The Night Church.
by Whitley Strieber.
Prologue.
AUGUST 1963.
IT WAS A WET NIGHT in Queens. Kew Gardens was quiet, the only sounds along Beverly Road the slow-dripping rain, the occasional hiss of tires on the slick asphalt, or the hurrying splash of feet on the sidewalk.
A man came swiftly along, huddling in his raincoat, his eyes hooded by a hat. When he stopped and raised his head to read a street sign his face was revealed to be as pale and creased as a worn-out mask. The wrinkles framed a tight mouth and green eyes, ironic and cold. He consulted an address book, then walked up to the front door of a particu-lar house. It had been carefully selected; the tenants had moved here only a few weeks ago from another state. Their little boy had not yet begun attending Holy Spirit Parochial School, had not yet registered.
The Cochrans were a demographic oddity of very special interest to certain people, for the Cochrans had no relatives but one another, and the Cochrans had just come here. They were utterly alone.
The old man did not ring their bell; he did not even pause on the porch. Instead he glanced over his shoulder, then slipped around the side of the house and disappeared at once Into the shadows there.
He moved quickly; his activities here were carefully planned. They were dangerous. Occasionally people such as these had guns; occasionally they called the police.
They never understood. Always, there was resistance.
Franklin Titus began to work on the basement door.
Inside the house nine thirty came and went. Letty Coch-ran sent little Jerry to bed. She and George settled back to watch the second half of the Garry Moore show.
"Mom?"
Frank Fontaine was starting to sing, "Maytime"; Letty had just closed her eyes. She sighed. "Why aren't you in bed, dear?"
"There's someone in the house."
George lit a cigarette, did not stir. Letty got up and went to their boy. She was concerned. Jerry was not a fearful child. He was spunky. Seeing him standing before her, wide-eyed, full of his innocent fright, she felt great sympathy and love for him.
"Just us, dear."
"It's a man. He was coming up from the basement, but when I saw him he stepped back into the pantry."
This was not baseless fear. Jerry was terrified. "Come on, Jer, let's go see if we can shoo him out."
Jerry followed her into the hall, tugging at her arm. "No, Mom, don't go in there. He was a real person. I wasn't dreaming."
"Jerry, honey, are you all right?"
Before he could answer she heard a sound from the basement-a short, bitter remark, like a curse. She gathered her boy into her arms.
"George! I think Jerry's right. There's someone in the basement."
Her husband was beside them in an instant, his big hand covering her shoulder. "I'll go take a look.
Probably a cat."
He opened the basement door, reached into the darkness, and tightened the light bulb that hung over the stairs. "Noth-ing down there."
"I certainly heard something."
"I'll go down." As soon as he started descending the stairs Letty was seized with foreboding. Fear battled cau-tion; she wanted to stay with George, but she didn't want to go down those stairs. "Hey," he said, "you two really are scared!" He held out his arms, took Jerry. "Come on, big boy, let's us check this thing out."
As he clumped down he swayed from side to side with the weight of his nine-year-old.
"Daddy, don't! Don't take me!"
Couldn't he see he was scaring the poor child even more? Letty started down after them, her heart going out to Jerry.
"George, honey, let him-"
"I know what I'm doing!"
George was only a month back from Viet Nam. He felt Letty had pampered their son during his absence, that the boy was growing up soft. Easygoing George had come home to her with deep hurts, dark and violent things inside him that Letty was learning to fear. The war had wounded him, and his pain was leaking out all over his wife and son.
He put the boy down beside the old black furnace. "You see, son, nobody here, not even behind it. The room's empty."
Jerry did not answer; instead he simply looked up. Letty followed his eyes. All three of them fell silent.
One after another the floorboards above their heads were giving under weight. Someone was walking, very softly, from the kitchen into the living room. The footsteps stopped in front of the TV.
"George, listen!"
"Shut up!"
Garry was just starting the "That Wonderful Year" seg-ment of the show. His voice stopped. The TV had been turned off.
"What in hell-" Leaving Letty and Jerry behind, George mounted the steps three at a time. Letty was terrified now. She grabbed her son by the arm and rushed up right behind George.
The living room was empty. George stood in front of the couch, staring at the old DuMont.
It was off.
"What the hell's going on here, some kind of a prank?"
"Shouldn't we call the police?"
"What's the complaint? Somebody turned off our TV? Big deal." He flipped it back on.
It took a moment to warm up. When it did, though, it just hissed and showed snow. George twisted the dial. Nothing, no stations. "Broke the damn thing," he muttered. "Big sonofabitching joke!" She could tell when he was really angry; the army always re-entered his vocabulary.
He turned the switch off and on a few times. Then, abruptly, there came a sound out of the machine that was so big, so utterly shattering in its intensity, that it struck them all like a great pounding fist. Letty felt herself falling, saw the room turn upside down, floated as if by magic to the floor.
Then the sound was gone. She was sitting on the couch. "What-w-what?"
"Darling-"
What was she trying to remember? "I. . . maybe I dozed off. I dreamed we were in the basement. . . ."
George drew her to him. "Put the boy to bed." He started fondling her breasts.
"Not in front of Jerry!" She pushed at him and he stopped.
"Put the boy to bed."
She shook her head. "Gosh, I feel funny. I had this dream while I was still awake. We went to the basement, I was real scared. . . ."
"I was asleep too. Guess we're overtired."
"I guess."
He started in on her again. "Not now!" She gave his hand a pat.
"Put the boy to bed."
Little Jerry was already in his pajamas, playing with his toy trains in the hallway behind them.
"Come on, darling, bedtime."
He padded along behind his mother. When they reached the bedroom she gave him a goodnight kiss, embracing him, feeling the solidity and warmth of him, smelling his clean smell, loving him so very much.
"Goodnight, Jerry. You sleep tight, now."
"You too, Mom."
"And say your prayers. Guardian Angel and three Hail Marys."
"I will, Mom."
She left him, then, to the dark of his little room.
George was waiting for her. Liberace's TV show was just starting. She sank down into George's arms as the swelling music filled the room.
Neither of them heard the slight click made by the pantry door as it opened, nor the sigh as a raincoat brushed past the dining room curtains, nor the hiss of breath, which was the only sound the old man made as he stood in the hallway watching them.
"Lover," George whispered, "Lover . . ." How she adored her George with his tough ways and tender heart. She snuggled closer to him, inhaling the mixture of Jade East aftershave and tobacco that was his odor.
"You will give me your son."
Now what was that he had said? "George?"
"Yeah?"
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
"I thought you said something."
"Musta been the TV."
"There's nobody talking." Liberace smiled radiantly, re-splendent in his rhinestone dinner jacket. He was playing Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsody Number One," and nobody was talking.
"You will give him to me."
Letty felt an awful, queasy sensation, as if she had just smelled something dead. "Oh, George, I feel sick!"
He didn't seem to notice. He was fooling with the TV. "I think we're picking up that Hartford station again. There's some kind of a drama or something. That's what we're hearing on the audio."
"You will give him to me. Say yes, both of you. Yes!"
Letty was dizzy, so much so that she couldn't even think straight. Somebody wanted something from her, somebody important wanted her to say yes, to give away little Jerry. . ..
"No!"
A terrible silence entered the room. George seemed fro-zen before the TV. Something touched Letty's shoulder. She could feel cold fingers digging into her muscles. Her soul screamed revulsion-the hand even felt felt wicked. wicked.
"He's only going away to school, Letty. The finest school in the world. And you and George are entering a new life, with new hopes and new beliefs. A better life than you have ever known before." The voice seemed now to be coming from inside her own head, yet she was aware of a dim form in the room, a man leaning against the far wall beside the picture of the new Pope she had just hung up yesterday, a man who was all hat and coat and hypnotic voice. A man who was evil in a way Letty could hardly believe, totally, utterly, in every atom of his being.
So evil he might not even be a man. But his voice curled and twisted through her mind like seductive smoke.
"A new church, Letty, and you and George are going to hear about it soon, and revere it, and join it."
"N-n-n.. ."
"When you join, you will see Jerry again, you will come to visit him at his new school. You will let me take him now, Letty." The voice penetrated deeper and deeper, seeming to caress her very soul. "Say yes, say yes.. . ."
She had an impression, quite clearly, that she was looking directly into the yellow-green eyes of a snake.
A thing thing of dreadful, overwhelming evil. of dreadful, overwhelming evil.
And overwhelming beauty.
But she could not scream, was no longer sure she wanted to. Even so she found she was opening her mouth, forming a word. . . . She struggled against it, fought herself, felt it welling up between clenched teeth. "Yes," she said, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"
George crumpled before the TV, struggling like a trussed animal as Liberace smiled and played. He said it too, a stifled whisper of a yes.
"Both of you, again!"
"Yes, take him, yes!"