Free House by Frank Peretti Page A

madness. He jerked his head at the crumpled wreck embedded in the entry. “We know all about this killer, more than you ever will, so we know it’s you that’s brought us the trouble. You brought it in here like a dog carrying fleas.”
    â€œBut we’re more than happy to leave,” said Jack. “Just let us go and—”
    â€œ Go? You think he’s gonna let anyone out of here? You ain’t goin’ anywhere till Mr. White gets what he wants.”
    â€œBut don’t you see? This is what he wants, for us to harm each other.”
    â€œSo what’s wrong with that?”
    Randy looked to Betty. “Betty. You understand what’s going on, don’t you?” He nodded toward Stewart. “Tell him.”
    She looked at the mangled truck and what was left of the front entry. “Tell him what?”
    â€œBetty. Are you too stupid to—”
    That got her attention. Her icy glare clipped his sentence like a pair of scissors. “What do you want me to say, smart boy? That we do what we have to do?” She eyed Jack. “That life’s just a big joke?”
    â€œNo . . . ,” Stephanie cried, her hand over her mouth.
    Betty reached out and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind Stephanie’s ear. “Or maybe we should just sing a song and make the trouble go away.” Stephanie let go of Jack, doubled over, and retched.
    â€œBetty,” Leslie said, her voice barely audible, “we’re all human beings here. We can be reasonable.”
    â€œHuman beings?” Betty looked injured. “Sweetheart, this is what human beings do.”
    Stewart grabbed a fistful of Betty’s dress and yanked her back. “That’s enough talking. We got ourselves to think about.”
    â€œAs if I could think of anything else,” Betty murmured, sidling up to him.
    â€œBut you don’t all need to worry,” Stewart said. “Just one of you.”

8
    JACK CONCENTRATED ON STEWART’S EYES, trying to detect the slightest hint of a bluff, a ruse, even a joke. The eyes were glassy, the red vessels distended, and behind them lay a darkness that was eerily familiar, like the hellish depths he’d seen through the window of the back door, through eyeholes cut in a metal mask.
    This was no bluff.
    Stewart wiggled the barrel toward the hall. “Get moving. Into the kitchen.”
    Betty moved into the hallway, holding the lamp high, showing the dim way while casting long shadows. Jack exchanged a glance with the others, then followed, hands raised to indicate surrender, to prevent a haphazard shooting. They followed Betty in single file, first Jack, then Stephanie, Leslie, and Randy, all with hands raised. Stewart lumbered behind them, shotgun level.
    Jack made a conscious effort to walk slowly, hoping the others were searching the hallway, the doorways, anywhere, just as he was, for any ideas on how to escape. There were plenty of places to flee from this hallway—the kitchen, the dining room, the stairs, the living room. Stewart couldn’t possibly contain all four of them if they bolted, and the darkness would hide them.
    But Stewart could kill one for certain, two if he could pump another round in time, maybe three or even all four if they could find no other way out of the house.
    Jack kept walking, looking, hoping, waiting for the moment.
    They entered the kitchen, Stewart prodding them from behind.
    â€œBetty,” Stewart rumbled, “open up the meat locker.”
    Stephanie gasped then started bawling. “No. No . . .”
    Stewart jabbed her with the shotgun and kept her moving.
    Betty said nothing. She only scowled at them—and Stewart—as she went to the far end of the kitchen, raised the latch on a thick wooden door, and heaved the door open. Wisps of chilling fog poured into the kitchen and snaked along the floor.
    â€œNooo!” Stephanie tried to bolt, but Stewart grabbed a fistful