“Not there. In the closet.”
He throws the broom aside and grips the poker. Starts towards the closet door, towards somewhere in the perfect blackness behind the chimney.
“I’ll brain you.”
He stops short. The barks of hounds, evidently in pursuit, reach him. A voice, liquid in distance, yells, “Hi! Hi!”
“O God, theyre after me. Holy Father, Mother of Christ—hell, this aint no time for prayer—”
Voices, just outside the door:
“Reckon he’s here.”
“Dont see no light though.”
The door is flung open.
Kabnis: Get back or I’ll kill you.