any of my little darlings should have swallowed it."

She cleaned off the ring and slipped it into one of the voluminous pockets of her apron. The overhead fluorescent lighting tube flickered its unnatural, bluish glow over her face. The edge of a cabinet cast a crooked shadow over her sparkling eyes. In the background, a softly-tuned radio played a popular song. The woman hummed along, absently.

Outside the kitchen window, the sky over South Boston had grown quite dark. Lights in the surrounding apartments were winking on, making buttery little squares in the blackness as the inhabitants returned home from work. All over town, dinners were being prepared, but none with quite such a unique taste as this one.

The woman felt a weak, but insistent tug at her apron.

"What's that?" she said. "Now, you know that dinner is almost ready. I don't want you to spoil your appetite."

Dark, hungry eyes gazed up at her. Those eyes didn't blink. They were dark, hollow, not the wide and innocent eyes of a little child, and deep inside them was a quality that was more than the usual demanding petulance of a tot.

She smiled down at the little face. "Oh, you scamp! You know I can't resist when you give me that look. Alright, just a taste, mind you!"

Strangely, instead of offering her child a taste from the spoon, she turned to the sink where a pile of soiled rags dripped juices into the drain and held up a scrap of printed cloth. Where she held the cloth, it was covered by the shadow cast by her body. The rag was dark and heavy, as if she had dipped it in the warm gravy of the stew.

"Now this is just a taste to tide you over, mind. Sort of like licking the spoon," said the cook. "Remember, I want you to clean your plate at dinner!"

She leaned down to hand over the little appetizer to her baby. As she reached out, a ray from the overhead light fixture fell upon the cloth that dangled from her fingers. It flashed a bright crimson before the child's little hand closed over it. She straightened up and watched her baby scamper away into the next room. In an instant it had left the pool of light in the kitchen and there was no trace of it but the scrabbling of claws on linoleum as it ran for a shadowy corner. After a few seconds, she could hear the soft sucking sounds as it drew forth the tempting juices. She shook her brown curls softly. Children were so sweet at this age.

The hungry child was gone now. The other children were playing quietly in their room. Now the woman could check on the dessert she had baking in the oven. It was something special, a surprise, and she hadn't wanted the child to see.

Using a towel to protect her hands, she pulled open the oven door. A blast of heat rose to hit her face. She breathed deep of the spicy, cinnamon-y aroma it carried. Her face took on a lurid glow as the oven light played over her features. She reached in to slide out the rack.

With a big ladle, she dipped juice from the baking dish and basted the dessert. She had never made this before, and was relieved to see that it was turning out just right. She imagined her children's delighted faces when she set this dish on the table before them. She was certain that no matter how full they were from dinner, they would find room for this!

She drizzled juice over the pineapple slices that were pinned into the crisped, grey hair. The hot liquid ran down to puddle in the shrunken ears. It trickled over the split skin of the forehead and mingled with the dark ichor that ran down the cheeks from the melted eyes. It dripped from the tip of the nose onto the apple that roasted in the open mouth.

"Mrs. Flanagan," sighed the cook, "you never looked more beautiful."

The woman straightened up now, and turned to call the children. The stark, fluorescent light fell in a revealing flood upon her face. Jagged shadows flitted across her optimistic features. Betty Wardlaw was on the loose again.

On a forgotten corner in the oldest part of town stood an ancient church. It was not a large building, but its massive stonework and dark, gothic arches often drew second glances from those who saw it for the first time. It seemed to the denizens of this neighborhood that the church had always occupied this location. It turned up in records from the very earliest days of Boston. The building was so old that no one even knew what denomination it served. No one attended services there, or even knew if services were held. There were those who whispered that it was not even a Christian edifice. It was known as the Chapel of the Saints of Night.

The priest of the church was another mystery. Father Tomasino was an ancient man, thin and bearded, who walked with a painful limp that hinted at some terrible injury hidden beneath his flowing, black cassock. He was rarely seen outside in the daylight, but known to be a constant presence in the old neighborhood. Those who glimpsed him, on rare occasions, engaged in such mundane chores as sweeping the steps or cleaning trash from around the building thought him to be some quaint, old relic of a man. Yet those few others who had seen him up close, or even met him, came away with the impression of hidden power, kept chained and ready for the moment of need. Like the church, no one could remember a time when he had not been there.

Through seasons and years, the man and the church had stood fast while the town grew and changed around them. Leaves turned from green to gold, snows fell and melted away, new spring flowers bloomed and faded. The road had changed from a muddy track to a paved, city street. The open fields had been divided into farms and subdivided into lots. The venerable, old trees had been cleared away and replaced by apartment buildings and shops. Yet the church looked as natural now, crammed between brick buildings, as it had when it had stood alone in a sunlit meadow. And the old man would have been equally odd in any time or any place.

The neighborhood residents generally ignored the old church, even though it was open to all. The mystery of the place did not concern them, and when some visitor asked about it, they simply shrugged their shoulders as if they had never given it a moment's thought. The Chapel seemed to exist in a place outside of normal, human awareness.

Despite what the people of the neighborhood thought, the church did have its visitors. They were people in need, in desperate need of the sort of help they could not get in the outside world. The world refused to believe what these people had seen and suffered. They entered those ancient walls when they had no place else to go.

Inside the sanctuary this night, the priest watched over a weeping girl. The young woman had seen her family killed and devoured before her very eyes. And yet it was not even this horror that had led her here. The two sat on a church pew, at arms' length, sharing a sense of horror at the day's events. The girl's exhausted sobbing echoed off the stone walls and trailed through darkened passages. Blazing candles revealed the anguish on the priest's face. He was well aware of the fateful error he had made, and moreover, he knew there was no way he could contain the horror on his own.

Father Tomasino sat beside a girl ton the church pew, commiserating in the fitful illumination of the lighted candles on the altar. The girl was in her early twenties, perhaps, and pretty, although her hair and clothing were in disarray. Her pale, bare feet were tucked beneath her on the seat. Tomasino allowed the girl to weep quietly until she was cried out. His powerful features gazed softly at her huddled form.

As he watched over her, he scarcely noticed another presence in the sanctuary until a quiet voice called him from the darkness.

"Father."

Tomasino looked up. This was the moment he had awaited with both dread and hope. A dark and sinuous shape stirred in the shadows. Candlelight glimmered on straight, sable hair that cascaded like a satiny, black shroud over alabaster shoulders. A sensuously curved body was delineated by the lines of a low cut, black dress. Ageless wisdom gazed from darkly glowing eyes.

"Femme Noir," whispered the priest. "You've come."

The dark lady stepped forward into the multi-hued light that glimmered off the stained glass windows. Those windows, that depicted scenes never displayed in a holy church, lent color to her milk and sable form. From those windows, the Saints of Darkness looked down upon the three beings.

The deep eyes of Femme Noir fell upon Father Tomasino. "She has left the Convent of the Nocturnal Sisters."

The priest bowed his head in acknowledgement of the words. "Yes," he said. "I learned just yesterday. She disappeared a week ago. The Abbess feared to tell me." His strong features quivered slightly as he continued. "And I ... I--"

"You thought to try and find her yourself," interjected the dark lady.

"I had thought to rescue that tormented child before she could further blacken her soul. I was so sure I could reach her."

The priest's reasoning sounded almost like a thin excuse for his error, but Femme Noir looked down at him without pity or condemnation. Her voice was gentle but her words carried the bitter sting of truth. "Betty Wardlaw is the living vessel of evil in this generation. Through no fault of her own, she is the helpless puppet of Hell's Restless Spirits. For her to have been allowed even a moment's freedom is a grave and irreparable mistake."

"The Abbess of the convent is old, Femme Noir," whispered the priest. "I, on the other hand, I have no excuse for my actions."

"You tried to avert this tragedy and you failed," answered the dark lady. "We have all made our mistakes where Betty Wardlaw is concerned. She grows stronger with every day that she roams freely in the world. What's done is done. Blame is of no use to us. All that matters is to find her and see to it that she can wreak no further evil."

"I fear that is easier said than done," said Tomasino.

"You are quite right," said Femme Noir. She laid her long, white hand on the shoulder of the young woman, who had ceased her weeping and was looking up in wonder at the mysterious woman who had appeared from the depths of darkness. "Tell me your name, child," she said.

The girl faced those darkly glowing eyes and answered, "Laura Flanagan."

Femme Noir's voice was strong and gentle as she said, "I want to hear your story, Laura."

And Laura Flanagan, taking strength from those eyes, began to speak.

"It was late afternoon," said Laura. "I had just gotten home from my shift at the drugstore, where I work at the cosmetics counter. I was sitting down, resting, with my shoes off. My feet hurt so from standing all day.

"There was a knock at the door. Mother was in the kitchen, beginning to prepare dinner. I was going to get up and answer it, but she told me to sit still. She knew how tired I was." A tear ran down Laura's cheek.

"We couldn't imagine who it could be. We never had visitors. My younger sister teased me and said it was the boy from downstairs to call on me. Mother made her be still before she would open the door.

"When we saw who it was, we never thought anything could be wrong. It was a lady. And she was so pretty. She had a little toddler in her arms, and she was obviously expecting a baby soon. She seemed so nice that when she asked to come in and use the telephone that we didn't think twice about letting her come in. When she came in she started talking. She was so cheerful and she just seemed to forget all about the phone call she needed to make. Then she wanted to know what Mother was cooking and they went out to the kitchen."

Here, Laura broke down again and Femme Noir waited patiently for some minutes while she regained her composure. The dark lady's hand stroked Laura's hair with slow, reassuring grace. Gradually, the sobs quieted and once again the girl was able to speak.

"They were out in the kitchen talking," said Laura. "I was sitting in the chair, and I heard the pots clatter on the floor. Before I could get up, I heard a thump, then the sound of a body--it was Mother's body--falling to the floor, then more thumps. By the time I got to the kitchen doorway it was all over. I saw the lady crouching over Mother's body. There was blood everywhere and she was holding a bloody knife. It was just ... just ... horrible.

"And then she looked up at me, and gave me the biggest, friendliest smile I ever saw."

The girl stopped talking and Femme Noir exchanged a look with Father Tomasino. If there had been any doubt about the murderer's identity, the description of that smile settled it. In their minds they could easily picture Betty Wardlaw's sunny expression while wreaking gory havoc on a helpless, screaming victim. They had seen it before.

Laura began speaking again. Her eyes were focused on some faraway scene that no one could see but her.

"Then I saw my sister, Jenny. She had been in the kitchen too, I guess, getting a snack or something. But the little toddler was holding onto her ... with its claws! Its claws! It was looking at her and it looked so hungry. I had never imagined anything like it. And it was making noises.

"The lady looked at it, just the way a mother might look at a little child, and said ... Oh my God, she said, "No snacks, darling. You mustn't spoil your dinner." Then she looked back at me, and I could see in her eyes that she was gathering her strength to leap. It was just like looking into an animal's eyes, except that it was this lady and she looked so happy and friendly.

"I ran away.

"Oh God, I turned around and ran out the door as fast as I could. I pounded on all the neighbors' doors but nobody answered. I guess everyone was gone. And I was just sure the lady was after me again. I could feel it even though I couldn't see her. I ran down the stairs and out of the building. And I didn't stop running until ... somehow I ended up here. And this priest ... this good man ... took me in and listened."

The girl's head dropped to her hands and she convulsed in a new set of racking sobs.

"My sister ... she's still there ... I ran away and left her..."

Father Tomasino took the girl's hand. "There, there, child. Everything will be alright. You must stay here. I will see that you are kept safe."

Laura's head snapped up and she screamed, "But I left my sister with that monster!"

"Don't worry about your sister," said Femme Noir. "I'm sure the girl is still alive and well. I will go now to your home and see if I can release her. Father Tomasino is right. You must rest for now. There is nothing more you can do."

With that slight comfort, the dark lady turned and stepped once more into the shadows from whence she had appeared. The priest excused himself and ran to catch her before she could leave the chapel.

"Do you think that was wise," he said, "getting the girl's hopes up that way? I fear that the child must be dead by now. Heaven knows how this poor girl will react when she learns her sister's fate now that she thinks there is a chance."

Femme Noir turned her dark eyes upon the priest. Those eyes contained an ageless wisdom at which Tomasino could only wonder. "I am sure the child still lives," she said.

"But why?" asked Father Tomasino. "Why do you think that?"

"Even Betty Wardlaw cannot live forever," said Femme Noir. "She has done the bidding of Hell's Restless Spirits for many years now, ever since she was a child herself. The time has come for her to recruit her replacement."

"Oh my God!" gasped the startled priest. "That innocent young girl..."

"May not be innocent for much longer," said the dark lady. "Once the Disturber of Souls gets hold of her, she will become the next Vessel of Evil, and then Betty Wardlaw's time on Earth will be at an end."

"You must find the girl!" hissed Father Tomasino. He looked back to see if Laura Flanagan had heard the brief conversation, but the girl was slumped in the pew, apparently lost in her own thoughts.

"You are absolutely right," answered Femme Noir. "The child must be found as soon as possible. Time is of the essence and a soul hangs in the balance!"