Page 178 of It Happened on the Lake

She had gotten the locks changed. No one could get in.

And then she felt it again, a movement. A disturbance in the air. Something very wrong.

Slowly, she climbed out of bed and grabbed the knife lying on the bed beside her but left the crucifix and scissors. She needed one hand free.

Carefully she opened the door to her room and felt it again, the change in the atmosphere. The hackles of her neck raised. What was wrong with her? She eased into the hallway, and yes, there was definitely a breeze, cold and shifting.

Shit!

She flipped on the switch for the staircase. The light was dim, but she saw nothing. Barefoot, one step at a time, she descended, her heart pounding, her fingers in a death grip over the hilt of the hunting knife.

Pausing at the landing, she listened.

No footsteps.

No heavy breathing.

Nothing but the weird whirring sound that came and went. A few moments and then a pause.

Mechanical?

She didn’t think so.

On the main floor, she hesitated at the landing of the staircase, where it split in the foyer.

Nothing.

But the cool air. Where was it coming from?

Silently gripping the knife, she padded down the remaining steps and turned back toward the parlor but stopped as she passed the doorway to the kitchen, where she flipped on the overhead lights.

And discovered the side door ajar, cool air seeping in.

What the hell?

She crossed the cold tile floor and examined the dead bolt.

Unlocked. She tried it, and it functioned perfectly.

So had she not shut the door and twisted the lock, but no—she usually tried the door after she locked it. Just to make certain it was secure.

Had she?

Or had alcohol impaired her judgment?

She hadn’t been drunk, but . . .

“Damn it all.” She locked the door and double-checked the others. All locked. Satisfied that the house was as secure as she could get it, she started up the stairs, then heard the whizzing sound again.

“What?” she said, whipping around to eye the foyer just as a bat swooped down from the ceiling. She let out a startled scream. No. No, no, no!

Now what?

It flew up the stairs, and her heart sank. “No. Oh God.” Quickly she rushed back to the kitchen, found a broom in the closet near the pantry, and eyes turned upward, flew up the stairs. She was moving fast and felt a twinge in her hip but ignored it.

The bat, of course, was nowhere to be seen. She paused at the second level, breathing hard, straining to listen. Dear God, there could be a million places for it to roost and hide, and as long as those spots werenotin her bedroom, she would be alright. Except that her door was off its hinges a bit and bats, like mice, could slip through the tiniest of openings.

“Where are you?” she whispered and realized she was now holding a broom as a weapon and she’d left the knife in the kitchen—not that the blade would do any good against a bat, but she’d have to retrieve it.

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