Free The Beast by Barry Hutchison

white.
    The screechers landed on their backs in piles of dirty snow, but they were back on their feet almost right away. Their black eyes glared at me, their mouths still gnashing at nothing.
    I spun around. The paths were blocked in every direction. My powers were tingling through me, waiting to be put to use again, but until I was sure of the consequences of using them, they were a last resort.
    The woman who’d caught me by the hair was half-buried beneath the remains of the fence she’d been on. She was thrashing around, struggling to free herself. I leapt over her and landed in the garden of a mid-terrace house. The back door stood open. I dashed towards it, tripping and stumbling through the snow. The screechers scrambled after me. They were faster than I was, but I had a head start.
    I reached the door and fell inside, landing on the kitchen lino with a thud . Rolling on to my back I kicked the door as hard as I could. It slammed closed just as Peggy bounded up the step. I heard the crunch of the wood hitting her face, then the squeal of wounded rage that followed.
    The door shook as Peggy and the others hurled themselves against it. They scratched and clawed as I got up and looked around the kitchen.
    ‘Key. Key! ’ Frantically, I searched the worktops and the windowsill. ‘Come on , there’s got to be – yes!’
    I spotted the key, already in the lock. My fingers trembled as I wrestled with it, trying to get it turned. At last, with a faint click , I managed to secure the door. Outside, the screechers were still trying to batter it down, but I reckoned it would keep them out. For now, at least, I was safe.
    Assuming, of course, there wasn’t already one in the house with me.
    On the other side of the kitchen, the door leading through to the living room was shut tight. I approached it quietly and pressed my ear against the wood. With the racket the screechers were making outside, it was virtually impossible to tell if there was any noise from the room beyond this door. There was only one way to know for sure.
    I pulled the door open a crack but was ready to slam it closed again if I had to. The living room was a mess. A couch lay on its back, its torn cushions spilling their stuffing out all over the floor. The frame of a coffee table stood in the middle of the room, its glass top shattered into diamond-like shards on the carpet.
    Opening the door all the way, I stepped into the room and saw the full extent of the damage. Three deep gouges ran almost the full length of one wall. They tore through the wallpaper and through the plaster beneath. I poked my finger into one of the grooves. It sunk in right up to the third knuckle.
    I remembered the footprint we’d found in Mrs Angelo’s house. I looked at the claw marks along the wall. More than anything, I tried not to think about what could be responsible for both.
    There were two windows at opposite ends of the room, the curtains drawn over both. I decided to leave them that way, rather than risk attracting the attention of anyone else outside.
    A second door in the living room stood wide open. Through it, I could see the house’s front door – closed, thankfully – and the first step of a staircase leading to the upper floor.
    I made for the stairs. I could peek through a bedroom window and get a better idea of what was going on outside, hopefully without being noticed by anyone down on the ground.
    At the bottom step I hesitated, one hand gripping the banister, the other pressed against the opposite wall. I stood there in silence, listening for any sound from above.
    Nothing.
    ‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Anyone there?’
    Again, nothing.
    Placing my feet at the outside edges of each step to minimise creaking, I crept up to the top of the stairs. Four doors led off from the upper landing. Three of them were open, one wasn’t. I looked in the first three rooms, but found nothing of interest in any of them.
    One of the bedrooms overlooked the back garden. Blinds