She spoke the truth, Daphne realized, but still she saw no other option.
“I’m getting out of here,” Abigail said, standing up all at once. “I’d rather face this storm than that lunatic clown!”
“You mean, you’re going
outside
?” Daphne asked in bewilderment.
“I most certainly am,” she replied. “I’ll make it down the hill to get help, or I’ll die in the process. At least it will be the cold and snow that kills me, and not some maniac’s razor.”
“That’s lunacy, Abigail,” Pete said, finding it difficult to speak. “As Ashlee said, you open that door and that beast is back in here.”
“If it’s a ghost,” his sister snarled at him, “can’t it just walk through the wall?”
Daphne had to admit Abigail had another good point. Why did they think they were safe behind a locked door if the adversary they faced was undead?
“I’m not going out through the door anyway,” Abigail said. “I’m going out through the window. So everyone brace for the wind.”
“I can’t let you do this, Abigail,” Pete said.
She looked down at him, arms akimbo. “All my life I’ve had to defer to your decisions, brother. Well, not tonight.”
“Leaving this room to go into that storm is insanity!” Pete insisted, trying to raise his voice, but realizing he didn’t have the strength. “You cannot go, Abigail.”
“Are you going to stop me? Is Ben?”
She looked back over at her nephew, who seemed to be falling unconscious on the couch.
“Or maybe your silly little wife will keep me here,” Abigail sniffed.
Ashlee glared at her, the years of resentment bubbling to the surface. “Oh, no, be my guest, Abigail,” she said. “Here, I’ll even open the window for you.”
Walking over to the window, Ashlee lifted the latch and carefully pulled the glass pane open so that a minimum of snow and sleet would get into the room. Even still, a huge gust barreled inside, filling the room with cold air and shrieking wind. “Go ahead,” Ashlee shouted over the noise. “Climb out, Abigail.”
Abigail didn’t hesitate. Pulling her wool sweater closer around her, she stepped over the ledge. The ground was only a couple of feet below the window, but since the snow had drifted so high, Abigail actually had to step
up
as she left the house. Pete wouldn’t watch. He just covered his face with his hands again.
Daphne couldn’t believe Abigail had really left them. But maybe she was right. Maybe it
was
the only way.
“Good riddance,” Ashlee grumbled as she latched the window shut.
A few seconds later, they heard a thud.
Abigail hadn’t gotten very far. All at once, she was pressed against the window, her face splayed against the glass. Had she fallen? The swirling snow and pitch-black night air prevented anyone from seeing clearly what was happening out there.
But they could hear Abigail screaming. With tightly clenched fists, she banged on the windows, her eyes looking into the room blazing with fear and pain. From the front of her sweater, blood suddenly blossomed, oozing onto the glass of the windows and running down in rivulets that quickly hardened in the freezing air. The way Abigail’s body was thrusting against the glass told the story. Something behind her was stabbing her to death.
In mute horror, the whole room watched as Abigail struggled for her life. Her body jerked and convulsed against the glass. Finally there was no struggle left, and Abigail’s lifeless body slunk down into the snow, leaving a trail of blood along the glass. All that was left of her was a bloody clump right outside the window.
Underneath the wind and the sleet, the tinny music soared:
All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel ... .
For the first time, Daphne thought Christopher was right.
They were all going to do die this night.
TWENTY
“I told her not to leave,” Pete gasped, and suddenly he grabbed his chest and slunk down in his chair.
Still standing by the window, Ashlee watched him closely. “Pete?” she whispered.
The old man did not move.
Daphne rushed over to him, dropping to her knees in front of his chair.
“Mr. Witherspoon!” she cried. “Mr. Witherspoon, are you all right?”
She grabbed his wrist and felt his pulse. He was alive, though the twist of his lips and droop of his eyes worried Daphne.
“I think he’s had a stroke,” she told Ashlee.
Ashlee walked over to her husband calmly and stroked his hair. “Poor Pete,” she said, almost distractedly.
She’s losing touch with reality
, Daphne thought. That wasn’t hard to understand given the situation. After watching all this mayhem and bloodletting, how could anyone stay sane?
But Daphne was determined to keep her wits.
She gripped Pete’s hands and squeezed. “Mr. Witherspoon, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can. Or open your eyes. Give me a sign that you can hear me and understand me.”
She felt a soft squeeze of her fingers and his eyelids fluttered.
“Can you speak?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, though he was barely audible.
“I need to ask you something,” Daphne said. “Can you try to answer me?”
She felt the weak press of his fingers into hers again.
“Is there a secret passageway in this room? I was told there were passageways all through the house. I’m looking for some way to get out of here, and also perhaps to hide in for safety?”
“The desk,” he whispered.
“The desk?”
He squeezed her hand.
“There’s a secret passageway behind the desk?”
She didn’t wait for confirmation now, just flew over to the desk and pulled it away from the wall. There seemed to be nothing there, just paneling.
“Where is it?” Daphne asked, returning to her place kneeling in front of Pete. “How do I access the passageway?”
“Feel ...” he whispered with difficulty. “Lever.”
She moved back over to the wall and moved her hand across the entire area. She was about to give up when she felt a bump, a small rise in the paneling. She pushed it. A low hum reached her ears as the paneling began to slide, revealing a rectangular opening about three feet wide by four feet tall.
“Where does it take us?” Daphne asked.
“Storage ... room ...”
“The storage room in the basement?” Daphne asked.
Pete nodded his head slightly.
“Where exactly does the passage bring us out in the storage room?” she asked. “Where is the secret panel found there?”
His sunken eyes, with life seeming to fade away from them every second, locked on to hers.
“Behind ...” He struggled to speak the words. “Box marked M.”
The box marked M.
Daphne knew this wasn’t exactly the best time to bring up unrelated topics, but it was very possible that she’d never have the chance again, she realized. Mr. Witherspoon might not make it through the night. She might not either, and if she was going to die, she wanted to know a few things first.
“I was in the storage room earlier,” she told him. “I found the box marked M.”
There was no reaction from Pete, at least none that she could discern.
“M stands for Maria, doesn’t it?”
She took his hands again. He managed to squeeze hers, replying in the affirmative.
“Did you and Maria have a child together?”
“What are you asking, Daphne?” Ashlee inquired, standing over her.
Daphne ignored her. “Mr. Witherspoon, did you and Maria have a daughter?”
“You’re harassing him!” Ashlee said, some of the fire back in her voice. “Leave Pete alone! Can’t you see he’s weak?”
“Yes,” the old man managed to whisper, his eyes opening and staring directly into Daphne’s.
That’s when the blade of the ax smashed through the door.
Christopher screamed.
The blade twisted and turned, as the thing wielding it extricated it from the wood. A second later it came crashing down again, slicing through another part of the door.
“Christopher!” Daphne shouted. “Quick! Into the passageway!”
The little boy scrambled across the room and hopped into the opening on the wall.
“Can you walk at all?” Daphne asked Pete. “Do you think you could pull him through?” she asked Ashlee.
But Ashlee just stood there, looking at her as if in a daze.
Daphne hurried over to Ben. She shook him. “Ben! Can you hear me?”
Ben didn’t move. The couch where he sat was now drenched in blood. The makeshift tourniquet Daphne had applied to his shoulder hadn’t sufficiently stopped the bleeding. Ben’s hands were cold. He didn’t stir.
Daphne realized the truth.
He had bled to death.
“Oh, God, Ben,” Daphne cried, lifting his hand to her mouth and kissing it.
Another blow to the door from the ax.
“Daphne!” Christopher cried from the passageway.
She ran back to Ashlee. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said to Ashlee, who stood looking down at Pete in his chair. “Ben’s dead. And if we can’t save Pete, then you’ve got to come along with us now, Ashlee, and save yourself!”
Ashlee looked up at her with the strangest look in her eyes that Daphne had ever seen. “Why leave so soon?” she asked in a singsong voice. “The party’s just begun... .”
She’s gone crazy
, Daphne thought to herself.
The ax slammed into the door again, breaking open a hole that allowed Daphne to catch a glimpse of green and red polka dots.
“Mr. Witherspoon!” Daphne cried. “Can you walk? Can you come with us?”
He made no sound, no move. Even when she grabbed his hands, there was no indication from him. Had he died too?
The music started then, and Daphne knew she had only seconds.
She looked over at Ashlee, who just stared at her crazily.
With a heavy heart, she left them behind. She grabbed the lamp and bolted for the passageway. Leaping through, she immediately turned with difficulty in the small space to pull the panel shut. But in the split second before she did so, she saw the door finally splinter into pieces and the clown’s big rubber purple foot step inside the study. Daphne began to cry, thinking what that monster would do to Ashlee and Pete.
Thankfully, there was a small locking latch on this side of the panel—nothing that could hold back an ax, Daphne knew, but it might give them a little time.
“Move!” she whispered to Christopher, who obeyed instantly.
Once into the passageway, the ceiling above them was higher, and they were able to stand. But the width was extremely narrow, no more than three feet and sometimes only two. The passageway, Daphne discerned, had literally been built between the walls of the house. She held the lamp aloft to allow them to see where they were going.
After they had walked a few yards, they came to a set of very narrow stairs leading down. Mr. Witherspoon had said the passage led to the storage room, so this would be the way into the basement. Daphne held up the lamp, and they started down the stairs.
Daphne’s plan was to make it to the storage room and barricade themselves in there. That heavy iron door would resist the maniac’s ax. What Daphne did
not
want was to meet up with the clown here, in this narrow passageway. There would be no escape then.
As they made their way down the narrow steps, cobwebs sticking to their faces, Daphne held the lamp in her right hand and Christopher’s hand in her left. How very different their relationship had become in such a short time. She was all the boy had now, literally. If for nothing else, Daphne vowed she would survive this night for Christopher’s sake. No doubt his father was now dead in the study, a victim of the clown’s razor—or maybe his ax. Daphne shuddered. What a horrible way to die. Ashlee, too—sweet, funny Ashlee, who’d been her first friend in this house.
Everyone was dead.
Everyone but her and Christopher.
Daphne vowed to keep it that way.
As they reached the end of the stairs, the passageway veered off in two directions. Daphne had no idea which way led to the storage room.
“What do we do now?” Christopher wailed.
“I’m not sure,” Daphne said. “Let me think.”
She tried to visualize the layout of the house. They had come from the study. Where did that leave them in relation to the storage room? Was it to their right or to their left?
For some reason, she staked their very survival on getting to the storage room. She wasn’t sure why. Yes, its iron door protected them from the danger of an ax. But if their adversary was undead. . . a ghost ... then nothing could keep them safe.
But ghosts didn’t need axes to break down doors.
“Which way, Daphne?” Christopher urged.
She had to make a decision. “This way,” she said, knowing she had a fifty–fifty chance of being correct, and pushed Christopher along to the right.
At the end of the narrow passageway, there was another sliding panel as there had been in the study. With trembling fingers, Daphne pushed it open. Bending down, she peered through. They were in the basement, but not the storage room. Ahead of them stood the furnace, silent now. Daphne realized that with the power out, the heat was also off. The temperatures would keep dropping. It was already bracingly cold, she suddenly realized. The rest of the night’s dangers hadn’t given her much time to think about the temperature. But, in fact, she was starting to be able to see her breath in front of her face.
They had a choice. They could either go back along the passageway, expecting it to lead them directly to the storage room, or they could exit here. The storage room wasn’t far away from this point, Daphne realized. She figured this was the better choice. Who knew how long the passageway would continue winding its way through the walls before depositing them in the storage room?
So she stepped gingerly through the opening, lamp first, then turned around to give Christopher a hand as he stepped through as well.
Carefully they moved across the basement, wary of making any sound. If even one of the old boxes stacked all around them was sent clattering to the floor, the clown would hear, and would make a beeline to the basement, razor in one hand, ax in the other. So it was with deliberate, cautious steps that Daphne and Christopher made their way through the clutter of the Witherswood basement, guided by the kerosene lamp, which was once again beginning to flicker.
Just stay lit until we get to the storage room
, Daphne prayed.
Something up ahead caught her eye.
Something on the ground.
Something that looked very strange sitting on the floor.
She squeezed Christopher’s hand as an indication that he should stop walking. He looked up at her, and Daphne lifted a finger, a sign to wait a moment.
Stealthily she took a few steps forward on her own.
The thing on the ground seemed to grin up at her.
She held the lamp over it.
It was a set of teeth.
Long, sharp, yellow teeth.