It was watching him and listening, and he knew that at any moment it might decide to come into the shack, and kill him. It hates me, he thought. Hates me, hates me.
Yes, Peter, it's bad. When people you don't like come to visit you you can lock the door, and hide. But you can't hide from a shadow on the floor, the dreadful rustle and flutter of dark wings unfolding.
Peter could have refused to believe that the thing was actually standing in the doorway—a tall, fearful, blood-taloned thing as real as the pounding of his heart. He could have fled into a hidden corner of himself, shutting his eyes tight, and knotting up his fists until the clutch of its cold talons brought a horribly agonizing awakening.
But when Susan awoke, and saw it too every avenue of escape was blocked to him. Susan didn't scream. Her breath came in a sharp gasp, but her self-control was extraordinary.
"Peter," she whispered. "Turn on the lights. The light will scare it away."
Peter's heart leapt with sudden hope. But when he tried to move his knees came together, and his muscles tightened up.
"I'll do it, Peter," Susan said.
He heard her getting to her feet, and panic struck at him again. The light switch was close to the door, and for one awful moment Peter had a sickening vision of Susan being snatched away into the darkness forever, her eyes turned upon him in agonized reproach.
Peter half stumbled, half dragged himself to the light switch. He got ahead of Susan and pushed her back, becoming all at once the recognized leader of an indomitable band of desert-roaming men, scornful of ferocious beasts, and with little thought to spare for his own safety.
The light came on in a sudden, blinding flare.