The Taking

nothing, but Molly knew what troubled the dog, for she heard it, too: a whispery sound, a rustle and susurration.
        The flashlight winked and flared off the glass in picture frames. Off ceramic lamps. Off a vase, a cut-crystal bowl, a mirror above the fireplace. Off a dead TV screen.
        With the 12-gauge, Neil followed the beam, but he found nothing to shoot.
        The rustling grew louder and seemed to come from all sides.
        Ears pricked, tail lowered, the dog turned in a circle.
        "The walls," Neil said, and with the flashlight, Molly found him with one ear to the plaster.
        She and Neil flanked the archway, and she moved to the wall on her side of that opening. She leaned close, closer.
        To a more analytic ear, the sound was not a rustle, exactly, but a fluttering, thrumming, as if a flock of birds or a horde of flying insects were frenziedly beating wings against the back side of the lath and plaster.

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    34
        
        NOW IN THE WALLS OF THE HALLWAY AND, ON further exploration, in the walls of the dining room, and perhaps in the ceiling as well, the numberless wings, whether feathered or membranous, beat against confinement and against one another.
        Molly angled the flashlight at grille-covered heating vents high in the walls, but nothing fluttered at the slots between the louvers, trying to get out. The unknown horde had not yet migrated from the walls into the ductwork of the heating system.
        This was not a house anymore, but an incubator, a nidus for something more repellent and certainly more dangerous than spiders or cockroaches. She did not want to be in this house when the agitated legions found a way out of their wood-and-plaster prison.
        Stalwart Virgil, spooked by the denizens of the walls but not inclined to bolt, led Molly and Neil to the end of the hall. A closed door opened, as had the one at the front of the house, under the influence of an invisible hand.
        A kitchen lay beyond, barely brightened by the purple morning. With pistol and flashlight, Molly followed the dog through the doorway, even more cautious than she had been when entering the house-but then rushed forward, with Neil close at her heels, when she heard the fearful cries of children.
        A boy of nine or ten stood by the kitchen table. Virgil had startled him, and he held a broom as if he were at home plate, ready to take a swing. He had only this pathetic weapon to do battle with what might swarm from the walls-beetles or bats, or beasts from the far end of the galaxy.
        On the table sat a girl of about six, her legs drawn under her, as though she were afraid that jittering multitudes would suddenly surge out of cracks in the baseboard and across the floor. Thirty inches of altitude amounted to the only safety that she could find.
        "Who're you?" the boy demanded, trying to sound strong, but unable to keep his voice from cracking.
        "I'm Molly. This is Neil. We-"
        "What are you?" he demanded, for he knew all the movies, too, and suspected body snatchers, parasites.
        "We're just what we seem to be," Neil said. "We live north of town, off the ridge road."
        "We knew you were in trouble," Molly said. "We've come to help you."
        "How?" the boy asked suspiciously. "How could you know?"
        "The dog," she said. "He led us here."
        "We knew there would be kids alone, in trouble. Virgil is finding them for us," Neil explained. "We don't know why. We don't know how."
        Perhaps the directness of their answers helped reassure the boy. Or maybe he was convinced solely by Virgil's new demeanor: the friendly cock of the shepherd's furry head, his panting tongue, his swishing tail.
        As the boy lowered the broom, taking a less defensive posture, Molly asked him, "What's your name?"
        "Johnny. This is Abby. She's my sister. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to her."
        "Nothing bad's going to happen to either of you," Molly assured him, and wished she felt confident that she and Neil would be able to fulfill this guarantee.
        Abby's eyes were a dazzling blue like Johnny's, and every bit as haunted as her brother's.
        To counter what her own eyes might reveal, Molly forced a smile, realized that it must look ghastly, and let it fade.
        "Where are your parents?" Neil asked.
        "The old man was wasted," Johnny said with a grimace of