Bart lurched to his feet and picked up the Mag-Lite and shined it into the hole. “C’mon! Show me your face, you sonuvabitch! C’mon!”

There was only silence.

Del strained to see into the hole as well but didn’t want to get too close. “What can you see?”

The older boy wiped his eyes against the cloud of dust that glittered in his light. “Nothing. I don’t see nothing but another wall . . . no, wait.” He stepped nearer. Del had to stop him from getting too close. “Jesus, Del, there’s a room back there. No bigger than a closet, but—” His eyes widened. His mouth was working but nothing came out.

Del edged his brother aside and looked directly into the hole. And the face there looked back.

It was only there a second, staring, gaping at them, before vanishing back into the darkness. But its image remained before his eyes like phosphor burned into a TV screen. Waxen, dead skin, stretched taut over bones too large for it. Eyes bulging from cavernous sockets. Sunken cheeks, one with a ragged, black scar. Thin, almost translucent lips, barely concealing the abundant teeth behind them.

Had it been an old man? Despite the shrunken, withered countenance, the tangle of greasy hair had been too dark for that. And the eyes . . . He began to wonder if it could have been a man at all. The eyes had been dull and empty, devoid of any spark that would remotely suggest life. And yet . . . in the glare of the flashlight they had shone silver.

Bart was the first to stammer, “What the hell was that?”

Before Del could answer, the face reappeared. The atrophied muscles along the edges of its mouth jerked and constricted. Whether it was a smile or a grimace was hard to tell, but it accomplished the same end. It showed them its teeth.

“Oh, lordy, this can’t be right. A vampire.”

“There ain’t no such thing, Del.”

“Then you tell me what the hell it is!”

Bart fumbled for logic but he must have left it upstairs with his knapsack because nothing would come. He could only stare at the horrific thing and rub its taint from his wrist. “Move, Del. Now.” They began to back away slowly, keeping the flashlight trained on the hole. In its trembling light they saw the hand emerge again, clawing at the air, reaching for them. They could hear its owner grunting, straining against the walls, and it spurred them on. Neither breathed until they were halfway across the cellar and out of its sight.

A voice called out from behind them. “Boys.” It was hoarse and croaking, like audible sandpaper. A voice that grated from lack of use. “Boys. Come . . . back . . .”

“Keep moving,” Bart whispered, pushing Del ahead of him.

“BOYS!”