At 1:47 AM, the initial 911 call went dead. When the dispatcher telephoned back, Leah Remington picked up. "I found a baby's skeleton!" she shouted.

"Ma'am, don't hang up. Do this: take a deep breath, relax. Street address_"

"712 Q Street. I found a cigar box! Baby bones are inside it!"

"A box_ Bones_ Um, I see, ma'am."

"This is no crank call," Leah insisted.

"This cigar box, where did you see it_" Over the line, Leah heard fingertips rattling on a computer keyboard entering the data.

"Up in our attic. Underneath loose planking," said Leah. "Send the police."

"I've alerted a prowl car. ETA is twenty minutes," said the dispatcher. "Do not vacate the premises. Hear me, ma'am_ And better stay out of your attic."

"Yes, surely." Leah punched down the "end" button on the cell. Her shaky hands drew a glass of tap water. No, she needed something stiff. A fifth of Jack Daniels emerged from inside the breadbox. Three slugs sizzled down her windpipe. Like road flares. Ah, God. The explosion in her guts defused jittery nerves. For a moment, the matching kitchen appliances swirled in surreal vertigo.

Leah massaged a thumb on her throbbing temple. The kitchen resembled a kitchen. She was grateful for that much. It was their "sane room." Shit. A new ire boiled her blood. Bruce had gone to Home Depot. No outlet in Washington, DC meant he had to drive over the river into the Virginia suburbs. He'd arrive soon. Then he could deal with it, and her.

Refusing to forsake the kitchen's sanctuary, Leah toed the door wide. Outspill of illumination fell across a rickety stepladder, drop cloths, and dented paint buckets. White powdery plaster dust akin to nuclear fallout poisoned every surface. Leah sneezed. This was to become her dining room. Yeah. Right. More Jack Daniels soothed her.

The door whooshed back. Trembling, Leah strove to picture a normal house. Its domesticity furnished with carpets, chairs, light fixtures, televisions, magazine racks, bookshelves, and a coffee table. Right now, she presided over a mess. Bruce called it a "remodeling project," something to tell their grandkids. Bullshit! she thought.

Feeling the liquor's kick, Leah scowled. They were neck-deep in alligators and couldn't drain the swamp. How_ The DC government had sold them the old brownstone for $2.00. What a steal! Bruce Remington, that big dreamer she'd married nine months ago, wooed her sense of adventure. For some unfathomable reason, she agreed. They took the second plunge. After all their savings were used to modernize the kitchen, they had to move in it or declare bankruptcy.

They wanted kids. Badly.

For short spans, Leah had lingered alone in the brownstone. As long as she didn't venture from the kitchen, she didn't quiver with dread. Her face didn't blanch, her heart didn't hammer between her ears, and her eyes didn't spin in their sockets.

But a bit earlier tonight, she'd heard whimpers. Overhead. What_ A trapped kitten_ A creaky shutter_ Tree limbs grating shingles_ It again sounded. What_ She busted to know.

Entering the attic door, Leah ascended one step, then the next. The treads underfoot felt spongy. Her flashlight doused a conical tunnel through musty murk. The bleats grew plaintive. It was a baby.

No-no, Leah. That can't be, doesn't compute. She strained her ears. Silence. At the stairhead, she caught sibilant breezes, gingko branches scratching their slate roof. Tires sloshed on wet pavement just below. It'd started to rain. A cold, hard rain that rendered Washington, DC in April the most unsettled month.

Her maternal instinct drove Leah. She set her flashlight upright near the slab chimney. Boards not nailed down she flung aside. A cigar box. Nestled between two oak joists. She flipped its lid. Ooo. A miniature skeleton gave off a reddish incandescence. Her heart skipped faster. Good Lord! She dropped the box. Clattering downstairs, she had hollered at the top of her lungs.

Presently the gruff throb of an engine curbed. The flash bar on the cruiser's roof splashed red-blue-red. Beads of sweat flayed her spine. How would she explain it to the police officers rapping batons at the door_

~+~

The Snodgrass twins, Eva and Michelle, dwelled behind tapestries and curtains, shutters and doors, glass and planks, clhtmls and locks. These sturdy components to the brownstone granted them a buffer to the external world, one just as evil as it was flinty and formidable.

They didn't lack for money or resources. Their grandfather early in life amassed a fortune peddling munitions during Mr. Lincoln's War. Likewise, their father late in life supplied arms to prosecute Mr. Wilson's War. "Merchants of war were the devil's spawn," was how muckraking tabloids labeled them.

"Will any gentleman caller dine with us this evening_" Eva quizzed Michelle. They sat in the drawing room's electric sconces. Leaky drafts wormed through crevices. Cherry-red coals glowed in the iron grate. The warmth, however, was too feeble to ward off wintry chills.

Michelle's gray eyes flicked up from the Edith Wharton ghost story. "Ned Clootie. Didn't I tell you_"

The handkerchief Eva snuffled into was yellow silk. "No, you did not. I'll direct Jennie to set an extra place. Honestly, I can't keep up with your appointments."

"My social calendar is a whirlwind of endless gratification." Sighing, Michelle put the Wharton book under the astral lamp. "You, on the other hand, are our resident wallflower."

Eva's spine stiffened. "Yes, sis, I refrain from flouncing bloomers in windblown parks, smoking stogies on rumble seats, or peppering my diction with sailor vulgarities."

Michelle pooched her lips. Before she let fly a tart rejoinder, the door chimes gonged.

At the entryway, Jennie curtsied. "Shall I say you are home_" she asked.

"Absolutely not," said Eva. "Mr. Clootie is an abominable ass."

Michelle cut in. "Nonsense. We will receive the caller, Jennie."

With a resigned wrist flourish, Eva dispatched Jennie.

They soon overheard a rhtmly baritone. Ned Clootie's bootfall clacked over oak floorboards. Cocky. Ambitious. Surging into the ladies parlor, he snapped his heels together.

"Evening, lovely ladies," Ned said, doffing his derby for Jennie to take.

Always the flirt, a coy smile warmed Michelle's face. "Welcome, dear Ned."

Eva arose. "I best see after Jennie."

Eyes trained on Eva's stride from the room, Ned drank in her accentuated contours. A sharp pike at where his ribs arched corrected his ill-bred manners. "Ouch, Michelle!"

"Ned, dearest. You must flatter me alone with your affections," said Michelle. "Eva hasn't the slightest interest in you."

Adjusting his cufflinks, Ned chuckled from an overfed belly. "You misconstrue my intentions. I wish nothing more than to bask in the charming company of you ladies."

Arising, Michelle slid the fringed purple shawl from her shoulders. "Shut up, kiss me."

Dinner was by candlelight without the blue sizzle of lit gas jets. Jennie served such dishes as candied yams, Cornish game hens, and shortening bread. The feast climaxed with a dessert of peach cobbler.

Michelle between sips of black tea tried to draw Eva into the conversation. "Eva, ask Ned how business is at father's gun factory."

"Oh, please," Ned said. "I'm running at peak rate. But let's not speak of commerce."

By and by, Ned bade the yawning Snodgrass twins sweet dreams and saw himself out. A few minutes later, Michelle retired upstairs. Eva helped Jennie square away the kitchen.

"Jennie, you run along on home," said Eva. "I can finish up this little bit of drying dishes."

"Thank you, ma'am." Jennie donned her woolen wrap and red cloche. "See you tomorrow early," she said before disappearing into darkness.

After hanging copper pots and pans on the rack, Eva charged out of the kitchen. She wetted her fingers, snuffed candlewicks on the sideboard except for the one she took up. Passing by the stairwell from the edge of her vision, she saw a sly movement.

"Pssst, Eva. Over here." The voice was male. "I need your help."

Eva flinched; the candle flickered. "Why, Ned_ Why are you still here_"

Ned's jet hair brushed behind each ear resembled a pair of pointy horns. Cigar smoke wisped from his lips. "To make a real woman of you, my lush little virgin."

He clapped a scaly hand over her mouth, muffling the scream she struggled to blurt out. Deeper into shadows, he dragged her kicking and squirming. His musk, a sulfuric stench, nauseated Eva. Fabric rustled, seams ripped, flesh exposed.

She cried: "Unhand me! You're hurting me . . ."

"Hush!" he ordered. Slitted eyes glimmered like morsels of foxfire in mineral darkness. His coarse hands parted her legs, seeking the fecund heat therein. "Do you realize who I am_ Yes, huh_ Ah, a smart lady. You'll submit to my designs! You've no choice."

~+~

The DC police officers, a young man tall and lean accompanied by the older corporal short and squat, methodically combed the entire brownstone from bottom to top. They started in the cellar, scanned the two main floors, and tackled the attic space.

"Sorry, ma'am," said the corporal. They now all stood in the kitchen. "We discovered nothing amiss. No sign of intrusion."

Leah's arms stirred, her voice modulated sour and querulous "Your search of the attic yielded nothing_"

"It's dirty as sin," the young officer said. "But then I'd expect that in any old brownstone. You folks are doing a first-rate restoration job. Maybe the other units will sell before the crack heads and gangs claim squatters' right, if they haven't already."

"But I saw a box between the joists by the chimney. It was yay big." Leah sized its compact dimensions using her hands. "Inside was a tiny skeleton. A baby's."

The corporal scratched the scruff of his neck. "We didn't see anything. Of course, we did a quick once-over. Not to freak you, ma'am, but I bet it was roof rats. A dead one would leave small rodent bones."

Nodding, the young man pointed his light beam under the butcher-block table as if searching. "DC is aswarm with vermin. Beady red eyeballs shine down damn near every alleyway. Terrible."

"My recommendation -- set out bait traps," the corporal added, trying to sound helpful.

With a fierce shiver, Leah hiccuped. "What of the whimpers_"

"Again, rats scratching about, ma'am," said the corporal. "Well, duty calls. We have to shove off. Set your traps out. Use cheese as bait. Good night and stay safe."

"Perhaps you're not up to this," the abortionist rhtmled between pants. He called himself Tull. No doubt it was an assumed name to protect his illicit, deplorable, but too often vital malfeasance. Stoop-shouldered, Tull sleeved his pitted forehead. Slick black sweat pilled again. Bristly jaws twitched. Fingers curved around the whiskey bottle.

Craning her neck, Eva saddled in the crude stirrups glowered at him. She too was drenched in sweat. "Finish what you started," she demanded in hoarse shouts.

"Aw, hang fire. It's wedged at a hellish angle," he said. "I ain't scraping you further."

Eva screamed: "I tell you, finish it!"

Tull, knees popping, arose from behind the tented sheets. "Tsk-tsk. Lady, I won't have you hemorrhaging on my bench, bleeding out. First off, how would I dispose of your cadaver_ Then the Metropolitan Police would come making inquiries. I won't die on the end of a hangman's noose."

Amid onslaughts of pain, Eva thought, you're already a murderer. Through a wince, she asked, "What is the difficulty_ Speak up, man."

Pulling up the butcher's apron tied about his obese girth, Tull wiped his blood-clotted hands. Six lanterns tossed out a sallow light that windows shrouded with burlap trapped with them in the stall.

His steel forceps and scalpels came out of a surgeon's kit. Her gritty pluck was amazing. He gave her that. Never once had she hollered or fainted, even at his roughest gouging. The other girls yelped like banshees, fingernails flailed to claw out his eyes.

Eva snapped. "Tull! S-s-stop your lollygaging. Describe it to me."

Sighing low and ponderous, Tull squatted and rocked back on his heels. Fingers probed. "It's logjammed. I espy an arm, hand, and fingers. Way oversized, I'd say, for its age."

"Your best efforts are thwarted," said Eva. "Why_"

"It remains intractable," he replied. "I've never seen anything like it."

Eva snorted. "How preposterous!"

Tull swabbed gauze to staunch profuse bleeding. "Nevertheless, madam, I've done all I can do for you. I refuse to continue. Even I have limits. Here, let me assist you up. Put on your skirt, stockings, and underclothes."

Sitting up, Eva felt faint. "I'll need a minute here."

"Sure, sure," said Tull. His features went haggard and gaunt. "Shall I mosey below, fetch your sister_"

"Please do," said Eva.

"You be wanting back your $100_" he asked.

Eva swung her gore-smeared legs over to the side. "Just go! Bring me Michelle. Then stay out of my sight."

When Michelle invaded the crib, she was reminded of a cozy vestibule lit with votive candles. The agony seamed on Eva's face exploded that impression. "Did he help_"

"The quack made it worse," Eva said. "He's a butcher."

Michelle fitted the buckled brogues on her sister's clammy feet. "We'll rush home. You'll be safe and unwatched until it's time."

Groaning, Eva stood up, putting her weight on both feet. Pain at the center of her being radiated in convulsions. "It's our haven," she said. Her body was on fire; a fever distorted her thoughts.

~+~

Bruce returned from Home Depot. He was irked for having to take a rain check for the crown molding. Inside the front door, he dumped his bundles at the stepladder. A quick shiver traveled through his tall frame. The April rain, now a gusher, had soaked him to the skin.

"Hey, Leah!" he hollered. "I'm back, babes. Where the devil are you_"

"I'm in the goddamn kitchen," she replied. "What other part of this monstrosity is fit for habitation_"

"Oh-oh," said Bruce. "What happened_"

He bustled into the kitchen. Pale as a bed sheet, Leah was watching a movie, "Rosemary's Baby," on the portable TV. His gaze continued its sweep. On the drainboard sat the fifth of Jack Daniels. Near empty.

"So: you wanna know what happened_" Leah's shrill voice was slurred. "For starters, I hadda call the cops."

Eyes enlarging, Bruce rubbed his hands over the lit gas range. "What, crack heads bothering you again_"

"No, a box o' bones," Leah said. "In the attic."

Bruce realized his new bride was drunk. "Where, babes_ I'll go check."

"Don't you ‘babes' me," said Leah. "I was crazy to sign my life away in this rat hole. But I know what I saw."

Spraying the six-cell flashlight's swath throughout the attic, Bruce also ran across nothing. He went down and flaked out on the second cot in the kitchen beside Leah who'd fallen asleep. She'd been sick a lot lately.

~+~

Late August Eva began showing. Even underneath her loosest frocks, the full belly protruded. She sleepwalked through rooms, muttered obscenities under her rancid breath. From a respectable distance, Michelle watched and worried. She was unsure how to administer to her sister's welfare.

Of late, strange events entwined their lives. Ned Clootie had vanished the morning after he'd dined with the Snodgrass twins. Metropolitan Police questioned Michelle about it. Feeling peevish, Eva remained in her bedchamber. Michelle explained how the evening had transpired. Candlelit dinner, hearty conversation, late farewells. Rumors promulgated about foul play and Ned. On that score, Michelle admitted nothing.

"Ned was evil," she reminded herself in the mirror.

When Eva refused to venture near the stairwell, Michelle cobbled it together. Ned had raped her sister. Guilt consumed and almost crippled Michelle. The twins became virtual prisoners in their brownstone. The carriage trip to Tull in Georgetown turned into an abysmal failure.

The child arrived early, near starset one late December night. There Eva lay, limbs akimbo, on a straw tick by the attic chimney far and away from any prying eyes and ears. A fruit bat soughed through the rafters. Michelle slouched in the doorway, hoisted a tin lantern. She dared not draw closer for fear Eva would again shriek threats to rip out her liver to eat with onions.

How it was delivered, Michelle wasn't privy to witness. A simpering infant signified the birthing was completed. A bitter essence like that of quinine tablets assailed her nostrils.

"Sister, hand me the cigar box," Eva said. "Be quick!"

Michelle approached Eva who was curled away from her on the pallet. An eager hand snatched the box from Michelle. The other hand signaled for her retreat.

"Return downstairs," said Eva. "I'll do just fine here in the darkness."

"Might I at least hold a light for you_" asked Michelle.

Eva's glittering red eyes trained on Michelle. Gripped with soul-draining fear, she fled down the stairs.

What had become of Eva_ What would become of them in this house_

Bruce jogged by the bag lady in a blue moo-moo panhandling for spare change. The rain had desisted but copies of the Washington Times in the coin box were sodden. A poster for the Night Hawks at The Backstreet Café was duct-taped on a lamppost. Their CDs were packed away but too much was going on right now to party. Just this afternoon, he'd played hookie from his construction duties to research microfiche at the Martin Luther King Public Library. Old newspaper stories from the 1920s had been enlightening.

Leah at the kitchen sink scrubbing potatoes for a crock pot stew turned to him. Bruce spread the stories he'd reproduced on the tabletop.

"These journalistic gems I dug up concern the first and only owners of this brownstone," he said. "Two spinsters who lived well into their nineties. They were recluses. Come take a look at this article. It might help explain what you saw in the attic."

Tipping the pages to the better light, Leah's lips moved as she read aloud.

LOCAL CULTIST HAS DISAPPEARED

Mr. Ned Z. Clootie, 26, has been reported missing by his parents. Police, after questioning his associates, report no progress in the case. He waslast seen dining with the Snodgrass sisters at 712 Q Street. Mr. Clootie was a noted Satanic cultist practicing in fashionable Georgetown residences. This revelation has come as something of an impure surprise to many who knew the young bachelor. This reporter has spoken to sources wishing to remain anonymous that Mr. Clootie often jested he was the Devil Incarnate.

Such a being, it is thought, comes and goes at will in human form. Otherhideous cult practices include insemination of younger girls with thedemon's very own seed. It should be hastily pointed out, nonetheless, that outlandish claims such as these have been posited since the Old Testament when nothing, in fact, has ever been proven by modern science.

"You saw a cigar box," said Bruce. "I found nothing. Why_"

New insights cleared Leah's eyes. The movie. Now this article. "Only a mother would view such a cursed object."

"What say_" Bruce asked.

"I'm pregnant," said Leah. "We're having a baby. But not in this evil house."