The Mask

suitcase in one hand, he approached the bedroom door that had been flung shut by the unseen presence. As he reached for the knob, the door began to rattle in its frame—gently at first, then fiercely.
    Thunk… thunk… thunk… THUNK!
    He jerked his hand back, unsure what he ought to do.
    THUNK!
    The sound of the ax was coming from the door now, not from overhead, as it had been. Although the solid-core, raised-panel, fir door was a formidable barrier rather than just a flimsy Masonite model, it shook violently and then cracked down the middle as if it were constructed of balsa wood.
    Paul backed away from it.
    Another crack appeared, parallel to the first, and chips of wood flew into the room.
    Sliding closet doors and flying porcelain figurines might be the work of a poltergeist, but this was something else again. Surely no spirit could chop apart a heavy door like this. There had to be someone swinging a very real ax against the other side.
    Paul felt defenseless. He scanned the room for makeshift weapons, but he saw nothing useful.
    The .38 revolver was in the suitcase. He wouldn’t be able to get to it in time to defend himself with it, and he wished fervently that he had kept the gun in his hand.
    THUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNK!
    The bedroom door exploded inward in half a dozen large pieces and countless smaller chunks and scraps.
    He threw one arm over his face to protect his eyes. Wood rained down on all sides of him.
    When he lowered his arm, he saw there was no one standing beyond the doorway, no man with an ax. The chopper-of-doors was, after all, the unseen presence.
    THUNK!
    Paul stepped over a shattered section of the door and went out into the hallway
     
----
     
    The fuse box was in the kitchen pantry. Carol engaged all the breaker switches, and the lights came on.
    There was no telephone. That was virtually the only modern convenience the cabin lacked.
    “Do you think it’s chilly in here?” Carol asked.
    “A little.”
    “We have a bottled-gas furnace, but unless it’s really cold, the fireplace is nicer. Let’s bring in some firewood.”
    “You mean we’ve got to cut down a tree?”
    Carol laughed. “That won’t be necessary. Come see.”
    She led the girl outside, to the rear of the cabin, where an open porch ended in steps leading down to a short rear yard. The yard met the edge of a small meadow where the grass was knee-deep, and the meadow climbed up toward a wall of trees fifty yards away.
    When Carol saw that familiar landscape, she stopped, surprised, remembering the dream that had spoiled her sleep several nights last week. In the nightmare, she had been running through one house, then through another house, then across a mountain meadow, while something silvery flickered in the darkness behind her. At the time, she had not realized that the meadow in the dream was this meadow.
    “Something wrong?” Jane asked.
    “Huh? Oh. No. Let’s get that firewood.”
    She led the girl down the porch steps and to the left, to where a woodshed was attached to the southwest corner of the cabin.
    Thunder rumbled in the distance. The rain hadn’t begun to fall yet.
    Carol keyed open the heavy-duty padlock on the woodshed, took it off the hasp, and slipped it in her jacket pocket. There would be no need to replace it until they were ready to return to Harrisburg, nine or ten days from now.
    The woodshed door creaked open on unoiled hinges. Inside, Carol tugged on the chain-pull light, and a bare hundred-watt bulb revealed stacks of dry cordwood being protected from inclement weather.
    A scuttle for carrying firewood hung from a ceiling hook. Carol got it down and handed it to the girl. “If you fill it up four or five times, we’ll have more than enough wood to last us until tomorrow morning.”
    By the time Jane returned from taking the first scuttle-load into the cabin, Carol was at the chopping block, using an ax to split a short log into four sticks.
    “What’re you doing?” the girl asked, stopping well out of the way and staring warily at the ax.
    “When I build a fire,” Carol said, “I put kindling on the bottom, a layer of these splits on top of that, and then the full logs to crown it off. It never fails to bum well that way. See? I’m a regular Daniel Boone.”
    The girl scowled. “That ax looks awful sharp.”
    “Has to be.”
    “Are you sure it’s safe?”
    “I’ve done it lots of times before, here and at home,” Carol said. “I’m an expert. Don’t worry, honey. I’m not going to accidentally amputate my