“Yeah, sure.” Larry’s jaws unhinged like a feeding snake. The teeth grew larger. He took a step.

“Hold it,” Del ordered. “Three against one isn’t very fair. What the matter, Tommy? Afraid to face me alone?”

Whitten arched an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“C’mon, Tommy. Just you and me. What’s the matter, you afraid?” The three snickered at that, but Delbert didn’t bat an eye. “Well, you should be. Because you know what, Tommy? I do believe. I believe, ’cause there has to be more to this. What kept me going when there wasn’t nowhere else to turn? What brought me in here, even when I knew something was wrong? There has to be more to it.”

Doug rolled his eyes. “Hitch up them pantlegs, buckaroos. The shit’s getting deep.”

“C’mon, Tommy. Put your money where your god-awful mouth is. Touch the cross.”

Whitten’s smile thinned, grew cruel and serious. “I’m gonna make you suffer, punk—”

“Touch the fucking cross!”

Tommy came toward him until they stood an arm’s length apart and only the wooden crucifix separated them. A seed of doubt sprouted in the pit of Del’s stomach—How is he standing so close to it? How?—and he tried to override it by flushing his mind with prayers, any and all that he could dredge from memory. Now I lay me down to sleep . . .

Tommy’s face split in two, and the fissure filled with teeth. “You’re dead.”

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .

“Take him, Tommy. But save some for us, okay?”

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

Whitten moved with the abruptness of a viper. His hands snaked out and caught the crossbar of the symbol. Held firm. And nothing happened. Tommy’s smile grew even larger. The others laughed.

A moment later, the screaming began.

21

Chapter Twenty-One

“Time to come out, Mr. Stiles. We’re waiting.”

Charlie shivered. Nathan Danner’s voice had a ghostly lilt and, beyond that, something more, something that his followers did not share. It was dead-sounding, but neither hollow nor monotone. Instead it was full and rich and masked a malignant core, a creeping malevolence. It was evil that Charlie felt, pure and tan­gible, and it chilled his flesh like a sharp wind and gnawed straight to the bone. He could imagine how it must have affected old man Danner upstairs—he must be certifiable by now. It was certainly having a like effect on the others. Since Danner had shown up, the five of them—Stiles, Hubert, Jessie, Ida, and himself—had each repaired to separate areas of the parlor and sat in impatient silence, saying nary a word and waiting for the time to creep by.

“Mr. Stiles?” Nathan called again. “We need to talk.”