“Oke, kid. But s’pose he’s leary bout us wantin’ to go up in the attic?”
“I gotta hunch he won’t be—much. We didn’t wedge the bar enough so’s he’d notice it less he went up an’ looked close. Even then he’d know it’d be too far to jump out the winder an’ he won’t get wise bout the tree less he sees the rope. Gee whiz, I’m glad I hid it, I am.”
“I could cry, I’m so glad, kid. This racket’s too spooky for me to think up an alibi quick. Holy smoke, you’re a life-saver!”
At heart, Skippy felt no such assurance. He was shaking from head to foot and he dreaded Devlin as he dreaded Death. He shuddered at the unconscious simile and wondered if the very thought itself did not portend the evil which Timmy had come back to warn them of.
Nickie’s cold, clammy hand stole over and grasped his trembling wrist. Unashamed, they interlaced their fingers and clasped them so firmly that it hurt. Nevertheless, they derived a sort of comfort from the contact and breathed more freely even after the heavy feet below tramped out of the kitchen and they heard the measured tread into the hall.
“He’s comin’, I bet!” Skippy whispered feverishly.
Nickie was mumbling a prayer that his aunt had taught him in babyhood, a prayer that he thought he had forgotten long ago. He dared not speak, nor think, for fear of screaming and acting like a weak, hysterical girl. The prayer and Skippy’s warm fingers pressing against his own kept him from losing his head entirely.
Then they heard the footsteps on the stair!
Skippy listened, his head numb and his body trembling. The house seemed to shake with the vibration of each step. To the frightened boys it sounded like a dirge, for the stairs creaked and groaned and the flooring, rotting with age and disuse, emitted eerie thumpings throughout the dismal house.
The darkness added much to their terrible fear, for they could not see each other and it had the effect of seeming to make them the more helpless. Skippy felt during those terrible seconds that he would not be able to raise a hand in his own defense.