He’d have to exit by the one of the other doors. He ruled out the terrace door. The trail of blood led that that way. Who knew what he’d find in the dining room or kitchen? He’d have to go out through the side door, accessed through the library.

Carefully he made his way across the foyer. The doors to the parlor were closed. He noticed blood on the doorknobs. Shivering, he headed down the hall. But as he passed the study, he heard a sound.

It was a man.

And he was crying.

Ryan peered in through the half-open doors. He spied Uncle Howard, standing over a sofa, crying softly as he looked down. Ryan couldn’t see what he was looking at.

“Uncle Howard?” Ryan whispered.

The old man’s eyes flickered up to him, but he did not reply.

Carefully Ryan stepped into the room. He walked around to the front of the couch. Sprawled there was Dean, in a blood-soaked shirt. He was dead.

“Oh, man,” Ryan said.

“He was a good man,” Uncle Howard said in a thick voice. “Perhaps the best of the lot. Hardworking. Decent. A good father and husband.”

Ryan just swallowed, staring down at his dead cousin.

“How many more?” Uncle Howard asked, looking off into the distance. “How many more will you claim?”

“Is it over?” Ryan asked. “Have they killed everybody else?”

“I don’t know,” Uncle Howard replied. With difficulty he moved away toward the desk that sat at the far end of the room. Bracing himself against it, he let out a long sigh. “I took refuge in the library when I heard the screaming begin. When the house grew silent, I came in here and found Dean. Someone had left his body here. I don’t know what we will find in the rest of the house.”

“We’ve got to get out,” Ryan said.

The old man just shook his head. “If we’re meant to die, there’s nowhere we could run. You’re too young to remember your Uncle Ernest. But surely you’ve heard the stories. He ran all the way to Wisconsin, but they found him. No, I’m staying right here. If they come for me, there’s nothing I can do.” He leveled his old eyes at Ryan. “And the same holds for you.”

Once again Ryan felt the old man’s imputation of cowardice and betrayal. He looked away.

Uncle Howard took a deep breath. “The house has been quiet for a while now. But I doubt the killing is complete.”

“Who’s doing it?” Ryan asked. “It’s not the guy with the pitchfork. I saw another guy in the foyer. He was attacking Douglas.” He rather enjoyed telling his uncle that his favorite nephew had been assaulted.

“Douglas?” the old man asked. “Oh, dear God.”

“It was a guy I’d never heard about before,” Ryan told him. “A man with a scar on his face.”

“Scar?” Howard Young seemed puzzled. “I can’t imagine who that might be. There was no man with a scar on his face…” He seemed to think of something. “But that man Carolyn was involved with…what was his name? David Cooke. The reports I obtained on him revealed that he had a scar on his face. Could it be the same?”

Ryan looked at him strangely. “But why would some guy Carolyn was involved with be attacking this family?”

“The powers of that room are great,” Uncle Howard said. “They can get in your mind… They can cause you to do things.” He shuddered. “If it is the same, then it means we are in greater danger than ever before.”

They heard a sound. A steady, rhythmic beat. A thud, repeated over and over.

“It sounds as if someone’s knocking on the walls,” Ryan said.

“No, listen closely.” Uncle Howard was straining to hear. “It is the sound of a knife…repeatedly stabbing the wall. Close the doors, Ryan.”

Ryan obeyed.

“As he walks,” Uncle Howard whispered, “he is stabbing the wall. The knife goes in, the knife comes out, and he takes another step toward us.”

“No,” Ryan said. He began to cry.

“He is coming for us,” the old man said.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound grew ever closer.

In his mind, Ryan could see the knife cutting into the plaster of the wall. He could see the brute’s hand gripping the handle.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He was getting closer.

“No!” Ryan cried, running behind the desk and cowering, covering his face.

Thud. Thud.

The sound stopped.

Ryan peered around the desk from between his fingers. Uncle Howard stood in front of the desk, facing the doors.

Suddenly the doors flew open.

And standing there was the man with the scarred face, knife held over his head.

Ryan screamed.

The man walked into the room, directly toward Uncle Howard.

“Go ahead,” Howard Young said. “Kill me. Be done with it.”

But the man just stood there in front of him, studying his face.

Still peering through his fingers, Ryan saw the maniac’s eyes move. They left Uncle Howard’s face and found his own. With a snarl, the beast took a step around the desk.

“No, please!” Ryan begged. “Please don’t kill me!”

The man simply sneered, raising the knife up over his head, ready to bring it down onto Ryan.

But then-

A gunshot.

Ryan watched in stunned horror and disbelief as the man staggered. Then came another shot. And another. The man swayed on his feet, though none of the shots produced any blood. They simply tore holes in his body. The man seemed bewildered by the bullets rather than pained. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Then he collapsed, crumpling to the floor.

Ryan leapt up from behind the desk. He saw Carolyn standing in the doorframe, the rifle in her hands still smoking.

“David Cooke had that coming from me for a long time,” she said.

Her words made no sense to Ryan. But no matter. He was on his feet and running. He wasted no time asking any more questions or thanking Carolyn for saving his life. He just wanted out of the house. There might be no place that was safe, but at the moment, all Ryan could do was run.

He bolted out of the study and down the hall, his footsteps echoing across the marble.

Chapter Thirty-two

“Come with me,” Carolyn said to Howard Young. “He’ll soon be back on his feet. The bullets can knock him down, but they can’t kill him.”

“He’s not a ghost?” the old man asked.

Carolyn had stooped down beside the body of the man she had once loved. She had slept beside this creature. She had let him make love to her. She had trusted him.

“No,” she said. “He’s a zombie.”

She pried the knife from his cold hands.

“Might as well disarm him while we have the chance,” she said.

Standing, she motioned to Mr. Young to leave the room.

“There’s nowhere we can hide,” he told her.

“I’m aware of that. That’s why we need to have a little talk, you and me. Take advantage of David being out cold for a while.” Her eyes hardened. “It’s time you told me everything you know, Mr. Young.”

He looked away. “Who is still alive?”

“The only ones killed have been Dean and Philip. Everyone else is safe for the moment in the parlor.” She glanced out the door. “With the possible exception of Ryan.”

“Take me there then,” Howard Young said. “I would see my family.”

Carolyn shook her head. “Nope. You and I are heading over to the library. Where we can talk privately.”

He glared at her.

“Now move,” she said, nudging him with the rifle. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

She led him out of the room and down the corridor. Once inside the library, she locked the door behind them, even though she felt certain David Cooke could break it down if he wanted to. In life he’d been a very strong man. In death, he was even stronger.

“Sit,” she ordered Howard Young.

The old man took a seat in a high-backed chair. He looked so small and frail. Carolyn stood over him.

“What happened the night Beatrice was killed? Who else was involved? Who is the power in that room? Who is using David Cooke to try to kill us?”