House by Frank Peretti Page B

fault.
    â€œStephanie.”
    It wasn’t my fault.
    â€œStephanie.” Leslie’s voice jerked her out of her mental tirade. Leslie and Betty were leaving the kitchen. Stephanie followed, placing her hands on the walls to guide her as she moved into the hall.
    â€œWait a minute,” Leslie said. “Where’s Pete?”
    Betty kept moving, leading them into the foyer, which now felt like a subterranean cavern—limitless, unknowable, so dark. Stephanie not only felt the wall, she was sure it felt her. Her fingertips tingled.
    Leslie asked again, insistent this time, “Betty, where is Pete?”
    â€œHe likes to hide,” Betty said.
    â€œHide?” Stephanie saw Leslie look back over her shoulder and stumble.
    â€œOh, are we having feelings, Doctor?” Stephanie said.
    â€œNot at all!”
    Stephanie found her ruffled tone quite satisfying. Dr. Shrink had a chink in her armor. Ha. Dr. Shrink has a chink. That was something to sing about.
    Betty rounded the corner into the living room and threaded her way through the furniture while Leslie and Stephanie followed with the cautiousness of unfamiliarity. Stephanie could barely discern the huge fireplace, but Betty had no trouble finding and grabbing a second oil lamp from the mantel.
    The flare of the match was blinding. Stephanie squinted while Betty lit the lamp and placed it on the hearth. The room appeared in the soft yellow light.
    Stephanie and Leslie scanned the sofa, the chairs, the coffee table, and the bookshelves, looking for anything out of place. Stephanie didn’t see any shapes or shadows that could be Pete, but this room offered an abundance of places to hide.
    A dancing, swinging light shone into the foyer from above, casting elongated shadows of the stair railing and three men on the walls and floor. The guys were coming down the stairs.
    â€œWe think he’s off the roof,” Randy reported. “He didn’t get in.”
    â€œConsidering the locks, I’m beginning to wonder if he wants to keep us in,” Jack said.
    Stephanie asked, “Did you find the gun?”
    Leslie leaned close and predicted, “Randy will have it.”
    Randy led the trio into the living room, carrying the shotgun, loading cartridges. Jack carried the lamp. Stewart brought up the rear, as grim as a thundercloud, boots clomping down the stairs. “He may have left, but we can never be sure,” Randy barked. “The upstairs is secure for now.”
    â€œNone of the windows will open,” Jack reported grimly.
    â€œThere are seven of us and only one of him,” Randy said. “Isn’t that right, Stewart?”
    Stewart didn’t answer, maybe just to spite him.
    Betty dug through a stack of newspapers in a basket on the hearth and pulled out a section. She crouched, then flattened it open next to the lamp. “So you want to know who he is?”
    She tapped a news article on the front page and stepped aside.
    COUPLE FOUND DEAD
    Stephanie crowded in with the others, skimming the key phrases: “. . . man and wife, found dead in abandoned house . . . possible suicide, but authorities have not ruled out homicide . . . similarities to other deaths . . . dead for almost two weeks before they were found . . .”
    Oh, dear God.
    â€œSeems like it’s been going on forever,” Betty whispered, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. “People going into old houses and never coming out, and when somebody finds ’em, they been dead so long it’s hard to tell how. But me and Stewart, we know it’s him.”
    No, it’s not him, right? It can’t be him. Not here, not now.
    â€œWho is he?” asked Randy.
    â€œThe cops are still trying to find out. We call him White, after the first family he took down. He’s been busy in these parts. We were wondering when he’d get around to us.”
    â€œWell, nobody’s going to die in this house,” Randy