“Oh, Lordy! Ye ortn’t to talk at a dumb supper—but I thort I hearn somebody walkin’ out thar in the rain!” chattered Pendrilla.
The old house creaked and groaned in the rising autumn storm, as old houses do. The rain drummed on the roof like fingers tapping. The wind stripped dry leaves from the bough, or scooped them up out of the hollows where they lay, and carried them across the window, or drove them along the porch, in a gliding, whispering flight that was infinitely eerie.
In their terror the girls looked to Judith. They saw that she was not with them. Her gaze was on the pin in the candle. Back over her heart swept the sweetness of her first meeting with Creed. She could see him stand talking to her, the lifted face, the blue eyes—should she ever see them again?
Then suddenly the flame twisted and bent, the tallow melted swiftly on one side, and Judith’s pin fell to the floor.
“Hit’s a-comin’!” hissed Cliantha frantically.
“Oh, Lord! I wish ’t we hadn’t—” Pendrilla moaned.
The dog uttered a protesting sound between a growl and a yelp. He raised on his forelegs, and the hair of his head and neck bristled.
Outside, a heavy stumbling step came up the walk. It halted at the half-open door. That door was flung back, and in the square of dripping darkness stood Creed Bonbright, his face death white, his eyes wide and fixed, the rain gemming his uncovered yellow hair.
A moment he stood so, and the three stared at him. Then with a swish of leaves in the wind and a spatter of rain in their faces, the candle blew out. The girls screamed and sprang up. The hound backed into his corner and barked furiously. Whatever it was, it had crossed the threshold and was in the room with them.
“Jude—Jude!” shrieked Cliantha. “Run! Come on, Pendrilly!”