Free The Walls Have Eyes by Clare B. Dunkle

inside the house too.
    â€œDad, this place is occupied,” Martin said desperately.
    â€œSon, I think you need to keep quiet.”
    Dad set his pack and gear down on the porch. He took Martin’s flashlight, walked around the fallen door, and went into the dark house. Dad took two loud, creaky steps. Then his shadowy form vanished in a dull, splintering crunch, and the flashlight went flying through the air.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    â€œChip! Light!” Martin yelled.
    The twin beams of Chip’s eyes lit up Dad’s face, contorted in terror. His head was where his feet should have been. For one sickening second, Martin thought his father had been decapitated. Then he picked out grimy arms, scrabbling for purchase on the rotten floorboards. The rest of Dad appeared to be gone.
    â€œFloor! Floor!” Dad gasped. Small white insects, like tiny ghosts, flitted across his upper body and disappeared into the rips and gaps of his buttoned shirt.
    â€œWalt!” cried Mom, rushing forward. Chip danced sideways to bodycheck her, and the room fell into darkness again. Martin caught hold of Mom’s arm. He heard hoarse rattles as Dad fought for breath.
    â€œGotta stay here,” Martin said. “The floor’s gone.”
    â€œOh, Walt!” she cried.
    Chip’s eyebeams picked Dad out from the shattered floor again. Martin could see the veins standing out on Dad’s temples. Dad gurgled and coughed, and one of the white bugs came sailing out of his mouth and landed near Martin’s sneaker.
    â€œChip, can you stretch out long?” Martin asked. “See if you can reach him.”
    The bot dog crouched down in the doorway and stretched himself out. Two long vines appeared to sprout where his front legs should be. Quickly, they wrapped around Dad atfloorboard level, right below the armpits. The boards squeaked loudly in protest as Chip’s paws levered Dad loose, and Dad came crawling out over the warped door.
    â€œGood job, Chip!” Martin said, and Chip scrambled up from the doorway to lick his ear.
    â€œAre you all right?” Mom asked. She made Dad sit on the concrete steps. “Let’s get those nasty things off you, Walt; they’re even in your hair. You’ve torn your shirt. Oh, there’s blood. Martin, we need the first aid cream.”
    Dad’s face was haggard in the light from Chip’s eyebeams, and he bled from a dozen scrapes. The knees of his pants had shredded, and the left sleeve of his shirt flopped around his elbow.
    â€œI told you, Dad,” Martin said. “You looked just like the little people in David’s ImCity game when they stepped on slime demons.”
    â€œMartin Revere Glass,” said his mother, “this is not a joke!”
    â€œHey, I’m not the one who called it silly,” Martin countered. “Maybe now Dad believes me about these houses.”
    â€œHe’s right, Walt. We were better off by the little river. First thing tomorrow, we’re getting out of here.”
    Dad managed to get to his feet, and they limped away from the deadly structure. But he was too shaken to travel far, and they wound up bedding down in the middle of the stony road. It was by far the most uncomfortable choice they could have made, and the broken house seemed dangerously near. As night fell, it looked more and more like a scene from Martin’s monster games. He twisted to and fro on his bedroll, scanning for enemies.
    The moon shone its pale beams through the whispering canopy overhead. Small pools of moonlight lapped the weedy ground and picked out and ennobled odd bits of junk in the yard. Dad dozed off, then thrashed as if he were falling through the floor again. His sudden movement startled Martin, and something else, too: a black shape nearby went crashing off into a thicket of young trees.
    The oppressive feeling of danger hung over Martin’s restless sleep. He could sense the presence of the hideous house