A hurt look crosses Christine's face.

"Let's go, Caleb," she says. "We can do this." She musters a smile.

As she opens the door a rush of rain and wind comes in. Caleb grabs her hand, pulls her back.

He opens his mouth to speak, then doesn't. He squeezes her hand.

They look at each other one more time, each wanting to say something more, but the rain picks up outside, pounding even harder, drumming on the hood of the car and the winds.h.i.+eld, and they both know the moment has come.

They step out of the car, into the deluge. The raindrops are so huge and heavy it hurts when they hit their skin. Caleb takes the gas can out of the trunk and they head toward the Dream Center, hand in hand.

The canopy of trees over the long driveway undulates, their branches writhing in the ferocious wind like a million interlaced snakes. The driveway is mostly flooded from all the rain, and they walk ankle-deep in freezing water. The gale at their back pushes them forward, threatening to knock them off their feet with its power.

They can feel it all around them, a thousand unseen hands at work.

"The spirits are all here," yells Christine through the torrent.

"Trying to stop us?" Caleb yells.

She shakes her head, a strange, terrified look in her eye. "Pus.h.i.+ng us on."

The trees open up in front of them, and through the stinging haze of rain they see the Dream Center, the old, abandoned, forbidden place of their childhood, waiting for them.

"There aren't any lights on," Caleb says.

"They're there," says Christine. "The director is in his office on the sixth floor. They're all there. Waiting for us."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Are they alive? Margie and Ron?"

Christine just shakes her head. She can't tell.

She hurries forward first, around the big, circular driveway, past the fountain and straight for the nearest window. Caleb follows. They check all the windows on the first floor. They're all locked, barred, and dark. Caleb keeps glancing at the woods, expecting to see sleepwalkers in the shadows. But all he sees are the shadows themselves, watching him back.

They reach the bas.e.m.e.nt door, the one that Anna disappeared into once upon a time, and the wind picks up a little. Caleb half expects them to find the door unlocked and waiting for them, but when Christine jerks on the handle it won't budge. By now they're soaked to the bone. The rain is cold, biting, almost sleet. Lightning fractures the dark above, illuminating what might be faces in the forest, clawing hands in the branches of the trees all around them.

They pa.s.s the old pond Caleb remembers from his childhood.

Little Billy, Anna, and Christine used to splash each other there in those cold, clear, spring-fed waters. Now it sits still and black as the eye of a dead fish. Swollen with rainwater, it's flooded so much that one leg of its surface reaches nearly to the foundation of the Dream Center. He was always a little scared of that swimming hole as a kid.

He eyes it distrustfully now as they skirt it and walk on. Caleb s.h.i.+vers and glances over his shoulder once, but there is no disturbance on the pond's obsidian surface except the pocking of raindrops.

They check another window, round the corner, and walk on.

There was a rusted old fire escape on this side of the building when they were kids, but the director-John Morle-must've had it torn off during the renovation. Now its skeleton rusts in the weeds by the edge of the woods. More locked windows. Christine is rubbing her hands together. The chill of the rain deadens every extremity.

They round another corner, and they're back at the front again.

"Did you see any places to climb up?" asks Caleb, keeping a wary eye on the towering building.

She shakes her head.

"Me neither," he says.

She's looking away from him at the front door. He grabs her arm.

"We can't just go in the front door," he says. Then he feels like an idiot; what other option do they have?

"He knows we're coming," she says. "Everything knows we're coming. The dead are singing about it. The wind is full of them."

"What are they saying?"

"You don't want to know."

"At least let me go first," he says. He readjusts the hatchet in his hand, as if it will do him any good against an army of restless dead, and walks up the steps to the big double doors.

He grips one of the big bra.s.s handles. It's freezing cold. He glances back at Christine. She's holding the old pistol casually, like a cowboy ready to shoot from the hip. Rain-soaked pieces of hair frame her big, s.h.i.+ning eyes. Drops of water stand on the white, smooth surface of her skin and run down her slender neck. She's just looking back at him, waiting. She's beautiful. And she is his best friend, even if he hasn't seen her in ten years. And he loves her. And he needs her to live through this day.

"You don't have to come in," he says.

"Open the door, Caleb."

"Please, you don't have to-"

"Open it."

And he does.

The door opens freely, almost effortlessly.

They step into the lobby of the Dream Center, dripping. The lights are dimmed. Christine swings the door shut again, sealing away some of the sounds of the storm outside. All that seems to permeate the thick concrete walls is the eerie, distant wailing of the wind. At least, Christine hopes it's the wind.

The minute she steps inside, every muscle in her body clamps up. She can hardly breathe. Goose b.u.mps break out all over her despite the almost impossible heat that hangs in the air.

With one backward glance at her and a feigned c.o.c.ky grin, Billy- Caleb-is leading them forward, the hatchet hovering next to his head ready to strike. The halls are empty. There is no sound, no movement except for the flicker of the few fluorescent lights that are working. The place looks utterly desolate, but Christine isn't fooled. She can feel them, the dead. They grasp at her with every step. The energy of their malice makes the air everywhere vibrate, pulse, seethe. They reach an intersection with another long hallway full of doors, and Caleb looks back at her. Which way?

She nods to the left, hoping he won't see the hopeless terror in her eyes.

"Staircase is at the end of the hall," she whispers. "We have to go all the way up."

"You don't think we should check the doors down here?"

She shakes her head quickly.

"I guess you're right," he whispers. "He wouldn't put them on the first floor and leave the front door wide open."

They walk on.

Christine reaches out and grasps his forearm as she walks. She feels the strength there and it makes her feel a little better, but not much. The gun is still shaking in her hand. She knows even if a miracle happened and the old thing actually fired, she couldn't steady herself enough to hit an elephant.

They pa.s.s doors and doors and doors. Like in a nightmare, the hallway is endless.

Ahead, they see a set of double doors with round, porthole-like windows in their centers. They squeak in protest as Caleb pushes them wide. As they enter the new room Caleb looks for attackers, his head snapping back and forth, but there are no sleeping demons here, only old cobweb-covered toys.

Here, no lights are on. The only illumination comes from the crackle of lightning through dirty windows.

They move cautiously forward. Apparently this room was never renovated. There's a rocking horse in front of them, its paint peeling off. To the left is a model train half off the tracks, so covered in dust it looks almost white. There's a mural on the wall, smiling children swinging on swings under a jolly, smiling sun. A big, happy owl looks on. Some vandal (or Morle himself maybe) has spray-painted out the children's eyes. Red paint runs down their faces like blood tears. Against the wall to their right, time has reduced a pile of stuffed animals to fur, sawdust, and gla.s.s eyes. Against the other wall sits a huge, rusty cage draped in cobwebs. Christine locks her mind against wondering what that cage was used for so many years ago. Surely it wasn't to restrain the children who played with these toys. . . .

The air is so thick in here she can't breathe. She literally feels underwater. A tear runs down her cheek, and she doesn't know why. She lets go of Caleb's arm as he continues ahead of her, weaving through the wasteland of dead toys. She fumbles in her pocket before finally finding what she's looking for and pulling the little radio free. Trembling, she puts the headphones on. She adjusts the dial. Five thirty-five AM. Up ahead Billy, Caleb, has reached the double doors at the other end of the room.

"It's the staircase," she hears him say.

And she flips the switch and turns the radio on.

Caleb has the doors open now and looks in on a forgotten staircase strewn with plaster debris and dust. He's about to step into the stairwell when he realizes Christine isn't behind him. He turns back and finds her, and his heart stops.

She stands in the middle of the room shaking. Tears run in slick lines down both her cheeks. Her eyes dart back and forth. Her body is drawn up, tense and quivering, but her feet remain rooted in place.

"Christine? Christine!"

The second time she hears her name and looks at him. Her voice is a tiny squeak.

"They're all around us."

And it happens: the wooden horse begins rocking insanely; the pile of dismembered stuffed animals begins rolling toward her. The wail of the wind somehow becomes high, horrible laughter. The dust in the room comes to life, whipping up in blinding, swirling gusts.

Christine is screaming.

The door of the cage is slamming and slamming and slamming.

Thunder shakes everything.

Through the storm of debris, Caleb rushes to her. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut and her scream has becomes a rasping gurgle.

He stuffs the hatchet in his belt and grabs her arm, still gripping the gas can in his other hand, and yanks her into motion.

"Come on!"

He drags her toward the stairwell. They slam through the double doors.

In here they are cut off from the dying fluorescent lights of the hallway, and darkness is deeper, so deep you could swim in it. And things are swimming in it. Caleb sees them all around now, contorted faces, hands, claws, eyes, ethereal but real.

"I'm getting you out of here. If we go down we should be able to find the back door," Caleb yells.

Christine is biting her nails, cradling the gun against her chest like a baby doll.

"It's a trap," she whispers.

"Come on," he says, tugging her arm.

"IT'S A TRAP," she screams.

And then he hears it.

It's distant at first: a pounding. It could almost be war drums. It could almost be thunder.

"It's all a trap," she says, another tear falling.

And then he knows. He looks over the railing, down the stairwell. The pounding is footfalls.

The sleepwalkers are coming.

There must be hundreds of them. They jam the stairwell, a rising, living tide.

They claw each other and fight their way ahead like a swarm of rats fleeing a flood.

"Up," says Caleb. "GO!"

He shoves Christine ahead of him up the stairwell.

She seems to snap back into reality and scrambles up one flight, then another, then another.

Caleb is just behind her, guiding her forward with one hand and gripping the hatchet with the other. On every landing they try the door. On every landing the door is locked tight.

Christine was right. This is a trap.

Caleb runs with one eye over the banister, watching in choking horror as, step by step, the throng of possessed ones gains on them. By the time he's reached the next landing he's made up his mind. He unscrews the gas can and stops, dousing the stairs below him.

"Billy!"

Caleb looks up and sees Christine leaning over the banister one flight above him.

"Go!" he says. "Keep running!"

"You're burning them?"

"Go!" he says. "I won't let them get you. I'll catch up."

By now the sleepwalkers are so close he can smell the sickness in their sweat. They're three stairwells down, now two, now one-there's no time to empty the last bit of gas; they're almost on him. He fumbles in the pocket of his soaked jeans for the lighter, finally pulling it out, trying to light it. And it clicks, and clicks, and clicks. Nothing.

Now they're at the landing just below him. Now their feet are slipping on the stairs a few feet away. Their claws, human hands filled with inhuman power, grope at the steps beneath him.

And the lighter clicks and clicks.

And now they're on him.