like after-burn. Lightning seared the night once more, accompanied simultaneously by a monumental CRASH, and a blast of wind. The giant oak appeared to become apoplectic—like a tortured creature, it twisted forward, thrusting its grotesque limbs out . . . until with a tremendous gust of rain and crashing glass, the limbs burst through the window, into the bedroom. Robbie screamed.
Carol Anne jumped awake, as another chorus of lightning turned the night into a raging cold furnace. Long, fingerlike twigs at the end of the great branches tangled the screaming boy like rotting skeleton hands—and as the tree swayed in the wind, lifted him out of bed.
Carol Anne started to scream. The rest of the family ran through the bedroom door just in time to see the engulfing tree-arms yank the boy up and out the broken window into the demented night. Diane gave an anguished shout, barely heard over the roar of the storm. After one paralyzed instant, the three of them—Dana, Steve, and Diane—ran out of the bedroom and tore downstairs, leaving Carol Anne where she was.
The kitchen door was blocked by falling debris, so they had to run around the side to the patio. Steve slid open the glass door, and they rushed out into the weather. They were immediately soaked, and buffeted by the eighty-mile-per-hour gale. As they looked up into the straining knobbly tree, they could barely see Robbie tossed and trapped in its topmost branches. In the surreal light of the electrical discharges, the boy looked as if he were being eaten alive. Steve began to climb.
Upstairs, Carol Anne huddled in terror against the headboard of her bed, held there partly by the velocity of the wind rushing through the shattered window. Dumbly, she stared at the half-open closet door. The light in the closet was growing brighter.
Horribly bright, with almost nuclear intensity, the sick-white hue of a neutron star. The color of television light.
Carol Anne screamed, but no sound came from her mouth. The terrible wind began spinning loose objects across the room, in frenzied vortices, into the glare of the closet. Then, slowly, larger objects started to move—chairs, radios, pillows moved inexorably toward the open closet, as if they were being inhaled, and swallowed. Carol Anne hugged the clown doll, but it only smiled.
The bed began to move.
Carol Anne dug her fingers into the mattress, screaming, crying, nearly unhinged with fear.
But she didn’t begin to know fear until she heard the wail of the Beast. It was a low, insane sound, a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard, the sound of bedlam. The Beast in the closet.
It covered the sound of the storm. It pulled Carol Anne’s bed toward the light.
Battered by a wall of wind, Steve finally reached Robbie. The boy was being strangled by an increasingly constricting tangle of twigs and vine. Steve felt almost as if he were drowning. Rain lashed him. Each time he extricated one of Robbie’s arms or hands, another would become enmeshed in the slippery lattice.
Diane was halfway up the tree herself by this time, trying to help free the others. They all kept slipping, though—the bark was covered with some saplike ooze that made traction impossible. It almost smelled like blood.
Dana watched from below, wringing her hands and desperately wishing them all free.
Everything in the room was being drawn into the cyclonic vortex of the closet. Carol Anne was lifted off the bed, but hung onto the bending frame, flapping like a flag in a hurricane. Unbelievably, the clown was not affected. It just sat on the floor where Carol Anne had dropped it, staring up, smiling, as the wind tore at her. Finally she could hold no more, and, with the slenderest vacuum noise, was slammed into the brilliant hole.
A moment later the bed gave way, flipped into the air, and flew across the room, smashing the closet door shut with Carol Anne inside, and barricading it against being reopened.
Steve tore violently at the myriad
Carol Anne jumped awake, as another chorus of lightning turned the night into a raging cold furnace. Long, fingerlike twigs at the end of the great branches tangled the screaming boy like rotting skeleton hands—and as the tree swayed in the wind, lifted him out of bed.
Carol Anne started to scream. The rest of the family ran through the bedroom door just in time to see the engulfing tree-arms yank the boy up and out the broken window into the demented night. Diane gave an anguished shout, barely heard over the roar of the storm. After one paralyzed instant, the three of them—Dana, Steve, and Diane—ran out of the bedroom and tore downstairs, leaving Carol Anne where she was.
The kitchen door was blocked by falling debris, so they had to run around the side to the patio. Steve slid open the glass door, and they rushed out into the weather. They were immediately soaked, and buffeted by the eighty-mile-per-hour gale. As they looked up into the straining knobbly tree, they could barely see Robbie tossed and trapped in its topmost branches. In the surreal light of the electrical discharges, the boy looked as if he were being eaten alive. Steve began to climb.
Upstairs, Carol Anne huddled in terror against the headboard of her bed, held there partly by the velocity of the wind rushing through the shattered window. Dumbly, she stared at the half-open closet door. The light in the closet was growing brighter.
Horribly bright, with almost nuclear intensity, the sick-white hue of a neutron star. The color of television light.
Carol Anne screamed, but no sound came from her mouth. The terrible wind began spinning loose objects across the room, in frenzied vortices, into the glare of the closet. Then, slowly, larger objects started to move—chairs, radios, pillows moved inexorably toward the open closet, as if they were being inhaled, and swallowed. Carol Anne hugged the clown doll, but it only smiled.
The bed began to move.
Carol Anne dug her fingers into the mattress, screaming, crying, nearly unhinged with fear.
But she didn’t begin to know fear until she heard the wail of the Beast. It was a low, insane sound, a sound unlike anything she’d ever heard, the sound of bedlam. The Beast in the closet.
It covered the sound of the storm. It pulled Carol Anne’s bed toward the light.
Battered by a wall of wind, Steve finally reached Robbie. The boy was being strangled by an increasingly constricting tangle of twigs and vine. Steve felt almost as if he were drowning. Rain lashed him. Each time he extricated one of Robbie’s arms or hands, another would become enmeshed in the slippery lattice.
Diane was halfway up the tree herself by this time, trying to help free the others. They all kept slipping, though—the bark was covered with some saplike ooze that made traction impossible. It almost smelled like blood.
Dana watched from below, wringing her hands and desperately wishing them all free.
Everything in the room was being drawn into the cyclonic vortex of the closet. Carol Anne was lifted off the bed, but hung onto the bending frame, flapping like a flag in a hurricane. Unbelievably, the clown was not affected. It just sat on the floor where Carol Anne had dropped it, staring up, smiling, as the wind tore at her. Finally she could hold no more, and, with the slenderest vacuum noise, was slammed into the brilliant hole.
A moment later the bed gave way, flipped into the air, and flew across the room, smashing the closet door shut with Carol Anne inside, and barricading it against being reopened.
Steve tore violently at the myriad
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