Skritch-skrii-iitch…

He twisted in the direction of the door so hard he heard his neck crack. He was almost sure he’d imagined it, but as he waited, pacing off the intervening seconds as a man in jail might pace the dimensions of his cell, the scratching noise came again.

Skriitchh.

It persisted, just outside the door. Like a dirty fingernail dragging across the inner lining of a grave.

Skrrii-iii-iii…

A skein of coldness wound around his flesh and drew tight. He thought about Snow, his mind producing a very clear picture of the man leaning against the other side of the door, patiently tapping and scratching the wood.

But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he…?

His mind pulsed back to what he’d seen up on the sixth floor, after Dr. Walker had spoken those words. What he’d seen there defied all logic. Yet it had burrowed so deeply into his brain that he could no longer deny that it happened.

Skkkrrriiiii—

Calhoun’s breath froze at his lips.

The sound was inside the chapel with him.

Impossible, but—

It was drawing nearer.

Perhaps, he thought, it had been in here with him the whole time, slinking ever closer in the dark, seeking him out, enjoying the fear rolling off him in waves. Calhoun still hadn’t drawn a breath.

If I hold perfectly still…if I don’t breathe…

As he listened, it became louder and more distinct until he felt as though it was directly in front of him.

What if it’s in your head?

In the silence the awful blind man’s landscape ballooned around him, stretching at the seams. Calhoun took a step in the direction he thought the door might be and discovered that he’d not only lost all sense of orientation, he’d also lost the strength to move.

He thought of the enormous crucifix that hung at the front of the chapel, seized by the irrational certainty that the cross was hanging upside down in the darkness. He smelled sweat and rotten blood. The same suspicion insisted that the body nailed to its planks would not be Christ. No, it would be the most recent victim of the thing making the scratching sound, and very soon Calhoun would be joining it. He felt his sinuses pop as if the barometric pressure inside the room had plunged.

Your father went crazy at the end, too, Stevie.

Dry-ice vapor crowded his lungs.

They found him behind that boardinghouse, trying to stand up. The can of paint he’d been drinking was still in his hand. He said he heard noises, he was trying to run away—

Daddy wasn’t crazy!

The sins of the father shall be visited on the son.

No, Mama! I’m not crazy! I’m not—

As if to discourage the thought, the scratching noise came back around behind him, more eagerly now.

Without another thought, Calhoun broke ranks and ran forward, hands wavering crazily in front of him. He found a wall and swept its surface until his fingers located the edge of a door with the bolt he’d slammed home when he’d first come in. He yanked it open and flew out, gasping in the slightly warmer, fresher air of the outer corridor, still racing, pounding his way forward until he reached the stairwell to the North Wing. He hit the door running and flew as fast as he could up the steps.