Free The Haunted Air by F. Paul Wilson Page B

full blast.
    â€œDamn it, Charlie, what are you up to?”
    Charlie lifted his head and blinked at him. “Whassup, bro?”
    â€œThe windows, for one thing! What’s with opening the windows? It’s gonna be ninety today.”
    â€œDidn’t open no windows.”
    â€œYeah? Well then who did? Ice-T?”
    He slammed them closed, then stepped back into the hall. He was headed for his room when he felt a warm breeze
flowing up the stairwell. He ran downstairs and found all the waiting room windows and the front door wide open.
    â€œCharlie!” he shouted. “Charlie get down here!”
    When Charlie stumbled in he gaped at the open windows and door. “Dawg, what you doing?”
    â€œMe? I locked that door last night myself, chain lock and all. I didn’t get up and open it. And since there’s only two people in this house, that leaves you.”
    He shut and relocked the door as he was speaking.
    â€œDon’t look at me, yo,” Charlie said, closing the windows. “I been racked out.”
    Lyle stared at his brother. Charlie used to be a def joker who could spin out a line like no one else. But ever since he’d been born again, he told the truth—about everything, even if it hurt.
    â€œThen who … ? Shit! Someone got in!”
    Lyle raced to the channeling room. If they’d wrecked the equipment …
    But no, the room looked fine. No obvious damage. A quick survey by Charlie and him revealed it to be just as they’d left it. Except for the windows. During the remodeling he’d painted the panes black and draped them with heavy curtains to block the tiniest ray of light. Now the drapes were pulled back and the windows thrown open, allowing sunlight to flood the room. It changed the look entirely, making all his carefully arranged mystical touches look … tacky.
    Relieved that nothing had been damaged, Lyle closed the windows, pulled the drapes, and headed back toward the kitchen.
    â€œWe’re running late, Charlie. We’ve got a noon sitting, so—”
    Lyle almost tripped when he came back through the waiting room: the windows and the front door were open again.
    Charlie stumbled to a stop behind him. “What in the name of the Lord—”
    â€œThe Lord’s got nothing to do with this, Charlie. They’re still here!”

    Lyle darted into the kitchen—where the windows and back door all stood open—and grabbed two knives. He handed one to his brother.
    â€œAll right. We know he’s not down here. So you plant yourself by the stairs to make sure no one sneaks down, while I sweep upstairs.”
    Lyle’s heart was already running in high gear as he took the steps up two at a time; it further picked up its tempo as he moved down the hall, knife held before him. He’d grown up in a tough neighborhood, but he’d stayed away from the crazies, the crackheads, and the bangers. He’d had fights along the way, mostly shoving matches, one that got his face cut when someone pulled a boxcutter, but that was it. So he wasn’t exactly practiced in knife fighting. He didn’t even know if he could stab somebody, but he was mad enough now to find out.
    He checked the hall closet—empty. Moved on to his bedroom. Shit! The windows were open again. How the hell? But the screens weren’t pushed out so no one had gone out that way. He checked his closet, then closed the windows.
    Same with Charlie’s room: open windows, empty closet. Who was opening these things? After closing them he moved to their sitting room—actually a converted bedroom; what had been the living room and dining room downstairs was now the Channeling Room.
    All clear here.
    Downstairs he rechecked the kitchen and pantry, going so far as to look behind and under the sofa in the waiting room.
    â€œOkay. Both floors clear. That leaves the cellar.”
    First he and Charlie locked up, front and back, then