They made their difficult way through tangled weeds and shrubs to the door, which faced the woods behind.
“You rap,” said Black Eric. “One of you, any one.”
“Not I.” Wise Olaf shook his head. The others shrank back.
“What about you?” Silent Sven again challenged the leader. “You—you are afraid to!”
“I am afraid, am I?” he sputtered. He walked unsteadily to the door, his face haggard with fear.
“Everything is silent—silent as the grave,” whispered Olga, clinging to her husband’s arm, openly afraid.
“What’s that?” a startled voice cut in. “Sobbing? Was that sobbing?” A wailing note swept through the trees.
“Hush!”
Black Eric raised his hand. The knob was rusty, the door sunken in. He rapped, feebly at first, his hands trembling like aspen-leaves. Getting no response but an empty echo from within, he struck his fist heavily against the door. It almost gave way.
“Open the door, Witch!” he cried. “You can’t hide from us!”