WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

was useless.

They stood in the kitchen, listening, but nothing could be heard above the

relentless roar of the rain.

Einstein was not able to give them a more precise fix on their adversary’s

location. His sixth sense was still not working up to par. They were just lucky

that he had sensed the beast at all. His morning-long anxiety had evidently not

been related to any presentiment about the man who had come home with Nora but

had been, even without his knowledge, caused by the approach of The Outsider.

“Upstairs,” Travis said. “Let’s go.”

Down here, the creature could enter by doors or windows, but on the second floor

they would at least have only windows to worry about. And maybe they could get

shutters closed over some of those.

Nora climbed the stairs with Einstein. Travis brought up the rear, moving

backward, keeping the Uzi aimed down at the first floor. The ascent made him

dizzy. He was acutely aware that the pain and weakness in his injured shoulder

was slowly spreading outward through his entire body like an ink stain through a

blotter.

On the second floor, at the head of the stairs, he said, “If we hear it come in,

we can back off, wait until it starts to climb toward us, then step forward and

catch it by surprise, blow it away.”

She nodded.

. They had to be silent now, give it a chance to creep into the downstairs, give

it time to decide they were on the second floor, let it gain confidence, let it

approach the stairs with a sense of security.

A strobe-flash of lightning—the first of the storm—pulsed at the window at the

end of the hall, and thunder cracked. The sky seemed to have been shattered by

the blast, and all the rain stored in the heavens collapsed upon the earth in

one tremendous fall.

At the end of the hallway, one of Nora’s canvases flew out of her studio and

crashed against the wall.

Nora cried out in surprise, and for an instant all three of them stared stupidly

at the painting lying on the hall floor, half thinking that its poltergeist-like

flight had been related to the great crash of thunder and the lightning.

A second painting sailed out of her studio, hit the wall, and Travis saw the

canvas was shredded.

The Outsider was already in the house.

They were at one end of the short hall. The master bedroom and future nursery

were on the left, the bathroom and then Nora’s studio on the right. The thing

was just two doors away, in Nora’s studio, demolishing her paintings.

Another canvas flew into the hallway.

Rain-soaked, muddied, battered, still somewhat weak from his battle with

distemper, Einstein nevertheless barked viciously, trying to warn off The

Outsider.

Holding the Uzi, Travis moved one step down the hall. Nora grabbed his arm.

“Let’s not. Let’s get out.”

“No. We’ve got to face it.”

“On our terms,” she said.

“These are the best terms we’re going to get.”

Two more paintings flew out of the studio and clattered down on top of the

growing pile of wrecked canvases.

Einstein was no longer barking but growling deep in his throat.

Together, they moved along the hall, toward the open door of Nora’s studio.

Travis’s experience and training told him they ought to split up, spread out,

instead of grouping into a single target. But this was not Delta Force. And

their enemy was not a mere terrorist. If they spread out, they would lose some

of the courage they needed to face the thing. Their very closeness gave them

strength.

They were halfway to the studio door when The Outsider shrieked. It was an icy

sound that stabbed right through Travis and quick-froze his bone marrow. He and

Nora halted, but Einstein took two more steps before stopping.

The dog was shuddering violently.

Travis realized he, too, was shaking. The tremors aggravated the pain in his

shoulder.

Breaking fear’s hold, he rushed to the open door, treading on ruined canvases,

spraying bullets into the studio. The weapon’s recoil, though minimal, was like

a chisel chipping into his wound.

He hit nothing, heard nothing scream, saw no sign of the enemy.

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