For a hundred years, the people of Prairie Bend have whispered Nathaniel's name in wonder and fear.  Some say he is a folktale, created to frighten children on cold winter nights.  Some swear he is a terrifying spirit retumed to avenge the past.  But soon . . . very soon . . . some will learn that Nathaniel lives still--that he is darkly, horrifyingly real.  Nathaniel--he is the voice that calls to young Michael Hall across the prairie night . . . the voice that draws the boy into the shadowy depths of the old, crumbling, forbidden barn . . . that chanting, compelling voice he will follow faithfully beyond the edge of terror. For a hundred years, the people of Prairie Bend have whispered Nathaniel's name in wonder and fear. Some say he is a folktale, created to frighten children on cold winter nights. Some swear he is a terrifying spirit retumed to avenge the past. But soon . . . very soon . . . some will learn that Nathaniel lives still--that he is darkly, horrifyingly real. Nathaniel--he is the voice that calls to young Michael Hall across the prairie night . . . the voice that draws the boy into the shadowy depths of the old, crumbling, forbidden barn . . . that chanting, compelling voice he will follow faithfully beyond the edge of terror. John Saul ’s first novel,  Suffer the Children , was an immediate million-copy bestseller. His other bestselling suspense novels include  Perfect Nightmare , Black Creek Crossing , and  The Presence. He is also the author of the  New York Times  bestselling serial thriller  The Blackstone Chronicles , initially published in six installments but now available in one complete volume. Saul divides his time between Seattle and Hawaii. CHAPTER 1   “Are you my grandpa?”   Michael Hall gazed uncertainly up into the weathered face. He had never seen the man before, yet he recognized him as clearly as if he were looking into a mirror. He tried to keep his voice steady, tried not to shrink back against his mother, tried to remember all the things his father had taught him about meeting people for the first time:   Stand up straight, and put your hand out.   Look the person in the eye.   Tell them your name. He’d forgotten that part.   “I—I’m Michael, and this is my mother,” he stammered.   He felt his mother’s grip tighten on his shoulders, and for just a moment was afraid he’d done something wrong. But then the man he was talking to smiled at him, and he felt his mother’s hands relax a little.   He looks like Mark. He looks just like Mark. The thought flashed through Janet Hall’s mind, and she had to make a conscious effort to keep from hurling herself into the arms of the stranger who was now moving closer to her, an uneasy smile failing to mask the troubled look in his eyes. Barely conscious of the airport crowd that eddied around her, Janet found herself focusing on the lean angularity of her father-in-law’s figure, the strength in his face, the aura of calm control that seemed to hover around him as it had around his son. Unconsciously, her hand moved to her waist and she smoothed her skirt in a nervous gesture.   It’s going to be all right, Janet told herself. He’s just like Mark, and he’ll take care of us.   Almost as if he’d heard Janet’s private thought, Amos Hall leaned down and swung his eleven-year-old grandson off his feet, his farmer’s strength belying his own sixty-seven years. He hugged the boy, but when his eyes met Janet’s over Michael’s shoulder, there was no joy in them.   “I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his voice to a level that would be inaudible to anyone but Janet and Michael. “I don’t know what to say. All these years, and we only meet when Mark—” His voice faltered, and Janet could see him struggling against his feelings. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice suddenly gruff. “Let’s get your baggage and get on out of here. We can talk in the car.”      But they didn’t talk in the car. They drove out of North Platte and into the vast expanse of the prairie in silence, the three of them huddled in the front seat of Amos Hall’s Oldsmobile, Janet and Amos separated by Michael. The numbness that had overcome Janet from the moment the night before when she had been told that her husband was dead still pervaded her, and the reality of where she was—and the why of it—had still not come fully into her consciousness. She had a feeling of being trapped in a nightmare, and every second she was waiting for Mark to awaken her from the dream and assure her that everything was all right, everything was as it had always been.   And yet, that was not to be.   The miles rolled past. Finally, Janet made herself glance across to her father-in-law, who seemed intent on studying the arrow-straight road ahead, his eyes glued to the shimmering pavement as if, by concentration alone, he, too, could deny the reality of what had happened.   Janet cleared her throat, and Amos’s eyes left the road for a split second. “Mark’s mother—”   “She never leav