F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

He smelled them first—that rotten carrion odor. And as he rounded the corner from the living room into the foyer he saw two spearheads and another chew wasp wriggle free from behind the etagere and take flight. Either they didn't see him or they ignored him as they winged up the open curved stairway toward the darkness of the second floor.

Looking for Jeffy.

At top speed he rolled his chair over to the etagere. Not only had it been pushed away from the door, it had been moved with enough force to bend the nails onto their backs and now rested atop them.

Alan shook his head grimly. "How in the world…?"

Time enough later to ponder how the little monsters had done this. Right now he had to plug the hole.

With a quick glance over his shoulder at the stairs, Alan slid off the wheelchair to his knees as he had before and threw his weight against the etagere. A squeaky scrape echoed through the foyer as it slid back over the nails and settled again on the floor, flush against the door. Alan turned and leaned his back against it.

Okay. No more could get in, at least for the moment. Now he had to find a way to secure it here until morning. He glanced at his watch. 6:22. Morning was almost three hours away. Well, he could sit here all night, just like this; that would do it. Three hours on this marble floor wasn't forever; it would only seem that way. The problem with staying here was that he was a sitting duck for the bugs that had already got in. He knew there were at least three. There could be more.

He hefted the billy. At least he didn't have to concern himself with hunting them down. Sooner or later—most likely sooner—they'd come hunting him. He'd have to be—

The etagere bucked against his back.

Startled, Alan half turned and leaned hard against it with his shoulder. The piece slid back into place.

What the hell was that?

Uneasiness prickled Alan's scalp. That was no chew wasp pushing through its hole. There'd been power behind that thrust. Something big was out there. Bigger than—

Alan suddenly remembered the dents in the storm shutter out front, and that long depression in the yard. He had a feeling whatever had been responsible for them was back.

Christ!

He didn't know what it was using to push the etagere but Alan had been able to push it back, so maybe things weren't so bad as they seemed.

And then the etagere moved again, a good foot this time, sliding Alan along with it. He pushed back, his feet scraping along the marble floor, searching for purchase and finding little. And even if they had, he doubted he'd be able to do much.

If only I had two good legs! he thought, his heart pumping wildly as he brought all his upper body strength to bear on the etagere. I could beat this thing!

But what was this thing? How was it pushing the etagere?

As if in answer to his question, a smooth black tentacle, glistening in the candlelight, slid up from the other side and unerringly darted toward his face. Alan ducked and swung at it with his club.

And missed. The tentacle had dodged the blow, almost as if it could see. It came for him again immediately and wrapped around his wrist. Its touch was cold and damp, but not slippery; Alan yanked back in revulsion but couldn't pull free. His skin was stuck, as if the tentacle was coated with glue. It began drawing him toward the door.

Thoroughly frightened now, Alan quickly switched the club to his other hand and began pounding on the tentacle. The embedded teeth opened gashes that grew deeper and leaked foul-smelling black liquid with every blow. The traction eased, the grip loosened, and Alan was free again.

But only for a heartbeat. Another tentacle snaked in beside the damaged one and reached for him. Alan fell back, reached into his wheelchair pouch, and fumbled around until he found the ax. It wasn't a big ax—a hatchet, really, with a short handle and a wedged head, no more than three inches along the cutting edge. But it was sharp. Alan got a good grip and swung it at the new tentacle. The blade sank deep, severing it clean through about a foot behind the tip. The proximal end whipped back immediately, spraying the foyer with its ebony equivalent of blood, while the free tip wriggled about.

All right! Alan thought. I can beat it!

He pushed the etagere out of the way and quick-crawled to the door, positioning himself to the right of the hole. The little holes had merged into one hole now—a little arch about eighteen inches wide and about four inches high. He'd barely set himself when a third tentacle slithered through the near edge. He severed it with a single chop and that tip joined its brother on the floor. A fourth tentacle darted in, then a fifth. Alan hacked at them as soon as they appeared and they withdrew, wounded.

"Yes!" he said, the word hissing softly between his teeth. "Keep 'em coming, you bastards! It's circumcision time! Let's see if you've got more tentacles than I've got chops!"

He was pumped. He knew he was acting a little bit crazy, but that was because he was feeling a little bit crazy. Maybe he'd been in that wheelchair too long. Whatever, here he was, free of it, weapon in hand, defending Toad Hall. He hadn't felt this alive in years.

Suddenly half a dozen fresh tentacles surged through at once, rearing up, reaching for his arms, his face. He swung wildly at them, catching one in mid air, one against the door. He was taking a bead on another when he heard buzzing wings and gnashing teeth above and behind him.

The bugs!

Instinctively, he ducked, but too late. Pain ripped through his left ear. He touched a hand to the side of his face. It came away red. Alan turned and grabbed the billy. Now he had a weapon in each hand—hatchet in right, club in left—and he was eager to use them. The pain and the blood from his ear had released something within him. His fear was gone, replaced by a seething rage at these creatures who dared to invade his home and threaten the people he loved.

Damn you! Damn you all to hell!

He chopped at an extended tentacle, severing its tip, then heard the buzz again and swung blindly at the air.

And connected. The broken, oozing body of the chew wasp—its jaws still smeared with blood from Alan's ear—bounced off the door and fell to the floor. Immediately, one of the tentacles coiled around its squirming form and yanked it outside.

Alan chopped at a particularly thick tentacle, severing it half way through. As he drew back to finish the job, something slammed against his back, shooting a blaze of pain through his right shoulder. He grunted with the sudden agony. As wings buzzed furiously by his ear, he dropped the billy and reached over his shoulder. When his questing fingers found the horny beak piercing his flesh, he knew a spearhead was trying to make him its next meal. It must have come in at an angle and glanced off his shoulder blade. A direct hit would have put it right through to his chest cavity, collapsing his right lung and leaving him with a sucking chest wound. He had to get it out before it dug itself deeper and finished the job.

Alan wrapped his fingers around the twisting, gnawing beak and yanked. He was rewarded by another eruption of vision-dimming pain, but the spearhead came free. It writhed and twisted and wriggled and flapped madly as he brought it around front. But as he raised his hatchet to chop it in half, the tentacle he'd wounded seconds ago coiled around his right wrist and wrenched it toward the door. He groaned as the sudden movement sent a bolt of pain lancing down his arm from the shoulder wound. His fingers went numb momentarily; he lost his grip on the hatchet handle and dropped it. But he couldn't worry about that now. He had to get his right hand free. Now. So Alan struck at the tentacle with the only weapon he had—the bug writhing in his left hand.