A new day dawns on the great estate of Collinwood. For Maggie Collins, the night's departure brings welcome relief from the horrors of the full moon. She desperately wants to believe that the morning light will illuminate the night's mysteries, but in her heart she knows that Collinwood will not give up its secrets so easily.


Maggie had managed only an hour or two of fitful sleep that night. Then she lay in bed waiting anxiously for the sun to vanquish the full moon and release her husband from the curse he believed he was experiencing. When she could stand it no longer, she got out of bed, showered, and dressed for the day. She made every effort to move about quietly, lest she wake the guest who lay dozing on her couch.

Dressed in slacks and a sweater, she pulled on an old pair of driving mocs and a bulky fisherman cardigan, and crept out through the back door. The morning air was brisk and served as an antidote to her restless, wearying night. Arriving at the entrance to the cellar, she paused for a moment. Her heart and throat constricted a bit as she contemplated seeing her husband again. She desperately wanted to tell him that nothing had changed. But how could she? How could she purge from her mind and memory the visage of Quentin—madness in his eyes—feral madness?

She swallowed hard, crouched down, and pulled the metal bar from the cellar doors. She drew open one door then the other. With uncharacteristic tentativeness, she called, "Quentin? Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

"Maggie," came his voice from below. "I'm okay. You can lower the ladder now."

Maggie lowered the ladder to the floor of the cellar, but waited anxiously at the entrance, unsure how she'd feel and react when she saw him again. As he emerged, she could see that his hair looked wild, his shirt was dirty and his pants were torn at the knees. In that moment, she set all of her doubts and anxiety aside, went to him, and drew him into a warm embrace.

"I ache all over," he whispered in a hoarse voice.

"I'm not surprised," she responded. "Let's get inside. You should get cleaned up and get some rest if you can." With her arm around his waist, and his around her shoulder, she led him to the rear entrance of the farmhouse. Once there, she told him, "Why don't you go upstairs? I'll make us some coffee."

Then Maggie returned to their front sitting room. She was tempted to immediately usher the professor out, so that she could be alone with Quentin, but that would have been ungracious to someone who deserved better.

She found Professor Stokes already on his feet. He must have had a small comb in his pocket, because his hair was neatly combed. And while he looked a little rumpled and a bit tired, he seemed remarkably like his usual self. He'd folded the afghan she'd given him, and draped it over the arm of the couch.

"I hope you'll stay for a cup of coffee, Professor Stokes. I'm about to put the percolator on."

"I have a great deal of research to do today, my dear, but I can think of no better way to get started," he replied.

"Thank you again for your help last night. I don't think I could have faced in on my own," Maggie said.

"You're not on your own, my dear. I'll do everything I can to help—and I'm sure Julia—Dr. Hoffman—will as well, once she understands the situation."

"The coffee will be ready in a few minutes," Maggie told him as she headed to the kitchen.

Professor Stokes paced the length of the sitting room, hands clasped behind his back.


"Stokes? What are you doing here so early?" Quentin stood on the bottom step of the staircase that led to the farmhouse's snug second floor. His hair was tussled and damp, and he wore a heavy robe over his pajama pants. He was clearly not expecting to find anyone in his sitting room. Then he noticed the state of the usually immaculate man, and the afghan on the couch. "Were you here all night?"

"I was," the professor began. "But I can assure you," he continued, "that my feelings for your wife are strictly avuncular."

Quentin threw back his head and roared with laughter. "I've no doubt, Professor—just as I've no doubt she thinks of you in similar terms."

"Is everything all right in here?" Maggie appeared in the doorway, carrying the coffee service.

"Yes."

"Perfectly so."

The two men responded at the same time, though not in unison.

Maggie smiled and set about serving coffee. They drank their coffee in near silence. When he drained his cup, the professor rose and prepared to take his leave. "Well," he said, "I must be going." Maggie rose too and walked him to the door. "I'll call you later and report on the findings of my research," Professor Stokes told her, before returning to his car and taking his leave.


Timothy Eliot Stokes was a man of many interests at the intersection of art, anthropology, history, and folklore. Over time his interests coalesced around all things occult. He began as a skeptic—questioning the beliefs and practices he encountered in his studies. But over time, he was not only won over to a belief in the inexplicable—in the supernatural and in phenomena both natural and unnatural—he applied his studies, becoming a practitioner of sorts. He knew that through his research he'd found the means to vanquish unsettled souls, but it was performing his first exorcism that confirmed it.

Since then, an increasing share of his time and energy was devoted to the study of the occult. In Collinsport, he'd found the perfect locale for his pursuits, for the small town never wanted for unusual, unexplained phenomena. His colleagues sometimes mocked him for both his unorthodox research interests, and for the quaint village lifestyle he'd adopted in service of those pursuits. He didn't care. He enjoyed, even reveled in, his status as the iconoclastic academic. And too, it was his family's legacy.

On this day, he should have been exhausted after a night spent dozing on a couch rather than tucked into his own comfortable bed. Instead, he found himself energized. He'd come home, bathed and dressed, and immediately launched into the research he knew would hold the answers he sought. This time it was more than an academic pursuit. This time he had a personal stake in the outcome. He'd been genuine in telling Quentin Collins of his avuncular feelings for the younger man's wife, for Stokes had no family to speak of. In his growing friendship with Maggie Collins, who was similarly situated prior to her marriage, he'd found a kind of bond—a connection that fueled his protective nature. He didn't want to disappoint her.

He made a fresh pot of coffee and some toast. Over his breakfast, he perused a small stack of source materials on various types of spiritual possession that he'd selected from his extensive collection of books and monographs on the occult. After scanning the index of the third such volume, he slammed it shut in frustration. It was a needle in a haystack approach—it would never do.

He needed a research plan—a systematic approach to the problem. He opened a small notebook. Subject—Joe Haskell, he wrote.

When did the possession (if it was possession) occur? The young man had, until recently, been a patient at Windcliff Sanitarium.

Had the possession taken place before he was sent to the sanitarium? If so, why were no manifestations of it evident during his time there? Though he was not one to entertain local gossip, Professor Stokes had heard of Joe Haskell's case. All of Collinsport buzzed with the news of the upstanding local man's descent into madness, culminating in being committed at the sanitarium.

No, Stokes thought. It was unlikely that the possession led him to the sanitarium—though it was true that there were such cases—cases where spiritual possession could be mistaken for mental illness. But in Joe's case—the manifestations of possession were more cunning, more calculating than the mere ravings of an unsettled soul—the way he'd attempted to manipulate Maggie since his return, suggested that the possession had recently taken place.

He must learn more about the circumstances of Joe's release from Windcliff. He could hardly go there himself and interview the doctors and staff. With enough time, he might craft a pretext for doing so, but such subterfuge required time and patience to gain trust and produce the desired results. He did not have time—Maggie did not have time. He must have quicker results. He must enlist Julia Hoffman to assist him. She would have immediate access where he did not; she would have instant credibility that he would not. He took his notebook, went to the phone, and dialed the house phone at the Great House on the Collinwood estate.


Julia Hoffman had a very distinctive way of holding a telephone handset—one hand on the handle, the other cradling the mouthpiece. Perhaps it came from years of secretive conversations and her desire to obscure the movement of the lips as well as the words she spoke. Professor Stokes noticed this anew as he waited at her elbow. Julia turned and shot him a look. He fell back a few feet in response.

"I see," she said into the mouthpiece. "Go on." A long pause followed.

"I see," she said again. "And where is it now?" Julia listened intently to the response. "I'm sorry to take up so much of your time," she said. "One last question—do you remember the name on the box?" Another pause on Julia's end ensued. "Would you? Thank you. I'll be at this number for the next 30 minutes …" Then she recited the Collinwood house-phone number and hung up.

Julia recapped the side of the conversation to which Professor Stokes was not privy. "She's going to find out the name on the box of objects d' arte that Elizabeth donated, and call me back," she concluded. She turned and found Stokes uncomfortably close again.

"Thank you, Julia. Your efforts produced results far quicker than I could. I am grateful."

She took a step away from him, and fixed him with resolute eyes. "Eliot, are you quite sure about this? I feel that you are seeing supernatural influences where none exist. Isn't it possible that Quentin's strange behavior is just a desperate act of jealousy by a man afraid of losing his wife?"

A smile came to Stokes's eyes. "My dear Julia, I should think Quentin Collin's behavior better suited to having the exact opposite effect on his wife."

"People's reactions and behavior are not always logical," she said stubbornly.

"Perhaps not," he conceded, "but I trust Maggie."

"Yes," she drew out the word foreshadowing her skepticism to follow. "Perhaps your fondness for Maggie has colored your judgment."

"I am indeed fond of Maggie, but that fondness has not colored my judgment. On the contrary, because I am fond of her, I can see how genuinely distraught she is, and …"

Before he could finish his spirited defense of his motives, the house-phone rang. Julia answered it at once.

"Dr. Hoffman here … um hm … Thank you, Miss Pritchett. Joe? No, he's doing fine, adjusting really well. Yes, I was just completing some case notes, and realized a few details were missing. Just striving to be thorough," Julia laughed. "Thank you again." She hung up.

Professor Stokes already had his notebook in hand. "Well?"

"Evan Hanley. Does that name mean anything to you?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No, but a visit to the Collinsport Library may help in that regard. It seems I have a great deal of research to do before tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" she asked. "What happens then?"

"I go to visit Mr. Haskell, and with luck, get a closer look at the puzzle box."

"Eliot," she began in a concerned voice, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"So do I, Julia," he returned ominously, "so do I."


It was early evening of the following day when Professor Stokes finally felt prepared to meet Joe Haskell. His trip to the Collinsport Library produced little of interest regarding Evan Hanley, Esquire. Earlier in the day, he had called Elizabeth Stoddard to learn what he could about the origins of the box of items she had donated to the sanitarium, but this too proved unhelpful. Finally, he had poured over monographs in search of phenomena similar to those suggested by the thin body of evidence with which he had to work.

Perhaps Julia is right after all, he thought in frustration, but his quest for answers had led to a new set of questions and they must be answered before he abandoned the point altogether.

The difficulty of being a man of his status—and stature—was that it was impossible to blend in and make discrete inquiries. He could hardly stop by the Blue Whale and solicit information about Joe Haskell. Instead, he had to rely on the daily patterns and rituals of Collinsport cannery and mill workers to inform the timing of his visit.

He arrived at the caretaker's cottage on the great estate shortly after 6:30 in the evening. He was gratified to see lights on inside, signaling its resident was at home. He knocked and waited.

A moment later the door opened, and Joe Haskell stood in the doorway backlit from the light within.

"Mr. Haskell? I do hope you remember me—Professor Timothy Eliot Stokes," the professor began cordially, extending his hand.


Timothy Eliot Stokes had always been exceptional. As a young man, he double majored in art history and anthropology. Later, when he decided to pursue a career as an academic, his graduate studies took him around the world. It was during these travels that he first encountered manifestations of the occult.

He found so many artifacts and works of art held rich meaning for the local populace—some held dark meanings, and he found these all the more intriguing as a result. Early in his career, his mentors steered him away from what they described as "fringe", even "crackpot" pursuits, but Stokes never completely set them aside. Instead, he dabbled quietly and bided his time until he was established in his career—and no one could influence the direction of his research.

In time, he published works about the true meaning of the artifacts. His colleagues believed him to be an expert folklorist—never suspecting that their colleague could perform an exorcism when called upon to do so, as well as write expertly about them. In a sense, he led a double life and it served him well.

Then he'd come to Collinsport. Here, the estate of Collinwood and its inhabitants, and even the local town were artifacts—ones that held special meaning for him. He had traced his lineage back to an indentured servant, Ben Stokes, who served on the Collinwood estate. This knowledge brought him back to Collinsport, but two things kept him there. The estate was fertile ground for studying the occult. Something had unleashed upon the estate's unsuspecting residents, unnatural forces that lived on throughout the passage of time.

And too, it was in Collinsport that he first came to admit the loneliness of his existence and his desire to belong somewhere. And what better place could there be than his ancestral home, such as it was. While the Collins family provided ample opportunities to be of service with his knowledge of the occult, it was his relationship with his intellectual sparring partner, Julia Hoffman, he found most satisfying.

Of late there was also his growing affection for Maggie Collins, who like he, had no family to speak of. She had married into the Collins family, but he thought, as only a Stokes could, that the Collinses would always put themselves first. But now Maggie had him to look out for her, to protect her. He was more than up to the task—or so he believed.


"Please come in," Joe smiled and drew open the door to the cottage.

"I'm sorry to call on you unannounced," the professor said.

"Not at all." Joe assumed the role of gracious host. "May I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you," the professor demurred with more emphasis than he'd intended.

Joe poured himself two fingers of bourbon in a tumbler. Turning back to the professor, he asked, "So, have you come about Maggie?"

"Maggie?" Stokes visibly registered his surprise. Then recovering, he asked, "No. What makes you think so?"

"She mentioned you the other night, and frankly, I can't imagine any other reason for your visit."

"Ah, I see." The professor nodded and continued, "I've come on a wholly unrelated matter."

"Go on," Joe prompted, growing impatient with the professor's deliberate manner.

"I understand that you may be in possession of a certain artifact—one that I should very much like to include in a monograph which I'm currently researching. It's a beautifully handcrafted puzzle box."

"And what makes you think I have it?"

The professor smiled and continued in his deep, sonorous voice, "The box once belonged to a man named, Evan Hanley."

"I don't know anyone by that name," Joe spat in response.

"Perhaps not, but I traced the box as far as the Windcliff Sanitarium. Miss Pritchett says she believes you took the box with you when you left."

"Well, she shouldn't have revealed that—that's not very professional, is it?" Joe's cool exterior was giving way.

Professor Stokes pressed the point. "Perhaps not. Nevertheless, if you have the box, I'd very much like to see it."

Joe laughed a sardonic laugh. "It sounds like something I saw in a souvenir shop in Boston once."

"I can assure you, it's no souvenir," the professor said portentously.

"Well, I may have brought it back with me," Joe said then downed the bourbon in a single gulp. "But if I did, I don't know where it is now."

"I don't suppose I could prevail upon you to look for it?" the professor asked. "I should very much like to see it."

"Not tonight," Joe said. For the first time since his return, he felt flustered and out of control. "In fact, I just remembered that I have something to do this evening. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Of course. My apologies for taking up so much of your time. If you do come across the box, I hope you'll give me a call," the professor said as he removed a leather card case from his vest pocket, and gave the younger man his card.

Joe opened the cottage door, and showed the professor out.


Outside the cottage door, Professor Stokes allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. It was clear from the young man's reaction that the box held special significance. All that remained was to procure the box itself. He must tell Julia what he learned, at once.


Maggie was enjoying what passed for a normal day. For the first time in two nights the moon was waning. The full moon was behind them.

The previous night, Julia had come to the farm and administered a sedative to Quentin. Maggie had locked him in the cellar. Then the two women stayed up into the wee hours playing gin and drinking sherry.

When Maggie released her husband from the cellar, he vowed to make the ensuing days good ones—free from anxiety about the curse. He would go to the mill—she to the Great House. Later they would drive down the coast to a neighboring town for dinner. All day, Maggie focused on the evening ahead—on going out with her husband, just like any other young couple.

She left the Great House immediately after David and Amy's final lesson. At home, she indulged in the luxury of a bubble bath, and felt something that could be mistaken for happiness, but was in fact, relief. She took care with her toilette—putting on her make-up, arranging her hair, and finally dabbing cologne in just the right places. Then she stood looking in the closet, flipping through dresses to choose something suitable.

Every time the image of her husband as he was the past two evenings, or the thought of Joe's malevolent eyes threatened her temporary contentment, she pushed it aside by picturing the man she'd fallen in love with—haunted to be sure, but funny, charming, and disarmingly handsome.

She selected a belted knit dress that her husband was sure to like. She was just putting on the earrings that matched it when the phone rang. It was Quentin. He was delayed at the mill. He apologized for the change of plans—could she meet him at the Great House? Maggie hung up the phone, and let her momentary irritation give way to a smile—at least it was an ordinary change in plans—something that could happen to anyone—it was normal.


The old man was trouble. He'd interfered with Joe's plans for Maggie—and now this. He must be stopped, Joe thought. For the first time since being released from the prison constructed by his own mind—by his own weaknesses—he felt vulnerable, threatened.

The box is safe, he told himself, but for how long?

He acted without calculation. The professor could not have gotten far. He would follow him—intercept him. And then what? he wondered, even as he exited the cottage in pursuit of the professor. Strike a bargain with him? Threaten him? He had no plan—he was operating on pure emotion.

He set off down the path that led away from the cottage. Before long he'd reached the spot where the path branched into two—one led back to the main Collinsport road, the other to the Great House. Even in the growing darkness, he could see Professor Stokes making his way toward the Great House. Joe moved to intercept him. His eyes scanned the woods as he went for something he could use. Then he saw a club-sized tree branch lying on the side of the path. He picked it up, and continued his pursuit, leaving the main path to snake through the trees as he had done so often as a boy.

Initially, the old man moved as though he was unaware of Joe's presence in the woods. But then the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves caused the professor to turn back and call out, "Is anyone there?" Then he continued with a bit more alacrity. By then, it was too late.

Joe emerged from between the trees, swung the branch, and landed a blow squarely on the back of the professor's head. The older man staggered and fell to his hands and knees, stunned by the blow, suddenly insensible of everything around him.

Eyes aglow, Joe dropped the club, and looked around for something larger and heavier to finish the job. He saw a rock a few steps into the woods. He retrieved and lifted it over his head with both hands.

"Hello?" A woman's voice called out.

He heard footsteps approaching down the path. It was Maggie—he recognized her voice instantly.

"Hello?" She called out again. "Is someone there?"

The professor groaned loudly—pain breaking through the fog of his brain.

Joe felt cornered—trapped between his feelings for Maggie, and his desire to eliminate the threat on the ground in front of him. There was nothing for it, except to drop the rock and flee back into the woods. The professor would have to wait for another time.


Maggie quickened her pace down the path toward the noise—someone in pain, probably hurt. For a brief, ungracious moment, she resented the intrusion into what was intended to be a break from the Collinwood curse and all of its attendant misery—but someone might be injured and in need of help.

She rounded the bend where the path to the farm joined the main path that led to the Great House. A few steps on she saw him. The usually imposing figure of Professor Stokes looked diminished, on his hands and knees.

Maggie ran to him, as quickly as she could in block-heel pumps. She stooped down beside him. "What happened? Are you all right?" She threaded her arm through his and began to help him to his feet.

"I'm not sure," the professor said in a daze. Once on his feet, the pain at the back of his head became manifest.

"Can you make it back to the house?" she asked, "Or should I go get help?"

"Don't trouble yourself, my dear. I'll be all right in a moment." His hand went to the source of the pain. He touched it and winced in response.

Maggie gently moved his hand aside and examined the knot forming on the back of his head. "Let's get you to the Great House and put some ice on this," she said.

The Great House was unusually quiet and dark when they arrived. Then Maggie remembered that all of its residents had plans to be elsewhere—Roger had taken David and Amy to dinner and a movie, Elizabeth was dining in town with a fellow hospital board member, Mrs. Johnson and her son were in Bangor for the evening, and Carolyn was, as often was the case, with Tony. That left only Julia, who Maggie desperately hoped was at home.

Maggie led the professor into the drawing room and settled him on the couch next to the fireplace. "I'll get some ice," she said heading to the doors. As she entered the foyer, she saw Julia emerge from the direction of the library.

"Maggie, I thought I heard someone else in the house," the doctor began. "What are you doing here?"

Ignoring her question, Maggie said, "Julia—thank goodness you're here." She continued with urgency, "It's Professor Stokes. He's hurt. He's in the drawing room." Then remembering her first aid training, she continued calmly. "I'm going to get some ice, but would you please see to him?"

"Eliot? What happened?" Julia asked as she entered the drawing room.

Maggie did not stick around to hear his response. Instead she continued on to the kitchen. By the time she returned, Julia had retrieved her medical bag, and was shining a penlight into the professor's eyes. Maggie sat beside him on the couch. She'd wrapped several ice cubes in a clean kitchen towel. She applied it to the swelling on the back of Stokes's head.

"How is he, Julia?" Maggie asked in a worried voice.

"Well, he doesn't seem to have a concussion," Julia began. Addressing the professor, she added, "I'll need to keep you under observation though, just in case."

"At last, my hard-headedness pays dividends," the professor quipped.

"Really, Eliot," Julia huffed. "I can't believe you confronted Joe."

"Julia, I did not confront him. My interest in the box, combined with my friendship with Maggie, must have tipped my hand—a mistake I'll not repeat."

"I can't believe Joe would do such a thing," Maggie said sadly.

"Not Joe, Maggie, but whatever force has taken hold of him. You must believe that," the professor returned.

Maggie removed the ice and examined the patient. "It looks a bit better," she said.

"Thank you, Maggie. I'm feeling much better." He offered her a wan smile. "I've been thinking."

"Oh?" Julia interjected with a raised eyebrow.

The professor continued, "Mr. Haskell is unlikely to let me or anyone else examine the box. But there is someone else who might know its secret."

"Who?" Julia asked.

"The box's original owner, Evan Hanley."

"Evan Hanley?" Maggie asked.

"Yes. It seems that Mr. Hanley was once the Collins family attorney."

"But I've never heard of him," Maggie said, "and I've known the family for years."

"He died long before you were born," the professor told her.

"Then how …" Julia began.

"I propose we hold a séance—tonight—immediately," he said.

"Eliot, be reasonable," Julia said in a testy tone.

"Do you have a better idea, Julia?" he responded.

"No, but …" The doctor was clearly frustrated.

"Do you have a better idea, Julia?" the professor challenged her again as he often did. Then he turned to Maggie, "You've been quiet, my dear. I need your agreement—and participation, as well."

Maggie chewed at her lower lip in a nervous gesture. "A séance …" she said, thinking aloud. Quentin on the night of the full moon was etched in her memory. I can't go through that again, she thought. "If there's any chance we could learn something to help Quentin … and Joe, I think we should try it."

The professor turned to the doctor, "Julia?" he asked.

"Very well," she agreed, though clearly unhappily.

The professor assembled chairs at the small drawing room table. Maggie brought candles from the mantle and lit them then she and Julia extinguished all of the other lights in the room, and joined Stokes at the table.

"We must join hands to form a circle, like this," the professor said as he demonstrated touching fingertip-to-fingertip, hands spread flat on the table. Maggie and Julia followed suit, placing their hands on the tabletop—completing the circle.

Before the professor could begin the séance, the drawing room door opened suddenly, causing the three to gasp. Quentin stood in the doorway. "What's going on here?" he asked.

Maggie withdrew her hands like a guilty child. She stood. "Quentin!" She'd been so caught up in everything going on, she hadn't noticed it was well past the time Quentin had said he would meet her.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but I see you've found something to occupy your time," Quentin told his wife in a rough tone.

Before she could respond, Professor Stokes said, "We're attempting a séance."

"Oh? And which unsettled soul are you attempting to contact?" Quentin asked.

"One Evan Hanley," the professor answered.

"Evan?"

"Of course, you must have known him," the professor said.

"Evan was a good friend," Quentin said wistfully. "He would approve of holding a séance to reach him. He dabbled in the dark arts himself—introduced me to it as well." Then coming back to the present, he asked, "What's your interest in Evan?"

"I'm interested in a particular artifact that once belonged to him. One that might help with the curse that afflicts you."

"He did have an extensive collection of unusual pieces from his travels," Quentin observed. "But if he had such a thing, he would have used it to help me. I feel certain of that."

"Perhaps he was unaware of all of its properties," Stokes said disingenuously.

"Perhaps," Quentin murmured, casting his mind back to his friend.

"It might help if you were to join us. He might appear willingly and more readily to someone he knows and trusts," Professor Stokes said, gesturing to an adjacent, empty chair.

Quentin sighed. His eyes met Maggie's. Their quest for a normal day now ruined. "Late supper afterward?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Maggie nodded and resumed her seat. Quentin pulled the chair to the table, and took a seat between Julia and Maggie. He took Maggie's hand and brought it to his lips. Then he placed it on the table and spread his palms flat, fingertips touching hers on one side, and Julia's on the other. The séance began.


"Spirits from the dark, hear us. Spirits from the dark, join our circle," Professor Stokes intoned. A cool breeze blew through the room; the candles sputtered in response. "The spirits are among us. Do not break the circle." He continued, "Spirits from beyond, join our circle. There is one among you we seek …"

"No!" Maggie cried out.

"Maggie?" Quentin turned to his wife in concern.

"Do not break the circle!" Stokes said with force. "A spirit speaks through her now. We must hear it."

Quentin shot the professor an aggressive look, but before he could act on it, his wife continued, "You must turn back. There is nothing but danger for you here! Turn back!"

Then the candles blew out and Maggie cried out in the darkness, "No!"