Darkfall by Dean Koontz Page A

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 were 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 poked at it, but by this morning, they had grown bold enough to destroy the contents of her locker. And now, bolder still, they had revealed themselves and had threatened her.
    What next?
    Something worse.
    They enjoyed her terror; they fed on it. But like a cat with a mouse, they would eventually grow tired of the game. And then ...
    She shuddered.
    What am I going to do? she wondered miserably. What am I going to do?

8
    The hotel, one of the best in the city, overlooked Central Park. It was the same hotel at which Jack and Linda had spent their honeymoon, thirteen years ago. They hadn’t been able to afford the Bahamas or Florida or even the Catskills. Instead, they had remained in the