Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 13

“Paige!”

Grant pounded on her door.

“Can you hear me?”

He grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, straining with his good wrist until it popped, but nothing happened.

“Paige!”

His voice raced through the second-floor halls that wrapped around the stairwell.

Grant turned and felt his way through the darkness to the hallway table. There was nothing of use on the surface, but a brief exploration along its side revealed a drawer handle.

He yanked it open, blindly rummaging.

Mostly unidentifiable junk.

Couldn’t believe his luck when he found a small flashlight.

Please.

He twisted the end and a narrow circle of light shone on the floor beneath him.

Grant returned to the door and dropped to his knees.

Put the side of his head on the hardwood and shined the weak light underneath the crack.

Nothing.

He stood, took several steps back, and accelerated at the door, his shoulder lowered, bracing for impact.

There was as much give as if he’d run straight into a brick wall, a bright shudder of agony exploding in his shoulder and screaming down through his arm to the tips of his fingers.

But a fear that tore his guts out overrode the pain.

Something had happened to Paige and he couldn’t get to her.

He sprinted down the hall, around the corner, and shot down the stairs as fast as he could safely travel in the dark.

Need an ax, a sledgehammer, a bowling ball—something with heft.

Failing that, find a toolbox. Physically remove the doorknob.

Grant stopped at the hearth and made a cursory examination of the fireplace toolset. The heaviest thing on the rack was the cast-iron poker, but it wouldn’t stand a chance of breaking through Paige’s door.

He threw it down and ran into the kitchen.

Pulled open the door to the pantry.

The half-bundle of plastic-wrapped firewood still sat on the floor. He frantically searched the shelves, hoping for a toolbox, a hatchet, something, but the heaviest object he spotted was a thirty-two-ounce can of whole cherry tomatoes.

Think. Think. Think.

As he’d first approached the brownstone after opening the wrought-iron gate, he’d walked up a set of stairs to reach the first level.

Which means—

—there’s probably a basement.

Grant shut the pantry door and spun around.

The shock of seeing Paige standing two feet away buckled his knees as if someone had cut his ligaments.

Grant stumbled back against the door.

His sister stared at him—reeking of sex, lingerie badly wrinkled, and looking as bleary and confused as if she’d just woken out of REM sleep.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She blinked several times without answering, as if the connections between thought and speech were rebooting.

Said finally, “Did you see Jude?”

Grant nodded.

“He left my room?”

“He did a lot more than that.”

“Tell me everything.”