Nightmare in Pewter — Jean DeWeese

She shook her head sharply, tearing her eyes away from the pewter figure...it seemed to be looking at her, as if, hidden in the shadowed hollows beneath the inhumanly prominent brows, there really were a pair of eyes.... It was a hideous little statue, really, and Shelbie Wilson could not understand the fascination it held for her. She also had not been able to discover who had given it to the Farrell County Historical Society, although she was its president. Shelbie becomes even more curious when similar statures start cropping up in connection with a sudden rash of local suicides.

Only puzzling coincidence, Shelbie thinks, until she discovers that suicide epidemics are not new to Farrell County. In fact, they've been happening just about every twenty-five years. The further she pursues the mystery, the more she becomes obsessed with it. Or possessed? As though some presence stands behind her, waiting for her to find out too much...

It was a voice, and yet not a voice.
It told him to awaken, and yet it held his mind in an unbreakable grip.
It spoke as if from a great distance, and yet it seemed to come from within himself, the thoughts to form of their own accord in his mind.
It spoke of endless life, and yet a taint of death hovered over its words.
It spoke of fulfillment of all desires, and yet there was a tinge of emptiness and eternal loneliness to the thoughts.
It was touched by an aura of alien-ness that, when his thoughts were his own, hinted at unknown forms and terrors, and yet, almost from the start, he accepted what it seemed to be offering…
Gradually, as the night wore one, he changed…