Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

the shrouded hill beyond. For a moment, Julia pictured a child sprawled in a clearing, people in hoods gathering around. Then she blinked away the image and hurried to the front of the house.
    No Snead yet. He must have decided not to pursue her, for whatever reason. Even the Chief of Police needed some kind of justification to come after her. Maybe Julia was a threat, both to herself and others, and should be locked away for her own good.
    Maybe she had imagined the pentagram drawing, the man at her window, the message on her computer at work. But she hadn't imagined the skull ring. The skull ring was real, solid, a link between the past and present. As she searched for her house keys, she dug into the bottom of her purse to reassure herself with the substance of the engraved box.
    A weird fetish object to make yourself feel better with—
    The box was gone.
    She held the purse close and raked through the contents. Wallet, keys, mace, tampons, hair brush, note papers. No ring.
    But the purse hadn't been out of her sight.
    Julia checked again, but the box and the ring inside it were gone. She unlocked the door, her hand trembling so much that she could barely fit the key in the lock. Despite the muted daylight, the house was dark and forbidding.
    Once the door was locked safely behind her, she put her purse on the couch and went to get the Louisville Slugger. She was bending down to reach under the bed when he grabbed her from behind, one hand clamped over her mouth to keep her from screaming. She struggled and kicked, nightmare visions of Mitchell's assault forcing their way to the surface. But Mitchell was in Memphis.
    And this Creep was stronger than Mitchell. She tried to drive an elbow against his ribs, but he pulled her back into the dark open closet.
    "Shh," he hissed, his voice like the moist flickering of a snake's tongue near her ear.
    She bit his hand, and he grunted in pain. "Damn it, Julia."
    Walter!
    So he was a Creep after all.
    He had her in the closet now, and clothes fell from their hangers as they struggled. Walter pulled his hand away from her mouth and whispered, "Hush, they're probably listening."
    Listening?
    Julia pushed herself from his grasp, falling against a thick row of coats and sweaters. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"
    Walter put his index finger to his lips. A purple half-moon marked the flesh where she had bit him. He looked as scared as she felt, his eyes showing white all around the irises.
    "Shut up for a second," he said. "I'm not trying to hurt you."
    She almost believed him. But in this new world of secrets and lies, no one deserved her trust. If she was going to go crazy, she was determined to do it the old-fashioned way, without any help from anyone. She was going to walk straight up the stairs, stand in the middle of that dark attic of her mind, and scream at the warped walls until they collapsed in upon her.
    She didn't need a nudge from Walter. She didn't need a carpenter to fix her house. All she wanted was strong locks and tightly nailed shutters, all light barred from her rooms. All she wanted was to disappear, into the shadowed corners of her attic or the musty depths of her cellar. Alone in the ruins.
    Walter pressed against her in the cramped closet. He shook her and whispered, more urgently this time. "Listen to me. Don't break down right now. I need you."
    Need? He needed her ? Again she almost laughed, but even that took too much effort. As always, surrendering was the most painless option.
    "They're outside," he continued. "Deke Hartley, Snead, and the others."
    "Snead?" She wondered how the cop could have gotten to the house so fast. And how had Walter gotten inside? Was he the one with the key, the one who had left the pentagram drawing, who stole the skull ring, who tricked her with the digital clock?
    That made sense. Foolish Julia, she had asked him to check the clock. She had turned to him for comfort, had made the insane mistake of putting faith in this man who now seemed the most desperate of Creeps. This stranger hovering over her, sweat on his pale face, eyes flicking, lips pressed white.
    You don't have to let the Creep into your house. HE'S ALWAYS INSIDE.
    Before she could scream, Walter crouched in the corner of the closet. He pulled at a plywood panel set in the wall. The wood came loose, revealing water pipes and insulation. Walter ripped the insulation away in clumps.
    The musty smell of the crawl space rose up and filled the closet.