House by Frank Peretti

vase stand. He’d never assaulted anyone with a piece of furniture before.
    Randy braced himself against the wall near the lock, the chair ready in his hands. He called, “Who are you?”
    The lock began to creak and jiggle.
    Jack could feel Stephanie’s trembling body next to him.
    â€œNot a chance, pal,” Jack shouted, making Stephanie flinch. “The door’s locked, you’re outnumbered, and we’re armed.”
    Leslie ducked behind the registration table and peered over the top of it.
    There was a clank like a dead bolt sliding home.
    Randy raised the chair above his head.
    The shadow remained for a moment, then retreated from the glass. The boot heels clicked across the boards, down the steps, dropped to the flagstones, and went away.
    There were audible sighs of relief in the room, but Jack felt no safer, not yet, and he did not part with the vase stand. He asked Betty, “Who was that?”
    â€œIt was him,” Betty said.
    â€œWho’s him ?” Randy demanded.
    â€œThe devil himself.”
    Leslie stood up behind the desk, her voice professionally calm. “Betty, it’s all right. Just tell us who he is and what he wants.”
    â€œYou’d better start prayin’ that lawman friend of yours shows up, is all I can say.”
    Randy checked the lock.
    The knob broke off in his hand.
    He cursed. “He did something to the door.” He stuck his fingers through the resulting hole, jiggled the latch. The door held fast. Randy banged on the door, kicked it, banged it again. It would not open.
    Jack set the stand down and tried to find any crack he could pry into with his fingers. No good.
    â€œYou have got to get us out of here, Jack,” Stephanie cried.
    Randy and Jack looked at each other, speaking the same thought—“The back door!”—at the same time, the screen door to the enclosed back porch squeaked.
    The men ran through the house, through the dark, groping, skidding at the corner, through the dining room, through the hall, into the light of the kitchen, and across to the back door.
    The lock was creaking when they got there.
    Jack slammed against the door, grabbed the knob, and tried to twist it.
    A stronger hand on the other side torqued the knob against him.
    Randy’s hand wrapped around his, and together they tried to turn the knob, tried to pull the door open.
    Through the pane, Jack saw the drooping hat and, just under the brim where a face should be, a plate of steel with ice-cold eyes watching him through two jagged holes.
    There was a clank like a dead bolt sliding home.
    The knob broke off in their hands, throwing them off balance.
    They recovered in time to see the figure crossing the back porch and going out the tattered screen door, the shotgun slung over his shoulder.
    Randy exploded in a stream of profanity and grabbed up a broom, ready to dash the handle through the glass. Jack stopped him. “Easy now, easy. Don’t lose it.”
    Randy stood down, got a grip, and threw the broom aside.
    The lights in the kitchen flickered, dimmed, and went out.
    Another stream of expletives.
    Jack stood still and remained quiet, trying to think. What would happen next? What did this creep have in mind?
    Clumsy footsteps clattered and galloped into the kitchen, and he could see the others as dark shapes against the cabinets.
    â€œJack?” Stephanie cried.
    â€œOver here,” he answered.
    She made her way toward him, and he took hold of her hand. She pried it loose but stayed close.
    Leslie asked, “Did you see who it was?”
    â€œHe was wearing a mask,” Jack said, “some tin contraption.”
    Stephanie groaned and slid down a cabinet to the floor.
    Randy pushed himself away from the wall and strode up to Betty and Stewart. “Now you are going to tell us exactly what’s going on. Who is this guy?”
    â€œI think he’s here to kill us,” Betty answered.
    The stunned