"The gate," Carver said hoarsely.
Jerry unclenched his jaws and lit the second torch. The flare-up reflected from the blank windows ahead.
"What about the wimmen? What about the kids?"
Jerry spoke jerkily, his eyes on the house. "There aren't any kids. What we saw was something else. The women are the same as the men, the same as the thing that killed Ed. Don't worry about them. Hold the cross in front of you, and for God's sake hang onto it!"
The darkness swelled like a living thing. It swayed and clutched at the torches. Somewhere a high whining began, like a keening wind.
There were sudden sounds from the house—bangings and scramblings. Carver faltered.
"On!" Jerry said savagely, and began to run. He touched his home-made crucifix to the wood of the porch, and with the other hand brought the torch down. Blue sparks jumped out at him. The dry wood hissed and blazed up furiously.
A frightful scream rang out. There was the tinkle of breaking glass. Formless figures thudded to the ground and scuttled away on all fours, headed up the valley.
Within minutes the farmhouse was a mass of roaring flame. Jerry backed away from it. He saw Carver outlined against the glowing barn, which he had fired. They came together and hurried back to the road. There they stopped to watch the pillar of flame and smoke, boiling upward.
"It worked," Carver said.