Lainey came awake with a start. For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was, and then she sighed. She was inside the Grayson mansion. She sat there for a moment, listening to the sound of the rain as she glanced around the room.

In daylight, she could see that the parlor had once been elegant. The draperies at the window, now faded and frayed, were of dark red velvet. The floor was of solid oak, dulled by years of dust and neglect. The chair she was sitting on was upholstered in a dark red, green, and gold print, as was the other chair and the high-backed sofa. She guessed the walls had once been a creamy white, but time had dulled the color. An enormous lacy cobweb hung from one corner of the vaulted ceiling.

Rising, she pulled on her jacket, surprised that the fire was still burning. Perhaps it was a gas log, she mused as she tossed the sheet over the chair. But surely, if there was no electricity, there was no gas. And even if the gas was on, it still didn't explain who, or what, had lit the fire the night before.

She combed her fingers through her hair, wished fleetingly for a toothbrush and a glass of orange juice, and then began to explore the rest of the house.

The kitchen was huge, with a walk-in pantry and numerous cupboards. A large window overlooked the backyard.

She paused at the back door, which was slightly ajar, frowning when she saw a carton of orange juice on the top step. Pushing the door open a little further, she picked up the container. The date stamped on the carton was current.

She hesitated only a moment, then opened the container and took a drink. It was fresh and tangy, as if it had just been squeezed.

Maybe someone did live here, she thought. But that was impossible. All the surfaces in the house were covered with a thick layer of dust, the cupboards were empty, there were no appliances of any kind.

Turning away from the door, she saw a stack of newspapers, and she thumbed through them while she drank the juice, scanning the headlines. The oldest newspaper was dated three weeks before.

FIREBALL SEEN STREAKING ACROSS L.A. SKY, the headline read, ALARMED CITIZENS, FEARING UFO INVASION, BOMBARD POLICE STATION WITH CALLS.

For the next week, the lead story had been about the meteor. No one had seen it land, but all sorts of government agencies, including the Air Force, were said to be scouring the area, hoping to find a piece of it.

After a week, the meteor story had been relegated to the back pages until an enterprising reporter interviewed a couple of scientists, who had speculated that the meteor might not have been a meteor at all, but a spaceship. Mention of flying saucers put the unidentified flying object back on the front page.

Flying saucers, indeed, Lainey thought as she put the carton on the sink and left the kitchen. Did scientists really expect to find little green men roaming the streets? She had never believed in flying saucers, had always assumed that if there really were other people on other planets, they would be just like the people of earth. She had never believed all those wild tales of people being abducted by aliens, either.

She wandered through three bedrooms, a large den, and a solarium that was crowded with plants and rosebushes, all remarkably green and healthy considering that no one had lived in the house for ten years.

Leaving the solarium, she climbed the stairs to the second story. There were four bedrooms there, and four bathrooms. The master bedroom was bigger than her whole house. The drapes were blue-gray, the wallpaper a faded blue, white, and gray stripe. There was a corner fireplace, a walk-in closet. Sliding glass doors opened onto a balcony.

It must have been an elegant house at one time, Lainey thought again, and wondered what had happened to the previous owner, and why no one else had ever bought the place. It had such promise, such possibilities. She had a healthy royalty check coming in a couple of months, she thought. Maybe, if the place was for sale and they weren't asking too much for it, she'd see about buying it in spite of the rumors that it was haunted.

Haunted. She grimaced. Maybe that accounted for the mysterious fire last night, and the orange juice this morning.

Leaving the master bedroom, she saw a narrow set of stairs at the far end of the hallway.

Curious, she climbed the stairs to the next landing. There was only one door in sight, and when she tried to open it, she found that it was locked. Since there was no keyhole, it had to be locked from the inside.

That was odd. If no one lived here, how could the door be locked from the inside? It was just stuck, she decided. No doubt the rain had caused the wood to swell.

She put her shoulder to the door and pushed, but nothing happened. It was definitely locked.

A shiver ran down Lainey's spine as her vivid imagination immediately jumped into overdrive.

There was a vampire behind the door.

A serial killer.

Freddy, waiting to rip her apart. Jason, hiding behind his mask.

Cujo.

Heart pounding wildly, Lainey ran down both flights of stairs. Breathing heavily, she stood in front of the fireplace in the living room, shivering in spite of the fire's warmth.

There's nothing to be afraid of.

The voice, faint but definitely masculine, should have scared her out of a year's growth. Confused because she wasn't the least bit frightened, she glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken, but there was no one there.

Turning around, she examined every corner of the parlor, but there was no one to be seen.

Maybe she was going insane. Maybe spending the night in the Grayson mansion had sent her around the bend. And maybe she was just suffering some sort of delusion brought on by hunger, she thought with a grin. Grabbing the sheet she'd used the night before, she draped it over her head and left the house, sprinting down the driveway toward her car.

Unlocking the door, she slid behind the wheel, uttered a silent prayer, and shoved the key into the ignition.

"Thanks, Lord," she murmured as the engine roared to life.

She was pulling away from the curb when she heard the voice again.

Don't go.

She hesitated a moment. There was something compelling about that voice, an aching loneliness that touched her heart.

Maybe she really was going mad, she thought, and with a shake of her head, she put the car in gear and headed for home.