You don't want to know [antikvár]

PROLOGUEAgain, the dream creeps in.It's a foggy, gray day and I'm in the kitchen, on the phone, talking to someone . . . but that part changes. Sometimes it's my husband, Wyatt; other times it's Tanya, and sometimes it's my mother, though I know she's been dead a long, long time. But that's how it is. . . .From the family area, the room right next to the kitchen, here in this house, I hear the television, soft cartoon voices speaking, and I know that Noah's playing with his toys on the rug in front of the flat screen.I've baked some breadthe kitchen is still warm from the oven and I'm thinking about Thanksgiving. As I glance out the window, I notice that it's nearly dark outside, dusk at hand. It must be cold, too, as the trees shiver in the wind, a few stubborn leaves hanging on to thin, skeletal branches. Across the bay, the town of Anchorville is invisible, shrouded by fog.But inside this old mansion, the one my great-great-grandfather built, it's cozy.Safe.Smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg.And then, from the corner of my eye, I see movement outside. It's Milo, our cat, I think, but I remember that Milo, a prince of a tabby, is dead. Has been for years.I squint, suddenly fearful. It's hard to see through the fog rolling in from the sea, but I know something's out there, in the yard, behind the hedgerow of roses where the scraggly bushes are thin and