“It’s—at the door!”
His heart was in his throat.
“Has Doc come back?” he watched the door. Something—or someone—was fumbling at the latch, striking knuckles against the wood.
In spite of his earlier assurance that the supposed spook had been only a man made horrible by light and queer clothing, Chick felt a chill strike to his marrow.
The latch clicked.
Slowly the door began to open.
With wide—staring eyes—Chick fixed his gaze on the widening crack.
He jumped. With a slam the door came inward, banging against the inner boards.
In the dark square—there was nothing visible.
He summoned his wit and by sheer force of will made himself run to the door. He looked out. The path, the planking, the platform on which the house stood, were devoid of sign of human life.