House by Frank Peretti Page B

that?”
    â€œThe singing . . .”
    But neither could place it.
    Jack wasn’t waiting. He tried the door directly opposite the root cellar’s. Locked. The footsteps pounded in the other direction. They couldn’t risk it. Jack grabbed Randy’s arm and tugged him back into the root cellar. Closed the door behind them.
    â€œWhere we going?”
    â€œAnywhere but the hall. Keep it down.”
    They rushed through the cellar, ignoring a door on their left. Back into the study, past the freaky mirror.
    â€œWhere we going?” Randy asked again.
    Jack pulled up. “Did we leave the door into the first room open?”
    Randy stared at him with dawning horror. “They’ll see it! They’ll know . . .”
    The humming again, from their right, very faint. Then silent.
    Jack ran toward one of the doors they hadn’t tried yet. He could now hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
    â€œDon’t say we didn’t warn you!” Betty’s voice echoed. “Not the basement, we said, but no, you wouldn’t listen. Don’t you dare say we didn’t warn you!”
    â€œHurry!” Jack said.
    He slid up against the door. If their hosts followed the trail of open doors . . .
    He grabbed the door handle and pulled. The door moved an inch, then pulled free from his hands and slammed, as if sucked by a vacuum.
    â€œTry the other door!”
    Randy ran toward the only door they hadn’t tried yet.
    Jack pulled the door again. This time it opened six inches—wide enough for him to see the blackness beyond. A deep sucking sound filled the room.
    â€œIt’s locked!” Randy cried.
    Pushed by the threat of Stewart blasting into the room, Jack ignored the voice in his head that suggested forcing a door open against such a strong underground air current was not a good idea.
    He pulled harder.
    The door gaped wider. Where could such a strong draft come from? The study’s one light dimmed. Something was very wrong with this room.
    It became immediately clear to him that no matter what the threat behind them was, they could not, should not, enter the space beyond the door. Jack released the handle.
    The sucking sound ceased. But instead of slamming shut, the door hung free, gaping where he’d released it.
    Beyond, silence. No humming.
    â€œGo!” Randy whispered. “Go!”
    Wrong. Something was terribly wrong.
    Jack reached out his hand. Before his fingers touched the handle, the door flew open of its own accord. Wide open.
    For a brief moment Jack faced a doorway of inky darkness. No floor or walls that he could see.
    He felt his body being pulled into the doorway before he became aware of any suction, any draft, any force that drew him.
    It was quick and it was silent, like a magnetic force. One second he was staring at the blackness, the next he was flying into it.
    Smack! With a bone-crunching jar he crashed into a wall no more than five feet in.
    Boom! The door slammed shut.

11
    RANDY MESSARUE STARED AT THE DOOR that had slammed shut behind Jack, frozen by indecision. He wasn’t sure which was worse: following Jack in, or making a run for it alone. Usually he could make choices in a snap. Must be the house. This stupid, stinking house. And its wacko proprietors. His mind had started to fray the minute Stewart had snuck up on him in the bathroom.
    And when the man had turned against them, the erosion of Randy’s confidence had become a crumbling of his psyche. He could feel himself coming unglued, disjointed. Weak. Not the stuff CEOs are made of.
    He hated himself for it. Hated the way his gut was telling him to run. Hated the fact that he would probably save himself at Leslie’s expense if it came right down to it. Hated the terror that had him squealing like a schoolgirl in his own mind.
    He was sweating profusely despite the basement’s cool air. His hands were trembling and his heart was pounding. Don’t be a wimp ,