Poltergeist II - The Other Side by James Kahn Page B

laughter, an insane noise, the sound of babies shrieking . . . and then that, too, was gone. And it was all over.
    For the time being.
    Robbie started to cry. He was feeling scared and unnaturally mortal for one so young; he was afraid he’d let everyone down as well. Iron Jaw had backfired.
    Steve hugged him, and Diane, too. And then they went downstairs to confront Taylor.
    “Where the hell were you ?” Steve almost spat in his face as Diane took Carol Anne into her arms and hugged her as close as possible. “We’re not safe here!” Steve continued. “My son almost died up there, while you . . . just sat here.” He almost took a shot at the big phony, sitting there so smug . . .
    “Steve . . .” Diane sensed the imminent explosion and tried to calm him.
    “What,” whispered Steve. He was furious, he was terrified, he wanted to hit something, anything . . .
    Taylor spoke, though—evenly, yet strongly: “I was protecting the child. It was she the thing was after—not your son, or your wife, or you.”
    Steve, totally frustrated and knowing suddenly that what Taylor said was true—the Indian had, in fact, saved Carol Anne from the same kind of horrible disappearance she’d suffered four years ago—sat down hard in an overstuffed chair and shouted, nearly crying, “What does this thing want from us!?”
    He was all at once thrown out of the chair and across the room. The cushions he’d been sitting on expanded and contracted as if they were breathing; then there was the decayed laugh again that seemed to come from everywhere; and then, once more, silence.
    Carol Anne and Robbie both began to cry. Diane drew them into her arms, took them to the farthest corner, and put them to sleep.
    Later, Diane stepped out into the backyard for some air. It was chilly, as is the way with desert places at night, so she wrapped her arms around herself as she stared up at the sky.
    The constellation Orion was there—the Hunter, poised over the house; protectively, Diane hoped. How many eons had this star man been waiting there? And for this night, perhaps? To plunge his starry knife into the heart of Diane’s foes?
    She smiled at the fanciful turn of her thoughts—Taylor’s mysticism was beginning to get to her. In fact, Taylor himself . . . was that him? “Taylor?” she said. There’d been a noise behind her. She turned.
    Nothing there.
    Not even the dog, or a night bird. Nothing. It gave her an uneasy feeling.
    “Steven?” she said a bit louder. He played little tricks on her like this sometimes to scare her.
    But he wouldn’t tonight.
    “Taylor?” she whispered again.
    The noise came once more, this time obviously low, near the ground. She looked down just as the hand grabbed her ankle.
    It was a moldering hand, the flesh decayed on the bone, sticking straight up out of the earth, holding viciously on to her lower leg. She pulled back hard, reflexively, and the hand lost its grip as some of its decayed skin was torn loose.
    But suddenly two more hands shot up out of the ground, one grabbing her foot, another her calf. And the first gripped her ankle once more.
    She squirmed, gasping, trying to wriggle free, but it was happening so fast—four more hands now, all grave-rotten, grasping both her legs in the soft, loose dirt.
    And they started pulling her down.
    Underground.
    A little yelp escaped her lips. Her energy wasn’t focused on screaming, though—simply on trying to break free. But in a second she’d sunk to her knees in the churning soil, and a second after that she was up to her waist.
    It was like quicksand, but worse. And the deeper she was pulled, the more hands she felt on her—on her legs, her hips, her belt, her wrists—pulling her deeper still, pawing at her, tearing at her, wrapping around her and squeezing the air out of her so she couldn’t scream.
    Up to her chest. Hands latched on to her shoulders.
    Up to her neck.
    She looked up for one last glimpse of Orion—he hadn’t moved a