He stopped in the bathroom at the end of the hall and rested on the closed toilet lid. He listened intently and heard a faint sound coming from upstairs. He noticed an extra roll of toilet paper kept in a yellow crocheted hat exactly like the one his grandmother had in her bathroom. He got up, passed through the door, and headed for the stairs to the top floor. As he climbed, he heard a murmuring sound that grew more pronounced as he went. Again, on the third floor there was a hallway with a number of rooms off it. When he made it to the landing, he saw a light shining through a partially open door. It looked to be the room they’d noticed from the street.

He crept up to the open door and peered in. The old man was inside doing something. He could only see him from the back. He was leaning over, maybe painting on a flat desk instead of the easel. Owen stepped through the door. The sight of a body lying on a rolling gurney came into view. He drew slowly closer and saw it was a young man, his stomach split wide open and the flaps of flesh folded back to his sides. Organs and entrails glistened in the bright overhead light. Crenshaw was dipping a paintbrush into the gore of the gaping wound.

Owen turned, unable to look anymore, and staggered away. He could barely stay on his feet. Before he could flee, he realized what the murmuring was. The young man on the gurney was still alive, his eyes wide and glassy, his mouth moving ever so slightly and sound coming from it. It was as if he was trying to discuss with himself what the hell had happened to him. The librarian groaned, and when he did, he saw Crenshaw spin around and look toward the door where he stood. The painter stared directly at him. Owen froze and waited, trying to escape detection. The victim then groaned in a weaker voice, much the way Owen had, and the painter turned back to his infernal work.

He flew down the stairs in two long jumps from landing to landing. When he hit the main floor, he passed through walls and furniture, cutting straight to the front of the house and out onto the street. He made for the stand of oaks and stood in its deep shadow, shivering. There was no doubt in his mind that they had to try to kill this monster. A few minutes later, he saw Melody emerge from the side of the place. She bounded across the street and joined him.

“There are bodies in the basement, dried out, almost crystalized, hanging from the ceiling on steel hooks like tobacco curing. I wasn’t sure at first if they were human. He’s drying them out like beef jerky,” she said.

“How many?”