The music didn’t stop. Didn’t even miss a beat.
No one had heard her.
Except for the one at the foot of the stairs, all the creatures had
gathered into a pack. Their blazing eyes looked like a cache of
diamonds spread on black velvet.
None of them advanced on her. They waited.
After a moment she turned to the stairs again.
Now, the beast at the bottom of the stairs moved, too. But it didn’t
come toward her. It darted into the cellar and joined the others of its
kind.
The stairs were clear, though dark.
It’s a trick.
As far as she could see, there was nothing to prevent her from climbing
the stairs as fast as she could.
It’s a trap.
But there was no need for them to set a trap. She was already trapped.
They could have rushed her at any time. They could have killed her if
they’d wanted to kill her.
The flickering ice-white eyes watched her.
Mrs. March pounded on the piano.
The kids sang.
Penny bolted away from the shelves, dashed to the stairs, and clambered
upward. Step by step she expected the things to bite her heels, latch
onto her, and drag her down. She stumbled once, almost fell back to the
bottom, grabbed the railing with her free hand, and kept going. The top
step. The landing. Fumbling in the dark for the doorknob, finding it.
The hallway. Light, safety. She slammed the door behind her. Leaned
on it.
Gasping.
In the music room, they were still singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed
Reindeer.
The corridor was deserted.
Dizzy, weak in the legs, Penny slid down and sat on the floor, her back
against the door. She let go of the carry-all. She had been gripping
it so tightly that the handle had left its mark across her palm. Her
hand ached.
The song ended.
Another song began. Silver Bells.
Gradually, Penny regained her strength, calmed herself, and was able to
think clearly. What wet those hideous little things? Where did they
come from? What did they want from her?
Thinking clearly wasn’t any help. She couldn’t come up with a single
acceptable answer.
A lot of really dumb answers kept occurring to her, however: goblins,
gremlins, ogres…. Cripes. It couldn’t be anything like that. This
was real life, not a fairy tale.
How could she ever tell anyone about her experience in the cellar
without seeming childish or, worse, even slightly crazy? Of course,
grown-ups didn’t like to use the term “crazy” with children. You could
be as nuts as a walnut tree, babble like a loon, chew on furniture, set
fire to cats, and talk to brick walls, and as long as you were still a
kid, the worst they’d say about you -in public, at least-was that you
were “emotionally disturbed, ” although what they meant by that was
“crazy.” If she told Mr. Quillen or her father or any other adult about
the things she had seen in the school basement, everyone would think she
was looking for attention and pity; they’d figure she hadn’t yet
adjusted to her mother’s death. For a few months after her mother
passed away, Penny had been in bad shape, confused, angry, frightened, a
problem to her father and to herself. She had needed help for a while.
Now, if she told them about the things in the basement, they would think
she needed help again. They would send her to a “counselor,” who would
actually be a psychologist or some other kind of head doctor, and they’d
do their best for her, give her all sorts of attention and sympathy and
treatment, but they simply wouldn’t believe her-until, with their own
eyes, they saw such things as she had seen.
Or until it was too late for her.
Yes, they’d all believe then-when she was dead.
She had no doubt whatsoever that the fiery-eyed things would try to kill
her, sooner or later. She didn’t know why they wanted to take her life,
but she sensed their evil intent, their hatred. They hadn’t harmed her
yet, true, but they were growing bolder. Last night, the one in her
bedroom hadn’t damaged anything except the plastic baseball bat she’d