It was only then that they noticed the first pink glimmers of morning filtering through the window.

“We’ve done it,” Carolyn said quietly. “We’ve survived a night in the room.”

“Is he gone?” Douglas asked, approaching the open door and looking out into the basement.

Carolyn came up beside him. “I believe he is.”

Douglas turned to her. “Then is it over?”

She looked up at him. “It’s over,” she said. “We showed that we were stronger than the evil force of this room.”

The shaft of sunlight suddenly flooded the room.

They heard a creak. They braced themselves.

But the figure that now appeared in the doorway was only Howard Young.

“Praise God!” he shouted. “Praise God! The curse is over! It is over! Praise God!”

Chapter Twenty-six

“What I surmise,” Carolyn said, bringing her coffee to her lips with trembling hands, “is that Clem was being controlled by a force that made him do these things, and that once he was confronted with a greater force, he was finally free to rebel against it and find peace for himself.”

“And that greater force was the love between you and Douglas,” Paula said, near tears. “That’s so beautiful.”

“Remember that Beatrice was freed from that room ten years ago by Kip,” Carolyn added. “I believe that she exerted her own power to help free Clem, and therefore, save us. Before that, trapped in that room as he was, she was powerless to do anything. But now she could act.”

“Then perhaps I owe Dr. Hobart more gratitude than I showed a decade ago,” Mr. Young said.

He was seated again at the head of the table. Douglas and Carolyn were on one side, Paula and Dean and Linda on the other. They had been up all night, waiting and hoping. The children were asleep, and Philip and Ryan and Chelsea had retired in shame to their rooms. But Mr. Young had given them strict orders not to leave the house until this morning. He planned to speak to them about their treason and to make a decision about their place in their will.

“But what of the power that controlled that room?” Dean asked. “We still don’t know what it was.”

“Nor might we ever,” Douglas said.

“But how can we be sure it’s gone?” Paula asked. “Defeated?”

“They survived, didn’t they?” Howard Young barked impatiently. “They have broken the long chain of deaths. We did what the lottery demanded. We drew a name and sent one of our own in there. And he lived.”

“And the baby?” Dean asked.

“What about the baby?” Carolyn asked.

“Is it free, too?”

She paused.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

And suddenly the terror returned. The relief that had flooded through her body with the coming if the sun was replaced by a cold fear-the same that had gripped her in New York.

She turned all at once then and looked out the French doors onto the terrace.

Standing there, staring in at her, was David Cooke. His eyes were wild. The scar on his face seemed to be pulsing.

Carolyn screamed.

“What is it?” Douglas shouted, standing.

“Outside, on the terrace,” Carolyn gasped.

He bolted out the French doors, looked around, then came back inside.

“There’s nobody there,” he reported. “What did you think you saw?”

“I…I don’t know,” she said.

Howard Young stood. “You’re just jittery from the night in that room. It’s understandable. You just need to rest.”

He hobbled out of the room.

Paula reached over and covered Carolyn’s hand with her own. “What was it, Carolyn?”

“Perhaps…just my imagination,” she said. “It has to be my imagination.”

Paula looked from her to Douglas. “Is it really over? Or is there still more?”

“It’s got to be over,” Douglas said.

“Yes,” Carolyn echoed. “It’s got to be over.”

But she knew now it was not.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Philip had had enough. He was getting out of the house. Will or no will, family fortune or not, he had taken all he could from Uncle Howard.

Throwing his clothes into a suitcase, he was planning to walk downstairs and tell the old man that he was heading home. “Go ahead and disinherit me,” Philip grumbled, slamming the suitcase shut. “But I will no longer be treated like an errant schoolboy.”

The embarrassment of last night still rankled. To be treated like a common criminal by his low-class relations. He couldn’t get over the contempt he’d seen in Paula’s eyes. “The goddamn dyke,” he spit. “How dare she look at me that way?”

From the shouts of joy he’d heard from downstairs a short while ago, Philip surmised that Douglas had survived the night in that room. Perhaps the curse was finally over. Perhaps Uncle Howard would be in a forgiving mood. But no matter how he might find his uncle, Philip was tired of waiting in his room like a child being punished. He would not tolerate being treated this way.

He hadn’t slept a wink, of course. He had consoled Chelsea and Ryan, who shared their father’s humiliation. He told them they’d find some way to stay in the will. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself, but it was the only way to shut them up and get them to go to bed. He thought about tapping on their doors to tell them he was leaving, but decided against it. He couldn’t take any more histrionics. They could fend for themselves.

He glanced around the room one more time to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. Satisfied, he clutched his suitcase with one hand and opened the door of his room with the other.

And he let out a small sound of surprise when he saw a man was standing in the doorframe, blocking his way.

A servant, he thought at first, before remembering that Uncle Howard had given the servants the day off, not knowing what would be found in that room this morning.

“Excuse me,” Philip said loudly, officiously.

The man did not move.

He was a tall man, with dark hair and dark eyes, dressed in a black jacket, black T-shirt, and dirty dungarees. A scar ran down the left side of his face.

“I said, excuse me!” Philip boomed.

The man’s eyes seemed wild. He simply raised one large hand and placed it on Philip’s chest, shoving him back into the room.

“How dare you?” Philip bellowed.

The man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

Icy terror suddenly began pulsing through Philip’s veins.

“Who are you?” Philip asked. “You’re something from that room… You’re not human!”

The man just glared at him, his eyes glassy.

“Kill him,” came a small voice from somewhere above.

The man reached inside his jacket and withdrew a long, wide, sharp knife.

“No!” Philip screamed, backing away. “Help me! Somebody help me!”

The man just grinned. He held the knife out in front of him.

Philip ran to the other side of the room. He heard the rush of air made by the swinging blade. He felt the slice of the knife without seeing it. A sharp stab of pain in his upper left arm. He spun around, mesmerized by the sight of the bright red blood staining his crisp white shirt.

The man moved in closer.

Philip lifted his eyes as he saw the knife glinting in the light.

“No!” he cried.

He felt the sting of the blade cut into his neck. His lips were still moving as his head separated from his body, sliced off by one skillful swing of the knife. For several terrible seconds-an eternity really-Philip was still conscious, aware that he was flying through the air, then watching from the floor as his body staggered forward and fell down hard on its chest. He saw the muddy boots of the man who had beheaded him walk past, and he heard the door open and close. Then his brain shut down from lack of oxygen, and everything faded to black.