But he wanted to try the doors first. Maybe he'd get lucky. Maybe the McClains had left one of them unlocked.

Should he try the front or the back?

He hestitated, a heavy sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't eaten any breakfast. He'd been too nervous. Maybe that had been a mistake.

His stomach growled as if warning him away.

Despite the rain and the cold swirling winds, he realized he was sweating. His hands were cold and wet.

Which door-front or back?

Don't just stand here in the driveway waiting for someone to come by and see you! he scolded himself.

He decided to try the front door. He was so close to it, after all.

He climbed the wooden steps. His legs felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds.

What was that sound?

It took him a few seconds to realize it was his own breathing.

He pulled open the storm door. He reached for the brass knob with a trembling hand.

He turned it and pushed.

The door swung open.

I don't believe it! he thought, scrambling inside.

He pushed the door shut behind him and leaned back against it, waiting to catch his breath.

I'm in. I'm inside. Just like that.

The front hallway was dark. Dark as night.

Silent as a tomb.

I'm in. Now what?

He struggled to think clearly. He wished he could turn on a light. He wished his heart would stop pounding.

Got to get upstairs, he told himself. To Josie's room.

Calm. Calm.

There's plenty of time. The funeral is just beginning.

The funeral.

Funeral.

The word sounded so strange.

Stop stalling, he scolded himself. Get upstairs.

He pushed himself away from the doorway.

He took a step in the dark, narrow hallway. Then another.

A grandfather clock ticked noisily.

"Hey-!"

What hit his knee?

Squinting, he saw the wooden umbrella stand.

"Give me a break," he muttered, his voice sounding tiny and hollow in the empty darkness.

He was nearly to the front stairway when he heard the intercom.

Dave stopped right in front of the box on the wall.

Had it just clicked on?

No, it must have been left on.

He moved his ear close to the small round speaker.

Crackling sounds.

Just static. Empty static.

Or was it?

Dave listened carefully. Was that breathing? Was someone breathing into it?

No.

Yes.

"Hello? Anyone there?" he called into it, bringing his mouth right up to the box.

No reply.

He listened.

He couldn't tell if he heard breathing or just the normal crackling and static.

"Anyone there?" he said again.

Silence.

Exhaling loudly, he made his way up the stairs, each step creaking under his weight. He stepped onto the landing, his hand reluctant to let go of the banister.

It was even darker up there.

He knew which bedroom was Josie's. He had visited her there once when she was sick. Back when they were going together.

The floor groaned beneath him as he walked quickly into her room. Rain drummed noisily against the bedroom window as if trying to break in.

The bed was neatly made, an old teddy bear on the pillow.

As if waiting for Josie to return.

A neatly folded stack of freshly laundered clothes was piled on a chair beside the window.

Dave sighed.

This is definitely creepy he thought. Josie was here two days ago. Now she'll never be here again.

He made his way to the old oak desk in the corner. Leaning over the desk chair, he started to search the desk top with both hands.

"Got to find the cards and get out of here," he said out loud, his voice a trembling whisper.

A strong gust of wind made the old windows rattle. The entire house seemed to shudder in reply.

I hate these old houses, he thought, feeling his panic rise, choking him.

I hate Fear Street and I hate these old houses. I hate the rain and I hate the wind and I hate- "Where are they?" he asked himself aloud.

He pushed aside a stack of school papers.

He searched through another pile of notebooks and binders.

No, not here.

But they have to be here. They have to be.

A wave of nausea swept over him. He stopped searching. Swallowed hard.

Where are they?

Not on the desk.

Of course they're not. She would never keep them out. She probably shoved them into a drawer.

He grabbed the drawer handle. Pulled so hard he almost pulled the entire drawer out of the desk.

Calm down. Calm down. He repeated the words over and over, but it didn't seem to help.

Where are they? Where are they?

He riffled frantically through the contents of the drawer.

No, not here.

Then where?

Where?

He shoved the drawer back into the desk, his hands trembling. His breath coming in loud gasps.

He dropped down onto his knees and peered under the bed.

Nothing there but dust.

What was that sound?

A car?

A car door slamming?

"I've got to get out," he muttered out loud, in a shrill, quivering voice he didn't recognize. "Out. Got to get out."

He'd failed.

He coulnd't find them.

Now someone was coming. He had to get out and fast!

His heart pounding, he climbed to his feet and lurched to the doorway. In the dark, narrow landing, he turned toward the stairs.

Halfway to the stairs, he stopped short.

And cried out in shock and horror.

Chapter 19.

ANOTHER VICTIM.