The Pines

all her strength, trying to hold it still while she drove a nail through the plank. “Matthew, help me!” The first nail bent, and she struck her finger. Clawing at the wood, she drove in another, slippery with blood, felt it bite deep into the wood. And another. In the dark, her blood dripped down the frame. The boy never moved. Waves of fury beat at the door with hurricane force.

Hammering and shrieking, she drove in all the long nails she could find. But it would not hold, she knew. Already, the wood splintered.

She clutched the hammer to her breast, then dumped out the contents of the toolbox. Screws and nuts and buttons scattered, bouncing down the stairs. No more nails. She dropped the hammer, held up the lamp. When it gets in, I’ll try to break the lantern on it. Burn it. But the house would catch, and Matthew was behind her on the stairs. God help us.

With wild ferocity, it beat against the wood, and the door began lurching apart. She felt the boy’s hand on her legs. “Oh Matthew, I’m so sorry.” She bent to hold him. Her vision wavered, and her thoughts began to spin. Shock waves pummeled them, rhythmic now, as the thing crashed into the door again and again. Matthew clutched her tightly, and with a blurring of senses, it seemed to her they joined somehow, became for an instant like vines grown thick and strong together in the storm. She shook her head forcefully. “No! Go away! Do you hear me? Leave us alone!”

The door would burst apart in seconds. Dazed, she watched bright cracks radiate across it, kitchen light seeping through. “Matthew! Stay behind me!” She reached back for his hand. Nothing. Empty air.

The boy crouched by the door.

“No! Get back!” Nearly paralyzed, she tried to grab him.

Kneeling, Matty whispered. Through a chink, a shaft of light struck one of his eyes. Ivory. Onyx. He murmured. Instantly, the attack became less violent. Then it stopped.

On hands and knees, the boy continued murmuring under the door. On the other side, weight slid against the wood. It eased inward again. She sank to her knees and tried to make out the boy’s words, but his voice stayed too low. From the other side, something snuffled and snorted around the doorjamb, as though a giant hog rampaged in the kitchen. She heard a padding sound. Foul breath oozed through the cracks. Drawing back from the smell, she touched the boy, listened to the comfort offered by his crooning voice—gibberish, baby talk.

And then silence.

“Is it gone? Matthew, did it go away?”

They crouched in silence, and the lantern burned low. She leaned an ear against the wood. The door wobbled. Anyone could kick it down now. If it comes back… Holding her breath, she groped about for the hammer.

She waited, listening.

“Matthew, we’re going to try and make a run for Aunt Doris’s car. Matthew? Can you understand what I’m saying?”

But what if—just this once—Doris didn’t leave her keys in the ignition? Trying to work quietly with the claw end of the hammer, she began pulling out nails. They squealed softly. What if it’s outside waiting for us?

The door pulled away from her, broke from its hinges and heaved to the floor. She blinked at the light. Gripping the hammer, she took Matthew’s hand and drew him after her. Splintered wood crunched underfoot. The kitchen table lay upside down atop two smashed chairs.

The boy stumbling behind her, she crept to the back door.

She stared. The bolt was still in place.

How did it get in? She couldn’t tear her eyes away. How did it get out?

The door shook, and she screamed.

“Athena! ’Thena, let me in! What’s wrong? Athena!”

“Steven? Oh God. Steven.” She unlatched the door and swung it open, the hammer falling from her fingers to thud on the loose floorboards.

He grabbed her. “Sweet Jesus, ’Thena, what…?”

“It’s here. The thing. In the house.”

Reaching for his service revolver, he pushed past her. She hung on to the door.

After a moment, he returned. “’Thena?” His eyes took in the demolished kitchen.

“It…”

“It’s okay, ’Thena. I’m here now.”

Still shaking and gripping the door, she turned to the outer darkness. “We locked ourselves in the basement.” Her voice grated with exhaustion, words barely emerging from her throat.

“We?”

As she looked back, her eyes went wild. “Matthew! Where are you?”

In the living room, the boy knelt by the sofa and crooned.

“There!” Her fingers stabbed. “Behind the sofa!”

He waved her aside, motioned for her to be silent. The boy appeared not to be aware of him. Revolver drawn, he got down on his hands and knees, grunting. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.” He got up again. “There’s one hell of a frightened dog under there. That’s all.”

But she only held her head to the side as though listening to things he couldn’t hear.

He wondered if he’d ever seen a more terrified human being. “’Thena, let me look around. Why don’t you come and sit here?”

But she moved to the boy. “Matthew? Are you all right?”

When finally the boy looked up, Steve stepped closer. He squirmed as the boy’s queer eyes fell upon him. Steve turned away, not knowing where to look. Stuffing had been ripped from the sofa, and an armchair lay on its side in the center of the room. Curtains covered the floor. “I’m going to go upstairs and search.”

“No, it’s gone.” She gave him a trembling smile and tried to smooth back her hair. “I…knew it was gone…the second we came out of the basement. I could feel it. I don’t know why I acted so—”

“You’re okay.” Again, he surveyed the room. “Everything’s all right now.” He righted the armchair. “But you can’t stay here anymore.”

“Where could we go?”

“Neighbors? Family?”

She shook her head.

“The two of you could come to my house.” He waited, but she said nothing. “How did it get in?”

Distractedly, she shrugged.

Steve paced the room, examining the windows. “No signs of a break-in.” The dog wouldn’t come out from beneath the sofa. Matty stopped mumbling and just sat there on the rug, playing with his fingers, walking them about on the floor.

She sat in the armchair. “How’s Doris?”

“They were getting set to do X-rays when I left. What’s behind this door?”

“The other part of the house. Rooms we don’t use.”

“Let’s take a look.”

“It’s dangerous. The floors…”

There were bolts at the top and bottom of the door, and he drew them with difficulty. Stiff hinges gave only when he threw his weight against them. “Can we get some light in here?” Again, he drew his gun. Behind him, she righted a lamp, removed the shade and brought the bare bulb as close to the doorway as the cord would allow.

Inside lay thick emptiness, the air heavy with moldy dust. Covered by a sheet, a large piece of furniture occupied the center of the room. Steve took a few hesitant steps. “I see what you mean about the floor.” He stumbled and cursed.

“What’s the matter?” she asked from the doorway.

“Nothing. A soft spot.” The lamp didn’t illuminate much; only water-damaged walls stood out in the gloom. He heard boards groan as she came toward him. “Better stay out there. Is this the only other door that leads outside?” He moved toward it, feeling the uneven floor sink with each step. “Still bolted.” He rattled the bolt and