Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night

He was unarmed.

Keith quickly strode to the sofa to deposit Mrs. Peterson. Cocoa stayed on her stomach-growling. Keith pulled his gun from his waistband. "Whoa!" the man said. "Where's my wife?" Keith barked.

"She hit me with a frying pan and ran out!" the man said. "Oh my God, I've been rescued by loonies!" he wailed. "She hits me-now you're going to shoot me?"

"Who the hell are you?" Keith barked.

"Mark Egan." He sighed, rubbing his hand. "I'm a musician. What is the matter with you people?"

Holding his gun on the intruder, loath to take his eyes from him, Keith draped a throw, tossed on the back of the rocker, over Mrs. Peterson. "Get in there," he ordered, indicating the guest room. "Now!"

"I'm going!" the man said, lifting a hand. He sidled against the wall, heading for the room. The lantern caused ominous shadows to invade the house.

"You know, you're crazy," he said softly. "You're both crazy!"

"If you've hurt her, I'm going to take you apart piece by piece."

"She attacked me!" the fellow protested.

"Get in there!"

It was then they both heard the scream, long and sharp, rising above the lashing sound of wind and rain.

The shed had seemed to offer the only escape from the violent elements, and she could arm herself there. Their shed held scuba equipment; she could grab a diving knife.

She couldn't get the door to open at first because of the wind. At last, it gave.

An ebony darkness greeted her.

She slipped inside, reaching in her pocket for the matches with which she had lit the Sterno. Her hands were shaking, wet and cold.

Her first attempt was futile. She was wet; she had to stop dripping on the matches.

At last, she got a match lit.

There, in the brief illumination of flame, was a face.

Eyes red-rimmed.

Flesh pasty white.

Hand gripping a diver's knife.

"Don't scream!" she heard.

Too late.

She screamed.

Keith sped out of the house.

He was forced to pause, slightly disoriented. The wind and rain were loud, skewing sounds around him. Then he realized that the scream had to have come from the shed, and he raced in that direction, his gun drawn. He wrenched the door open. There was darkness within.

"Beth!"

"Put the gun down!" came a throaty, masculine reply.

Beth appeared. Soaked, hair plastered around her beautiful face. There was a man behind her. The fellow who had claimed to be Joe Peterson. He had a knife, and it was against Beth's throat as he emerged.

"Put the gun down!" Peterson raged again.

"Let go of my wife," Keith commanded, forcing himself to be calm.

"You'll kill me. He's not sane at all, did you know that?" the man demanded of Beth.

She stared hard at Keith, eyes wide on his. He frowned. She seemed to be trying to tell him she was all right. Insane, yes, it was all insane, there was a knife against her throat.

"We're all getting soaked out here. Let's go back to the house. Keith, did you know we had another visitor?" she asked, as if there wasn't honed steel pressing her flesh.

"I've seen him."

"Where's Mrs. Peterson?" she asked.

"He tried to kill her-stuffed her into the trunk of her car," Keith said. "She's on our sofa now. And, uh, your guest is in the house. I imagine."

"I did not try to kill Aunt Dot! You had to be the one!" Peterson protested, the knife twitching in his hand.

"Let's get to the house," Beth said again. "Mr. Peterson, I'll walk ahead of you, and Keith will walk ahead of us."

Keith frowned fiercely at her.

"Yeah, all right, go!" Peterson said.

Keith started forward uneasily. There was one man in the house, and another behind him with a knife to Beth's throat. There was no doubt one of them was a murderer.

He entered the house. The door had been left open. Rain had blown in.

He was followed by Beth. And the man with the knife.

Mrs. Peterson remained as a lump on the sofa; nothing more than a dark blob in the shadows. Cocoa, however, was no longer with her. He had run to the far side of the room, and wasn't even yapping. He hugged the wall, near the guest-room door, whining pathetically as they entered.

"There was another fellow with us, too, a musician. Plays for a group called Ultra C," Beth said to Peterson. She swallowed carefully before looking at Keith again. "What happened to him? He was, uh, in the house when I left."

"Gone-I hope!"

They heard a sound of distress. It was Joe Peterson. He was staring at the lump on the sofa.

"Mr. Peterson," Keith said softly. "I'm not going to shoot you. But you are going to get that knife away from my wife's throat this instant."

Beth pushed Peterson's arm, stepping away from him. Peterson barely reacted. He stared at the sofa. "God! Is she dead?" he asked.

Cocoa whined. Beth stared at Keith, shaking but relieved. "Cocoa," she said softly. "Well, I could have been wrong, but if this man had attacked Mrs. Peterson, the dog would be barking right now."

"Aunt Dot!" Peterson said numbly.

"She isn't dead-wasn't dead," Keith said. He looked at Beth. "So it's your musician."

"You realized it, too. But-"

"He's out there somewhere. And we'll have that to deal with. But for the moment.we've got to try to keep Mrs. Peterson alive."

"Keith, would you get me some brandy and the ammonia from the kitchen?" Beth asked. "We'll see if we can rouse her. Then we can try to make it to the hospital." She grimaced. "With the Hummer."

Keith walked to the kitchen, then stopped, pausing to pick up the frying pan that lay on the floor. He froze in his tracks as he heard a startled scream rise above the pounding of the rain. He turned to race back to the living room, then came to a dead stop.

Their living room had been pitched into absolute darkness.

Terror struck deep into Beth's heart. She had pulled back the blanket, anxious to be there first, to assure herself that the woman hadn't died.

A hand snaked out for her from beneath the cover, dragging her down with a ferocity that was astounding. Fingers wound around her throat and she was tossed about as if she weighed nothing.

Egan. Mark Egan. Drugged-out musician. No. Psychotic killer.

She saw his deranged grin right before he doused the lantern, holding her in the vise of his one hand like a rag doll.

"What ya go

Beth tensed every muscle. She didn't know if the man had a weapon or not, anything more than the hideous strength of his hands.

She could hear nothing other than the wind and rain. Stars began to burst into the darkness as his grip choked her. There was no sound of voice. No sound of movement.

Not even Cocoa let out a whine.

Then there was a muffled groan. Not Keith, the sound had not come from Keith! It was Peterson who had groaned. So…where was Keith?

"That's right," Egan-or whoever he was-said. "You stay right where you are. The missus and I are going to take the car. Your car. We'll go for a little ride. Will she be all right? Who knows? But try to stop me now, and you'll probably kill her yourself."

He began to drag her toward the door. He chuckled softly. "I don't see too badly in the dark. I like the dark."

They were nearly there; she could sense it. He threw open the door. Her heart was thundering so that she didn't hear the whoosh of motion at first.

She gasped, the air knocked from her as the whoosh became an impetus of muscle and movement. Keith. He flew into them from the porch side, taking both her and Egan by storm and surprise. She twisted. Egan's grip had been loosened by the fall. She bit into his wrist. The man howled, then went rolling away as he and Keith became engaged in a fierce physical battle.