Dance with the Devil Read Free Page B

did not over-react, but let the car move gently down the snowy track toward the bottom of the valley.
        Five minutes more, and she was on level land, ready to get out and pray at the nearest church. She felt she ought to thank someone for helping her down that awful incline.
        The roughly made highway fed into a more clearly defined street which she saw, shortly, was called Costerfeld Avenue. It was a somewhat grandiose title for a half mile of curbed macadam, but she would not have traded it for the poorly maintained state highway she had just left-not for a guarantee of wealth, health or immortality!
        In half a block, the mountain behind her was cut off by the great shafts of enormous pine trees which thrust up on either side of Costerfeld Avenue like sentinels guarding the approach to the town. Already, they were laden with soft, white snow like mounds of cotton or the gush of shaving foam from a spray can. Also, on either side of the street, small, snugly built houses were tucked back at the ends of short walks, slid in among stands of lesser trees-birch, elm, dwarf pine, dogwood. Perhaps, without the snow, it was a dirty place, as scarred and spread over with grime as any other neighborhood. In the snow, however, it was transformed into an almost fairylike scene, a cut of the North Pole straight out of a child's storybook. Snow hung from porch railings, softened the sharp angle of steps, whitened dark roofs and made marshmallows out of stubby chimneys. Indeed, it was all so still and lovely that it slowly ameliorated the fear she had felt in the descent of the mountain, just as the descent had shoved her fear of the Satanists to the background of her mind.
        Katherine Sellers wanted to be happy. It took very little, therefore, to influence her always-ready streak of optimism.
        Apparently, there were four main streets in Roxburgh, made up of the arms of two major roads which crossed in the center of the town to form a traditional “town square” with a small park in the center of it and stores on the outside of the circle. It would be interesting to explore the side streets and the curious little backwoods shops when she got a chance. But not now. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting across the small town and finding the road that lead up the other side of the valley towards Owlsden.
        Even as she thought that, the street broke from the pine boughs and began to angle up the other valley wall, only a few miles from the place where she had come down. Owlsden house waited at the top, looming over her, looking almost sentient, its dragon eyes glowing more fiercely the closer she drew to its gates.
        But, in the end, she did not get very close at all. Though driving up the icy slope was a good deal less trying than the uncontrolled descent had been, it was not nearly so easy on the Ford which fought the ascent at every turn. The tires spun in the dry snow and, at times, she found she was losing two feet of ground for every one that she surged forward. Again and again, she would gain a hundred yards on the slope, only to lose it in bits and pieces as the car slid inexorably backwards toward the village.
        If she had been superstitious, she would have said that this was an omen, a sign that she was not meant to reach Owlsden house.
        At last, wearier than she had realized, she let the Ford drift to the very bottom of the slope and backed it onto a widening in the berm where a picnic table rested under a huge willow. There was nothing left but to walk the last leg of the journey. Perhaps someone up at the house could bring her back, in a heavier car with chains around its tires, to collect her suitcases.
        She turned off the lights, shut off the engine, took the key from the ignition, and opened the door.
        Cold…
        The air seemed twice as bitter here as it had on top of the mountain where she had found and buried the cat. The wind