Janet's head turned, and she stared at Michael. "Stop it," she whispered. "Just stop saying those things." Her voice rose to the edge of hysteria. "They're not true, Michael. They're not true!"

Michael returned her gaze, his face suddenly angry. Then he left her alone, closing the door behind him.

Anna Hall was dozing in her chair, her ever-present mending on her lap, her head lolling on her breast.

In the hall, the clock began to strike, and Anna came half awake, certain that Amos had finally come home.

"Amos? Is that you?"

There was no answer, but even as silence settled once more over the house, Anna had a strange sense that she was no longer alone.

She tried to clear the fogginess from her mind, and opened her sleepy eyes to peer around.

Then, at the window, she saw it.

A face, a face she recognized.

It was Mark's face, but younger than he'd been the last time she saw him, almost as young as he'd been when he ran away so many years ago.

And yet it wasn't Mark's face. It was a face like Mark's, but different.

Then she heard the voice.

"He's dead, Mama. He's dead."

The words struck Anna almost like a blow. For a moment she wasn't certain she'd heard them at all. There was a flat atonality about them that made her wonder if the face at the window had spoken the words, or if she'd only imagined them.

Then the voice came again. "He's dead, Mama. You must not be frightened anymore."

Then the face disappeared from the window, and once more Anna felt the solitude of the house.

She sat for a long time, listening to the soft ticking of the clock, amplified by the night, trying to decide what had really happened to her. Had it been real, or had it only been a dream?

Then, as the hours wore on, a sense of peace slowly settled over her, a sense of peace she hadn't felt in years, not since before the night so many years ago when she had given birth to her last child. Suddenly she smiled. That was who the face had reminded her of. The face at the window had looked like her last son, just as she'd always imagined he would look-if only he had lived.

And with the sense of peace came something else.

It was Amos of whom the boy had spoken. As the night wore on, and Anna waited, she became increasingly sure that Amos was not coming home that night, that he would never come home again.

At last, as the clock was striking two, she heard a car pull up the drive. She rolled herself over to the window and stared out into the night, squinting against the darkness as she tried to make out the face of her visitor.

And then, as the figure of a man emerged from the pickup truck in front of the house, Anna gasped.

It was Ben Findley.

Trembling, Anna slowly backed away from the window. Her eyes searched the room as if looking for a place to hide. But there was no place to hide, and in the end she let the chair drift to a stop in the center of the room. A moment later she heard the front door open, and then Ben Findley stood framed in the doorway, his gaunt figure looking like a ghost from the past.

"Hello, Anna," he said at last.

The seconds ticked by, and Anna felt the color draining from her face, felt her whole body, even the legs that had been lifeless so long, trembling.

"You," she breathed at last.

Ben Findley nodded. His eyes left Anna for a moment and drifted slowly over the room. He nodded almost imperceptibly, then turned back to Anna. "Amos is dead, Anna. Leif Simpson and I found him down by the river."

"The river?" Anna asked blankly, her mind reeling not only at the confirmation of her strange sense that her husband was dead, but at the presence of Ben Findley in her house. "What was he doing down at the river?"

Findley shrugged. "I called him today. I saw you and the boy this afternoon, and I told Amos I didn't want anyone poking around that field."

Anna's eyes narrowed. "What happened, Ben. Did you kill him?"

Findley shook his head; then, without asking Anna's permission, he came into the room and lowered himself onto fhe sofa. Slowly he told Anna what he and Leif Simpson had found. When he was done, Anna fell into a reflective silence for a few moments. Then her head came up, and her eyes roved to the window and the blackness of the night. "Perhaps it was the children," she said in a voice that was only partially audible. "Perhaps the children finally got their revenge." Suddenly she looked at Ben Findley. "Ben, do you believe in ghosts?"

Findley looked puzzled for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I don't. Why?"

Anna shook her head, as if trying to clear her mind. "I don't know. I just thought I saw one tonight, that's all." She paused, then went on. "I knew Amos was dead, Ben. I wasn't waiting for him to come home. I was waiting for someone to come and tell me what I already knew."

Findley's body tensed, and his hooded eyes darkened. "How?" he asked. "How did you know?"

Anna shrugged. "I told you-a ghost."

"Nathaniel…" Findley said softly.

Anna's head came up angrily. "Nathaniel!" she echoed, her voice suddenly regaining its strength. "Don't be a fool, Ben. There is no Nathaniel. There was never a Nathaniel. All my life, since I married Amos Hall, I've heard of nothing except Nathaniel. He doesn't exist, Ben. He was never anything but a fantasy of Amos's."

"No, Anna-"

"Yes! He killed my children, Ben. He killed my children, and somehow, in his twisted mind, he managed to blame it on his holy Nathaniel. But it was a lie, Ben! Amos was insane, and a murderer. I could never prove it, but I knew. I always knew."

"How?" Ben Findley suddenly demanded. He rose to his feet, towering over Anna, his blue eyes blazing. "How did you know, Anna?"

Anna cowered in her chair, her burst of strength suddenly deserting her. "I knew," she whispered. "That's all. I just knew."

"And is that why you stayed with him?" Findley asked. "Is that why you stayed with him all those years, Anna? Because you knew he'd killed your children? It doesn't make sense. If you truly knew, you'd have left him, left him and gone away. If you truly thought he'd killed your children, you never would have stayed with him."

Anna shook her head helplessly as her eyes flooded with tears. "No," she protested. "You don't understand. I-I couldn't walk, Ben. I couldn't walk, and I couldn't prove what he'd done." Suddenly she looked up at him imploringly. "Don't you understand, Ben? Don't you understand at all?"

Findley ignored her question. "And what about our child, Anna?" he asked softly. "Did Amos kill our child, too?"

Anna recoiled from his words. "No…"she whimpered. "No, don't talk about that. Please…"

"Tell me, Anna," Findley pressed, his voice relentless. "Tell me what you think you know about our son."

"Dead," Anna whispered. "He was born dead. That's what Amos always told me. But I never believed him, Ben. I never believed him. Amos killed our baby that night, just like the other two. He killed him, and they buried him in Potter's Field."

"No, Anna," Findley told her. The anger drained out of his voice, and Anna responded to his sudden gentleness, gazing at him with frightened eyes. "He didn't die, Anna. He wasn't born dead, and he didn't die. Potter brought him to me that night. He brought him to me, and I've had him ever since." He paused, then, "I named him Nathaniel, Anna. That's who you saw tonight. You saw Nathaniel, and he's our son."

A terrible silence fell over the house as Anna tried to comprehend Ben Findley's words. The room seemed to turn around her, and her mind reeled as twenty years of her life shattered into meaningless pieces.

And then, gathering her strength, Anna Hall grasped the arms of her wheelchair. "No," she breathed. "No. None of if true!" Her voice pitched to a scream, as slowly, supporting herself on trembling arms, she began to rise from the chair. "Why are you lying to me?" she wailed. "Why? Why?" She took a halting step toward him, and suddenly her fists came up. "Lies," she screamed. "It's all lies! I know the truth, Ben. I know it!" She began pummeling at his chest, her legs wobbling, but still somehow supporting her.