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  MARY’S SON IS STRANGE AND WILD. MARY’S SON IS THE DEVIL’S CHILD.

  Beneath the floorboards under Mary’s feet, Imp stalks and slithers through the ooze, through the festering stench of ancient decay. His playmates are the creatures of the night; his toys, their twisted, broken bodies.

  And only Mary knows. Because Imp is her child, her creation, her demented, hellish vision … the evil she imprisons in the darkness below.

  But Imp is getting restless. So much out there to smell, to touch, to lick … to claw, to tear apart … Soon the little innocents will writhe in screaming agony. Soon the son of Satan will seize the howling Earth…

  IMP

  CREATURE of DARK DREAMS…

  The little girl couldn’t take her eyes off Imp. His hair was matted and longer than hers, his body streaked with dirt. “Where are your clothes?” she demanded.

  He reached up slowly to touch her fine, blond hair. It was as exciting as he had imagined. His little red tongue darted like a serpent’s.

  His fingers folded now like a bird’s claw, now opening and closing spasmodically.

  He saw her hand before him, got overly excited, and grasped it too quickly, his long nails digging into her dainty skin. She screamed…

  Books by Andrew Neiderman

  Imp

  Tender Loving Care

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1985 by Andrew Neiderman Productions, Inc.

  Cover artwork copyright © 1985 Lisa Falkenstern

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-50786-9

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-8225-0 (eBook)

  First Pocket Books printing April, 1985

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  FOR DIANE,

  BECAUSE IT GETS STRONGER

  “AS TIME GOES BY”

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  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  PREFACE

  Old Cy Baum paused on his early evening jaunt. Usually, he covered the whole street, from his place all the way down to the turn leading into Centerville. There were ten other houses beside his on Wildwood Drive, but they were spaced far apart with woods and fields between them. This was still one of the quietest and prettiest secondary roads in the township. People guarded their clear land closely; there was little interest in giving any of it up to further home development. Cy liked it that way and hoped it would never change. In fact, he was disappointed when the O’Neils sold their parcel, opening it up to home construction, twenty years ago. Before that, there were only three houses here: his, the O’Neils’, and the Oakses’.

  All of his contemporaries on this road were dead. He was friendly enough with all their children; all except Mary Oaks. Widowed in her thirties, she was a tight-lipped, uncongenial sort wrapped up in her religious zealousness and her teenage daughter. The girl was pleasant enough, but always looked a little frightened. He imagined Mary Oaks had somehow poisoned her against him.

  Two bats circling Mary Oaks’ porch light were what stopped him. The sight of them froze him. He could tolerate most any animal, had hunted and trapped almost every kind of game available in this part of the Catskills, but bats turned his stomach. He’d handled snakes, even kept one alive by his house, fed raccoons, let beaver live nearby; but bats were too much of nature gone bad.

  He would have gone on, walked his distance as he had planned, ignored the bats, if it weren’t for that godforsaken cry—that piercing, shrill scream unlike anything he had ever heard. It seemed a cross between something human and something wild. It drove him into the road, curled his toes, and arched his back like a cat.

  Just as suddenly as he had heard it, he didn’t. He listened hard, but it simply wasn’t there. For a moment he wasn’t sure he had actually heard it. He was sure that, whatever it was, it came from the Oakses’ house. He wondered if he should go up and knock on the door to see if anything was wrong.

  But the bats settled that question. They were still there.

  He could stand anything but getting close to them … never. He satisfied his conscience by listening hard for a good minute. There were no more screams; just the sound of peepers and the rush of the stream that crossed under the road and went on to Brown’s Pond.

  So he walked on, now plodding as a man of seventy-five normally would, instead of as he usually walked. His remarkable energy had been sapped by the sight of the bats and the sound of that… whatever it was.

  He was unhappy because there was no moon, too. It was darker than ever; it was a night for death. He could almost smell it. It spun him around and sent him trekking toward home, after only half completing his walk. His wife, Hilda, was surprised.

  “You didn’t go all the way tonight?”

  “Tired,” he said, but she knew it was more. He settled himself in the big, cushioned easy chair. He looked small in it, the cushions sucking him in. He had sat in it so many years, it was practically shaped and creased to the contours of his body, wrapping him in it like a body glove.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

  “I think I heard one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This scream. Terrible. Came from the Oakses’, I’m sure.”

  “Did you see what it was?”

  “Bats flying around the porch light.”

  “It wasn’t them?”

  “No, this was something different. I can’t explain it,” he said, and that made her even more curious and more afraid.

  “Well, maybe I should call Mary.”

  He simply shook his head. He heard her go to the phone in the kitchen and speak in a low voice. After she hung up, she came back slowly.

  “So?”

  “Nothing wrong there.”

  “She said something else. I can see it in your face.” His wife smirked. “Out with it.”

  “She said you probably heard the Devil inside you.”

  “Crazy as a loon. Gone haywire since Thomas was killed in that car with that woman.”

  “I pity her, pity them both. It has to be unpleasant for them, alone in that big house.”

  “We’re alone.”

  “It’s different. This house is half the size and we’re old.”

  “Well, I don’t care what she says. I heard something wil
d.”

  Hilda looked at him. For a moment she felt uneasy and embraced herself. It was as though something evil had slipped into their house, come in under the door, and brushed against her, leaving her chilled and trembling. Cy looked older than ever tonight, too. She had the terrible idea that Death was shopping, moving along their street, peering in at families, deciding.

  Not yet, she asked, not yet.

  Her silent prayer was answered. They lived on at relatively the same level of health for the next four years.

  And then …

  They discovered what Cy had heard that fateful night.

  ONE

  Faith put her homework down on the kitchen table and listened intently again. He was right beneath her, just under the floorboards by the sink. She had seen him crawl and climb over the old shelves built for the storage of canned fruit and pickles, so she knew he was capable of it. Sometimes, he writhed like a snake, which wasn’t hard to understand. She imagined that down there he often saw snakes, and he had always been good at imitating things he saw.

  He knew to be quiet; he knew what would happen to him if he weren’t silent, if Mary were aroused and went down there. But even in his silence, he could communicate with her, Faith thought; and I can communicate with him better than Mary can, no matter what Mary thinks.

  The floorboards in the Oakses’ old house were no longer as tight as they once were. Surely, with his ear against them or his mouth to them, he could hear her and she could hear him. She did hear something now, a soft “s” sound so similar to a breeze penetrating the two-story wooden building that only she could tell the difference. He could even imitate the wind.

  She was sure he had found a spot between the shelves, the wall, and the roof of the basement and had burrowed himself in comfortably so he could be part of what happened above. He had to be lonely and in need of others of his own kind, no matter what Mary said.

  “I have seen his face,” she had said, “and I can tell you he needs nothing but the darkness and other vermin.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “He’s not vermin, he’s…” But she was afraid and she wasn’t completely sure. Mary was right about so many things, why couldn’t she be right about this?

  The rain began and splattered the windows like so many fingers strumming a tabletop. She heard the real wind this time. It turned on the house, penetrating the windows and doors, crawling through the walls, and emerging from every crack and crevice, tossing the curtains about, bringing them to life as mad dancing prints of white and gold. She heard the screen door opened roughly and slammed hard against the house. This looked like a summer ripper, not a spring storm. Through it all, she heard Mary come to the foot of the stairs. Mary’s steps were distinct, her movements in the house always recognizable.

  “Faith,” she called, “check all the windows in the kitchen and get the screen door.”

  “All right,” she replied. She thought she heard him groan. “It’s all right,” she whispered toward the floor. “Nothing bad. Just a little rainstorm.” As if to add comfort to her words, she went by the sink and stood there a moment. Then she rushed around the room, checking the windows.

  When she opened the back door to get to the screen door, the wind washed the rain over her, lifting her long, black hair from her shoulders and face. The drops were cool and refreshing. She didn’t retreat at all and her thin white cotton blouse became drenched quickly. She welcomed the raindrops between her breasts and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass, pine trees, and darkness.

  Realizing her purpose, she grabbed the screen door and brought it closed, locking it tightly with the latch. Then she stood behind it, gazing out like a prisoner behind bars, longing for the freedom that lay just beyond her reach. By the time she turned, her blouse clung to her; her hair, now soaked, hung in thick strands down the sides of her face, and her jeans had turned darker with the dampness. She was barefoot, so her feet were wet and her toes tingled with the coolness.

  Mary was waiting in the kitchen, her hands on her hips, her thin face screwed tight by her frowning forehead, her pursed lips, and her small, molelike eyes. The paleness was blotched red near her temples and under her chin, which she held up so high and taut, that it strained the skin on her neck, drawing her Adam’s apple into a knot. When she swallowed, it moved like a heavy thumb pressing and pushing its way to freedom. Something was trapped within her.

  “Couldn’t you move faster? Look at you. You’re so stupid. You do such stupid things.”

  “It’s raining hard.”

  “More reason to move faster. Go up and get into dry clothes before you catch cold.”

  She paused only for a moment and then rushed past Mary and obediently hurried up the stairs to her room. Once there, she closed the door as best she could. It was out of kilter and she could never really lock it. Mary wanted it that way.

  “Closed doors are for people who do things they’re ashamed of,” she said.

  Faith waited a moment. Mary wasn’t coming back up. She was in the kitchen, probably making tea. But she wouldn’t know he was right there beneath her; she wouldn’t sense it the way I sense it, Faith thought.

  She worked her buttons open, her fingers trembling just the way they always did whenever she undressed herself, and peeled the blouse off her. She tried not to look at herself in the narrow mirror on her closet door, but she couldn’t help it, even though Mary said it was sinful to feel so much pride in your own body.

  When she unfastened her tight bra, her breasts exploded into their true fullness, the nipples already erecting because of the freedom and the coolness. She studied herself as she unfastened her jeans. They, too, were stuck to her skin. She slid out of them as quickly as she could, then folded and draped them over the shower curtain in the bathroom. Her panties weren’t at all wet.

  After she had wrung out her blouse and dropped it in the hamper, she began to wipe her body dry, studying herself with almost a stranger’s curiosity. Her breasts had grown, her cleavage deepened. The curve at her waist was sharper, her stomach flatter and surely more inviting, although no one but Mary had ever seen it this way. The feelings rushed over her, as she expected they would when she looked at herself naked. She took her time massaging her bosom dry and then worked the towel down over her stomach in little circles, rubbing places that weren’t even wet.

  She listened. Mary was still downstairs, so she rolled the towel and brought it between her legs. Then, taking the ends in her hands, she pulled it up until it was snug against her crotch. She closed her eyes as she began the slow back-and-forth motion, gradually quickening it to keep pace with the heavy thumping of her heart. Her lips were slightly apart, her tongue touching them gently. That sweet, salty taste came to her. The rush of pleasure was so great she wanted to scream her delight, but she couldn’t make a sound.

  “FAITH!” Mary’s voice broke the mood. She unraveled the towel quickly and pressed it so it wouldn’t look creased. Mary could discover secrets in the smallest of clues; she could look beyond things and see their significance. Almost immediately, Faith paled with regret and guilt.

  “Yes?” Her voice was too small, too revealing. She held her breath.

  “What are you doing up there? You have homework, haven’t you?”

  “I’m just getting dry. Be right down.”

  “I’m making tea. Hurry up.”

  “OK.”

  She went back to her room and put on another pair of jeans and another bra. Then she picked out a pullover sweater and put it on as she walked down the stairs. Mary was seated at the kitchen table, sipping her tea and eating a cracker. She always nibbled at her food, Faith thought. She holds it in her fingers like a squirrel, afraid to take too big a bite.

  “It’s slowing up,” Mary said.

  “They say we’re going to get summer weather earlier this year.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “My teacher did, Mr. Rush. He has that science club after school. They
predict the weather and every morning their prediction is read over the public address system. You’d be surprised how many times they were right already this year.”

  “I’m glad to hear school’s good for something besides meeting boys.”

  “I haven’t met any boys,” Faith said quickly.

  “Didn’t say you had.” Mary stopped eating suddenly. “Why? You feeling guilty about something?”

  “No.”

  Mary thought for a moment.

  “That afternoon last Thursday, when you said you had to stay for extra help…”

  “I did! You can call Mr. Feinberg and ask him. Five of us stayed!”

  “We’ll see how your marks reflect it. This is your senior year, you know. It’s your last chance to do well.”

  “I’m doing well.”

  “Get yourself a cup of tea. The honey’s on the counter,” Mary said and went back to her cracker, chewing dreamily, that far-off look coming back over her quickly.

  Faith moved obediently, pausing once to listen to the floorboards. Then she brought her cup to the table and drank quietly for a while. When she looked at Mary again, she saw that her mother was staring at her intently, making her feel very self-conscious about her every move.

  “It’s time to trim your hair again,” she said.

  “I didn’t brush it; I just wiped it dry.”

  “Some downpour. Imagine forty days and forty nights of it.”

  “I was thinking,” Faith said softly, “that it must be frightening to be alone in the dark when a storm like this starts.”

  “Frightening for who?”

  “You know!”

  “I don’t know. How many times have I told you not to speak of him. We do what we must do.”

  “I can’t help thinking about it.”

  “You’ve got to help it,” Mary said, her eyes coming alive with the inner fire that brought Faith’s nightmares to life. “When you stop helping it, you’ve been lost, too. Do you want that? Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then…”