by Stone, Kyla
Pike stumbled backward. He whirled and fled.
He dashed around the rear bumper of the tan sedan as fast as his legs could carry him. He barely felt the knifing pain in his side, the searing burn in his thigh.
With a snarl, the dog followed.
Pike rounded the back of the sedan and ran up the center between the two cars. His right leg gave out, and he stumbled hard against the side of the sedan. Fresh adrenaline spiked through him.
He limped forward, grasped the passenger side mirror and dragged himself along. He had to keep a vehicle between himself and the dog just long enough to get away. Just a few seconds were all he needed.
The beast chased him, barking and snarling. The animal slid as it rounded the back of the car, its paws scrambling for purchase, and slammed into the rear fender of the SUV.
It regained its footing with record swiftness and came at him again.
Pike hobbled to the front of the car. He lunged for the metal shelving, seized the nearest one with both hands, and jerked it backward. The shelf wavered, then toppled with a mighty crash.
Pike juked to the side and ducked beneath it, coming out on the left side in front of the sedan as the shelf collapsed behind him—right on top of the dog.
It yelped in surprise and pain.
Pike didn’t bother to look back. He dodged around the front of the car and lurched for the open side door.
Metal scraped against concrete. Objects pinged and thudded against the garage floor. The dog barked in fury.
Pike didn’t risk a glance back, but he could imagine the animal clawing and clambering out from beneath the toppled shelf as it fought to free itself.
Pike reached the door. The dog scrabbling only feet behind him, about to pounce.
Pike dove inside. He turned, fumbling for the handle, and threw the door shut.
The dog slammed into it. The door shuddered. The resounding thud reverberated in Pike’s ears.
Pike took a step back into the darkened hallway, pressing his hand against his bloody side, and breathing hard.
The dog barked in furious indignation. It threw itself at the door again and again.
Stupid animal. Dogs were supposed to be smart and loyal. This one was utterly worthless. Pike should’ve put it down long ago.
With his free hand, he pulled out his Zippo lighter as he moved into the kitchen in search of a knife. Click, click, click.
How soothing that sound was. How pleasant.
Despite the pain, despite the weariness pulling at him, Pike smiled.
He would come back to finish off the worthless mutt later.
Now, though, it was time for Hannah.
15
Hannah
Day Twenty-One
Hannah met Pike in the hallway.
Distantly, she heard Ghost barking from another part of the house. He was still alive, but he was trapped somehow. He couldn’t get to her.
Instinctively, she understood. She was alone in this.
Fear shook her entire body. Gut-clenching terror like a train roaring at her, the harsh light blinding her, filling her vision.
There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.
Her tongue was coppery, her mouth filled with nails. Part of herself threatened to fall away into darkness. She fought it with everything in her.
She had overcome too much to let fear rule her now.
Her legs had felt like concrete as she’d forced herself to move from the purple bedroom where Charlotte was hidden through the long hallway to the stairs, then down to the shorter hallway that led to the living room and kitchen.
Every step that brought her closer to Pike felt like treachery. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to run, to hide.
She held the .45 with both quavering hands. The butt was nestled in the crook of her bad hand the way Liam had taught her.
The safety was off. The seven-round magazine was full, with an additional round in the chamber.
CiCi had given her this gun. CiCi, the feisty old woman who’d helped them, befriended them, only to be murdered by this monster. The monster who’d stalked her to this place, who’d invaded her sanctuary and threatened everything she loved.
She took the last step, entered the short hallway, and moved cautiously toward the living room. Pistol held high. Her socks slipped on the wood floor. Her breaths were too loud, her pulse a roar in her ears.
She heard it first.
Click, click, click.
Horror froze her in place.
Click, click, click.
The scent of cloves stung her nostrils.
In the center of the living room, Pike appeared.
Ten feet separated them. He stood silhouetted in the dim light. An apparition, a demon from hell.
Still, she recognized him instantly. The shape of him. The smell of him. The sound of him.
He saw her and smiled. That slash of a red mouth. Those dead eyes. “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.”
Hannah couldn’t move.
Pike slipped the lighter into his coat pocket. In his other hand, he held a kitchen knife. The long, sharp blade glinted in the firelight. “It’s been far too long, don’t you think?”
She’d forgotten words. Forgotten how to speak. Forgotten everything but the fear.
His gaze shifted to the weapon in her hands. “What do you think you’re going to do with that? We both remember what happened last time. It’s useless with that crippled hand of yours. Why don’t you put it down? It’s useless to fight. You know that. You’ve always known that.”
Her bad hand ached. Her arms felt incredibly heavy. Her finger slick and shaky on the trigger.
She managed to raise the Ruger until it was even with Pike’s head, trying frantically to remember everything Liam had taught her. Plant her feet. Steady her hands. Aim down the sights.
“Let’s finally end this, shall we?” He took a step toward her, that awful smile still painted on his face. “Put it down, little mouse.”
“I’m not a mouse,” Hannah said.
She squeezed the trigger.
The pistol bucked in her hands. The gunshot exploded in the narrow quarters of the house. The concussive sound stunned her, rang in her ears. She blinked, trying to refocus.
Pike stumbled backward.
She didn’t know if she’d hit him. She squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. The gun jerked, the blasts slamming into her ears.
She took a step forward. Fired. Then another step. Fired again.
She had no idea if she was shooting where she was aiming. Her heart beat frenzied wings against her ribs. Adrenaline shot through her. It was hard to see straight, to think, to focus.
She wasn’t used to this. Hadn’t trained for it.
Her practice sessions meant little in the heat of the moment, with panic breathing down the back of her neck and everything on the line.
Pike moved back. He clutched at his left shoulder with his knife hand. His face contorted in a grimace of rage and pain.
She fired again as he turned and darted deeper into the living room.
She wouldn’t let him get away. Not again. On shaking legs, she followed him.
Frantically, she scanned the room. The two couches and the coffee table pushed against the far wall. Her mattress with the purple princess sheets in the center of the room. The fire in the fireplace crackled and popped.
As she emerged from the hallway, Pike appeared, bursting from behind the living room wall. He sprang at her. He came in low, below her line of fire, lunging for her legs.
Panic seized her. She squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. Boom! Boom! Boom!
Pike grunted a curse and dove for the floor.
She aimed low and fired. The Ruger clicked. The chamber was empty.
Pike was on his hands and knees. Six, seven feet away. Breathing heavily. Blood stained his left shoulder, leaking down his arm. A two-inch gash in his coat.
The bullet had skimmed him. Enough to hurt, but not enou
gh to do serious damage.
Reflexively, she pulled the trigger again. Click.
She didn’t have another preloaded magazine. She knew where Liam kept more rounds, but it would take far too long to reload with her useless hand. The gun in her hand was just as useless to her now.
Dimly, she heard Ghost’s frenetic barking. She heard her heart roaring in her ears, felt it bucking in her chest.
This couldn’t be happening. She and her worst nightmare were in the same room, breathing the same air. And she had nothing with which to defend herself.
Pike climbed slowly to his feet. He brushed himself off and checked his shoulder.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe; her legs were rooted to the floor.
Pike looked at her. He still held the knife in his hand. Grimacing, in pain, but with a dark light flashing in his eyes. “This is the part where you run.”
16
Hannah
Day Twenty-One
Hannah ran.
Pike stood directly in front of her, blocking her exit. The doors and windows were all blocked. They would take time to open. Time she didn’t have.
There was no time to think, no time to formulate a plan.
She spun and stumbled for the stairs behind her. Her thoughts a blur. Panic turning her brain to mush.
She stumbled down the short hallway and hauled herself up the steps, gripping the railing with damp palms, her socks slipping on the slick hardwood.
Pike clambered after her, cursing.
She reached the top of the stairs and sprinted down the narrow hallway. Past the guest bathroom on the right, the two little girls’ rooms on the left. The first one pink, the second purple.
The purple room where Charlotte slept—peaceful, innocent, and utterly oblivious to the darkness hunting her. She bypassed it.
She had to keep Pike away from it, away from her daughter.
The only coherent thought in her head was a desperate prayer. Stay asleep. Please, dear God, make her sleep.
That, and escape. Find a way out. Get away. Stop him.
She reached the end of the hallway. Only one direction to go. She swerved right into the master bedroom. Her socks skidded on the floor, and she crashed into the bedroom door.
She heard him grunting behind her. He’d just reached the top of the stairs.
She pushed the door shut and fumbled for a lock. It wouldn’t stop him for long. The doors weren’t even real wood; the handle locks were flimsy.
Her frenzied gaze skipped over the darkened room, the shapes looming out of the shadows. A massive bed, a mirror on one wall, two dressers covered with picture frames.
She scrambled behind the tall dresser next to the door and pushed with all of her might. It rocked on its squat legs.
The door handle rattled. Pike punched the door. “Open the hell up, Hannah!”
Her breath came in rasping gasps. A stitch in her side. Her belly, her whole body ached in protest. She’d given birth a week ago. She was out of shape, still recovering.
With a desperate cry, she lowered her shoulder and rammed into the dresser again. This time, it tipped over. She knocked it on its side across the door just as Pike slammed into it from the opposite side.
Even that would only give her a few precious seconds.
She turned and examined the room again. Two nightstands on either side of the bed. Two small lamps stood on the nightstands.
Her thoughts came jumbled and frantic. She couldn’t think.
Could she hit him on the head with the base of the lamp? Maybe. The lamps were small, their bases slender.
She ran alongside the bed, reached the nearest nightstand, and seized the lamp with her good hand. She tried to pull it. After a few feet, the lamp stopped short.
The cord was caught between the nightstand and the wall. It was stuck. She fumbled for the nightstand, tried to move it with her bad hand. It moved a few inches.
She swallowed a moan of despair and knocked the nightstand over with a mighty heave. She yanked the cord from the wall.
Only then did it register how light the lamp was. Not even real metal. Some fake composite thing from Hobby Lobby. It wouldn’t even stun him.
The bedroom door shook and rattled. A steady thud, thud, thud as Pike inched the door wider and wider. He’d be inside in seconds.
She couldn’t try to wrestle the knife from him or hit him on the head with something that wouldn’t be enough to knock him out anyway.
Not with her withered hand. Not in her weakened state. Not with blind terror thrumming through every cell of her body.
She dropped the lamp and fled into the master bathroom.
She took in the room with a glance. She already knew where everything was. She’d washed her hair up here just yesterday.
A shower stall to her right, the toilet in its own tiny room just beyond it, the double vanities crowded with hair products and huge wall mirror directly ahead, the oversized tub and closet to the left.
Hannah crouched beneath the sink and opened the cabinet door. The hair shears she’d used to cut her hair. That’s what she needed.
Her hands were stiff and shaking so hard, she fumbled just to get the door open. The shears were in a black plastic case buried in the back of the cabinet.
Terror made her clumsy. Every movement was slow, jerky, and uncoordinated. Her quivering, ruined hand couldn’t get the damn case open.
The bedroom door bashed open.
Time slowed.
She heard every sound. Ghost barking distantly downstairs. The wind moaning, the trees creaking against the house.
Pike lumbering through the bedroom toward her. His footfalls squeaked with every step.
She heard him breathing. Smelled coppery blood and cloves.
Pike jerked open the bathroom door. She glimpsed his reflection in the mirror. The shape of him a dark mass, his eyes black holes.
Too late for the scissors. Too late for anything.
Hannah rose to her feet. Her heart galloped inside her chest.
She seized the can of hairspray from the counter, spun as she raised it, and depressed the nozzle. She sprayed it directly into his eyes.
He screamed in agony.
She barreled past him. She shot out of the bathroom, racing through the master bedroom, toward the hallway.
Fear drove her. She wasn’t thinking, wasn’t planning. She was a fleeing animal, nothing but panic and instinct.
She tore down the hallway and nearly fell down the stairs. She slid the last few steps on her butt and was up again, stumbling through the living room toward the kitchen.
Ghost’s frenzied barking grew louder. The side door to the garage. If she could reach it, she could get Ghost—
“Hannah!” Pike’s voice rang through the house.
He was right behind her, too close. Already running down the stairs. Almost on top of her. “I’m coming for you, you little slut—!”
She fumbled for the doorknob and jerked open the door. She threw herself through the doorway, took a step, and fell into empty space.
Her knees buckled and her feet struck uneven floor. The impact jarred her from the soles of her feet up through her spine.
She nearly pitched face-first down the stairs.
She skidded, stumbling, falling. Her hands flailed, scrabbling for purchase. Her bad hand banged against the wall. Her good hand closed around something round and smooth. A railing. She jerked herself to a stop almost halfway down the narrow wooden staircase.
Her ankles hurt. Her knees stung. She’d wrenched something in her belly. She barely registered any of it.
The smell hit her first. The scent of earth and damp concrete and musty old things like air from a tomb. Like stale ghosts escaping.
Horror filled her.
In her panic, she’d opened the wrong door. She wasn’t in the garage.
Hannah was back in the basement.
17
Hannah
Day Twenty-One
&nb
sp; A scream crawled up Hannah’s throat.
This was a different basement.
It didn’t matter. In her nerve-shredded terror, it was the same.
A creak above her. His heavy stomping boots. She could feel him like a cold draft sifting up through the floorboards, the prickle of dread at the base of her skull.
A wave of darkness threatening to overtake her.
The last three weeks evaporated in a blink. The past came roaring back. She was in the basement again. The same basement she’d awakened to every day for five endless years.
Her prison. The trap that had caught her, snatched her from her life, from her family, from the outside world. It had swallowed her up like a grave.
Blinding fear took over. Her only thought was to hide.
Gripping the railing for balance, barely able to see through her terror, she fled down the remaining steps.
Down, down to the basement.
Down to the pit of her worst nightmares.
Two narrow windows offered the dimmest light. The floor was dirt. A stench of worms and rot. Cobwebs and rough stone walls. Everything cold and damp.
Thick dusty hand-hewn beams crossed the low ceiling. A huge hulking furnace in the far corner.
Stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes taller than her head. Rickety old shelves filled with cloudy jars, rusting metal tools, knickknacks and junk.
On the other side of the basement, she glimpsed a pair of slanted doors like in the The Wizard of Oz. Bilco doors, but too high for her to reach.
Her gaze snagged the furnace in the corner. It was set back in an alcove steeped in shadows.
Behind the furnace, deep in the alcove, was a crawl space. Not two feet high, it went too far back to see the rear wall.
It was darkness and cobwebs. Dirt and rotting beams.
A hiding spot.
Pike’s boots clomped on the basement stairs.
