Locked Doors - Crouch Blake (читаем книги онлайн .TXT) 📗

“Who’s there?” Maria demanded, her pepper spray held out at arm’s length, her index finger on the spray button and ready to press.

No one answered.

There were many places he could be hiding. Behind the sofa. Around any number of corners. Tucked next to the large bookcase. Behind the larger-than-life-size statue of George Washington, holding a sign that said Welcome to the Rushmore Inn. Or even up the stairs, beyond her line of sight.

Maria kept her back to the wall and moved slowly to the right, her eyes sweeping the area, scanning for any kind of movement. She yearned to run, to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Behind her, she felt the drapes of one of the windows. She quickly turned around, parting the fabric, seeking out the window latch.

But like the Lincoln bedroom, there was no glass there. Only bricks, hidden from view on the outside by closed wooden shutters that she’d thought quaint when she first pulled in.

This house is like a prison.

That thought was followed by one even more distressing.

I’m not their first victim. They’ve done this before.

Oh, Jesus, they’ve done this before.

Maria clutched the pepper spray in both hands, but she couldn’t keep it steady. She was so terrified her legs were trembling—a first for her. A nervous giggle escaped her lips, but it came out more like a whimper. Taking a big breath, she screamed, “Help me!”

The house carried her plea, bounced it around, then swallowed it up.

A moment later she heard, “Help me!”

But it wasn’t her echo. It was a male falsetto, mocking her voice.

Coming from the stairs.

“Help me!” Another voice. Coming from the living room.

“Help me!” This one even closer, from a closet door less than ten feet away.

“Help me.” The last one was low pitched. Quiet.

Coming from right next to her.

The statue of Washington.

It smiled at her, its crooked teeth announcing it wasn’t a statue at all.

The incredibly large man dropped the Welcome sign and lunged, both arms outstretched.

Maria pressed the button on pepper spray.

The jet missed him by several feet, and his hand brushed her shirt.

She danced away from his grasp, and then barreled toward the stairs as the closet door crashed open and someone burst out. Someone big and fat and...

Sweet lord, what was wrong with his body?

Maria pulled her eyes away and attacked the stairs with every bit of her energy. The hundreds of hours she spent training paid off, and she climbed so quickly the man—don’t look at his horrible face—on the second floor couldn’t react in time to grab her. She ducked past, inhaling a stench of body odor and rot, heading for the only other room she knew to be occupied, the two men arguing sports.

And they were still arguing, behind the door labeled Theodore Roosevelt. Maria threw herself into the room without knocking, slamming and locking the door behind her.

“You’ve got to help—”

The lights were on, but the room was empty. Maria looked for the voices, which hadn’t abated, and quickly focused on the nightstand next to the bed. Setting on top was an old reel-to-reel tape recorder. The voices of the arguing men droned through its speakers in an endless loop.

A trick. To distract her. Make her feel like she wasn’t alone.

Or maybe the purpose of the recording was to lure her into this room.

Then the tape recorder, and the lights, abruptly went off.

Maria froze. She heard someone crying, and with no small surprise realized the sound was coming from her. Dropping onto all fours, she crawled toward the bed. This room was laid out the same way as the Lincoln room, and she quickly bumped against the dust ruffle, brought her legs in front of her, and eased underneath on her belly, feet first, keeping her head poking out so she could listen.

At first she couldn’t hear anything above her heart hammering in her ears and her own shallow panting. She forced her breathing to slow down, sucking in air through her nose, blowing it out softly through her puffed cheeks.

Then she heard the footsteps. From the hallway. Getting closer. First one set, slow and deliberate, each footfall sounding like a thunderclap. Then another set, equally heavy, running up fast.

Both of them stopped at the door.

“I think the girly is in here.”

“That’s Teddy’s room. We can’t go in.”

“But she’s in there. It’s bleedin’ time.”

Maria heard the doorknob turn. She scooted further under the bed, the dust ruffle covering her hair.

“You shouldn’t do that. You really shouldn’t do that.”

The door creaked, inching open. Maria saw a beam of light sliver through the crack. It widened until she could see two huge figures silhouetted in the doorway. They each held flashlights.

“The one that catches her, bleeds her first. Them’s the rules.”

“I ain’t goin’ in. You shouldn’t neither.”

“Shuddup. This girlie is mine.”

“It’s Teddy’s room.”

“Shuddup!”

The man dressed in the George Washington outfit shone his light on the other man’s face. Maria put her hand in her mouth and bit down so she didn’t scream. His face was... dear God... it was...

“Watch my eyes!”

“I said shuddup!”

“I’m tellin’ on you!”

“Hey! Don’t!”

The door abruptly closed, and both sets of footsteps retreated up the hall, down the stairs.

Maria’s whole body shivered like she was freezing to death. Terror locked her muscles and she couldn’t move. But she had to move. She had to find some kind of way out of there.

Were all the windows bricked-over? Maybe some of them weren’t. Maybe she could get out of a window, climb down somehow. Or get up on the roof. The roof sounded a lot better than waiting around for those freaks to come back.

Maria heard something soft. Faint. Nearby.

Some kind of scratching sound.

She concentrated on listening, but couldn’t hear anything above her own labored gasping. She took a deep breath, held it in.

And could still hear the breathing.

Raspy, wet breathing.

Right next to her.

Someone else is under the bed.

“I’m Teddy.”

His voice was deep, rough, and hearing it that close scared Maria so badly her bladder let loose.

“I’m gonna bleed you, girly girl. Bleed you nice and long.”

Then something grabbed Maria’s legs, and she screamed louder than she’d ever screamed in her life, screamed louder than she’d ever thought possible, kicking and clawing as she was dragged down through the trap-door in the floor.

And now, an exclusive excerpt from the new horror novel, TRAPPED, by J.A. Konrath…

Sara Randhurst felt her stomach roll starboard as the boat yawed port, and she put both hands on the railing and took a big gulp of fresh, lake air. She wasn’t anywhere near Cindy’s level of discomfort—that poor girl had been heaving non-stop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.

Strangely enough, Jack seemed to be enjoying it. The three-month-old baby in the sling around Sara’s chest had a grin on his face and was drooling happily. Sara pulled a tissue from the sling’s pocket and wiped off her son’s chin, wondering how anyone, especially someone so small and fragile, could actually like this awful motion. Even though she was feeling ill, she smiled at the sight of him. Just like she did every time.