He had to get to the old barn.
The horrific psychic history lesson had been terrifying enough, but during their mental exchange, Tim had seen something that brought it all home: an image of Mallory, bloody and cold.
For some reason, the creature wanted her dead.
He now knew what had pushed her brother into the pool. He recalled the pile of wood chips near the Wiesses’ back gate when he’d jumped over the fence. The mulch had been heaped on the lawn in much the same way the pile of grass had been discarded in the street before the church.
Maybe it didn’t know where Mallory was yet. Maybe it did.
Either way, he had to get to her. He needed to warn her. He’d already been scraped, bruised, and run to exhaustion, but he vowed to reach her before that thing could.
No matter what.
CHAPTER 38
The entity soared through the night, crossing the distance between Loretto and Mallory’s neighborhood almost instantaneously. Seen from above, the lit windows of the clustered homes below looked like glowing eyes peering up from the darkness of oblivion.
It needed to act fast.
With Tim aware of its presence, the boy would seek help. Though his story might cause the average individual to pass him off for crazy, this was not an average night.
Victory hovered too close to take the chance.
The victims it helped Kane slay all those years ago had possessed knowledge as well as potent life energy, skills it harvested from their minds to aid Kane and learn the ways of the modern world. Now their knowledge had served its quest again.
To keep the advantage, it overloaded the phone system via a junction box at the post office before departing from Loretto, causing a town-wide communication blackout that would require replacement parts to repair. Following the sabotage of the landlines, it also sent an electromagnetic pulse through the power cables to a nearby receiver tower that serviced the local area’s cell phone users. That maneuver should have bought it enough time to retrieve Kane and capture Mallory before anyone suspected she was in danger. And thanks to Tim, it already knew her location.
It descended toward the homes below, to the vacant scar of a street that cut between the elaborately landscaped lawns of the opposing houses.
Tim had been amusing. And during their brief communion, it discovered he knew someone who might provide it with a few allies.
Brad ran down the street with awkward strides, fighting the fatigue that had invaded his body like a fatal virus.
Home… Home… Keep moving… Get home…
Despite his dwindling strength, he soon he stumbled over the curb and onto the plush grass of his front lawn. He looked up at the house.
Lights still off… Shit… No one home yet… Mom and Dad still out…
He clambered up the front steps and slumped against the entry, panting. He kept his left hand clamped tight over his right wrist, trying to stanch the flow of blood where Tim had cut him.
Bastard!
And the pain! At first, there had been none, but now it felt like a razorblade wedged under his skin.
Going to kill him!
Using his elbow to push down on the handle, he shoved the door open and staggered inside. His boots clunked across the polished stone floor of the entry, making the lonely blackness seem all the more abandoned and cavernous.
He went straight for the small half-bathroom beneath the main staircase. Once inside, he flipped on the light with his good hand and beheld the gory mess that coated his right hand like a sticky red mitten.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered, gaping at the amount of blood.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he found his face the chalky color of stripped bone. Keeping one hand pressed over the wound, he opened the medicine cabinet to the left of the vanity and shuffled through the contents. He knocked useless items out of the way and into the sink, searching for what he needed to make a dressing. When he found the proper material, he knew the time had come to inspect the damage. Holding his right arm into the light, he removed his trembling left hand.
And his stomach turned over at the sight.
A three-inch diagonal slash cut across his wrist, exposing damaged veins and tendons. No sooner had he lifted his hand to uncover the wound when the slanted mouth pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat and spit a stream of blood at the mirror.
“Damn!”
He slapped his left hand back over the gash and swayed like a drunk. Darkness tugged at his eyelids. He collapsed to the ground, ripping loose a towel rack from the wall and sweeping a collage of amenities off the countertop. Glass shattered on the floor tiles.
Have to get to the phone… 911…
Pushing to his knees, he crawled back into the entry hall and lifted himself to a stand with the aid of the staircase’s lower newel post.
He waited for his head to clear before trying to move, and as he did, he spotted something on the floor.
Footprints.
Two sets of them. One leading to the bathroom, the other up the stairs.
He shifted his gaze upward.
A second floor light clicked on.
His tongue lay in his mouth like a wool sock and he swallowed hard, trying to wet it. “D-Dad?” he called. “Dad, help.”
Steadying his weight against the handrail, he began to ascend the steps.
One at a time… Not far now… Light in my room is on…
Brad reached the landing and found the door directly across the hall standing open. His bedroom blazed with light, reflecting off the glossy-surfaced posters of various death-metal bands covering the walls.
He glanced back and forth, searching the empty room.
“Dad?”
His stereo switched on at full blast. Sound waves poured from the speakers at their maximum levels and words from the current music CD hammered the walls.
“You’re-gonna-go-to-Hell.
It’s-time-to-see-what-you’ve-been-missing.
Yeah. You’re-gonna-go-to-Hell.”
The thundering bass shook the window glass and reverberated through Brad’s chest. He looked to where the stereo’s remote lay on his bed, finding it right where he’d left it.
“You’re-gonna-go-to-Hell.”
He’d sung along with those lyrics countless times before, pretending to be behind the microphone at a huge concert, screaming them to a frenzied crowd of fans.
“You’re-time-is-up. You’re-gonna-buuuurn.”
Fear lashed his heart into a gallop. He pivoted away, ready to run, but stopped short when the hallway carpet bulged up from the floor, blocking his escape. The white material ripped away from the tacking and shred itself into long strips, rising from the floorboards to float in midair. The pieces spiraled together, taking the shape of a person. Legs. Torso. Arms. Head. It came together in seconds, looking like a seven foot tall Egyptian mummy. Two fiery white eyes burned out the darkness between the folds on the thing’s face, and Brad screamed as it cracked a toothy smile made of nails.
The thing seized him by the throat, lifting him off is feet.
“You’re-gonna-go-to-Hell,” the stereo prophesied.
Brad kicked and flailed, yanking at the monster’s arm, trying to break free.
The carpet-creature grabbed his injured wrist and twisted. The wound opened wide, sending a spike of agony through Brad’s brain. He screamed so hard his voice cracked and went silent.