Page 145 of D for Dead

Grimacing, he caught hold of her by the hair, yanking her to her feet and marched her towards the house. For the first time Amy took in her surroundings and realised where she was. The house in the woods, where Tucker Johnson lived, where Danielle had been murdered. She couldn’t go inside. She could never go into that house again.

Terrified, she struggled to break free, only to feel his arm tighten around her. Up above, the sky flashed bright, lighting up the house with its dirty white walls and dark soulless windows. A threat of what was to come.

Troy leaned in close and ran his tongue down the side of her face, his touch warm, wet and repulsive against her skin.

‘Ready to relive your nightmares, Amy?’ he whispered, as a roll of thunder grumbled overhead.

No. How did he know?

The shaking began again as he dragged her inside the house, kicking the door shut behind them. Recognising the layout of the building, and with the familiar smell of dust and damp clogging her senses, she thought she might pass out.

Fight it, Amy.

She struggled in Troy’s arms, fought frantically as he pulled her down the hallway and into the kitchen, towards the basement door.

No, I can’t go down there.

She pulled at the rope. Each time it gave a little more, but never quite enough. And then she was heading down the stairs from her nightmare, half falling, half being dragged.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. Not again.

She pulled again at the wrists, her left hand jerking free. Using her elbow, she rammed it hard back into Troy’s belly, aiming for the spot where she knew he was hurt. He screamed, let go of her and she turned, kneeing him in the balls before fleeing up the stairs. He gave an agonised growl and then she heard him right behind her.

It was a repeat of twenty years ago, into the kitchen, her foot catching the chair leg and bringing it down, into the hallway towards the safety of the front door.

It wouldn’t open.

Panic poured through every vein. Amy turned, saw Troy heading towards her. Her only option was the stairs. She took them two at a time, aware he was only a heartbeat behind her, heading for the first room, getting inside and slamming the door shut.

He already had his hand on the doorknob, was trying to push it open.

Amy glanced down, saw the latch and locked it in place.

She saw she was in a bathroom. The room was sparse and dirty, with spiders in the bathtub.

Troy was throwing his weight against the door. It was holding, but wouldn’t for much longer.

She glanced at the small window. Even if she smashed the pane there was no way she would fit through it. Taking a moment to pull the cloth from her mouth, she sucked in a deep shaky breath and considered her options. There were only a few toiletries in the bathroom, a shower curtain, a toilet brush and a couple of threadbare towels. Nothing she could use.

She needed a weapon. And fast.

Think, Amy, think.

She glanced at the toilet, recalled seeing a movie where the lid of the cistern had been used as a weapon.

Troy launched himself against the door again. It was starting to bow with his weight and would either splinter or the lock would give.

She grabbed hold of the lid. Floating in the cistern lay a rat and she stifled a scream.

Keep it together, Amy. You’ve more to worry about than a dead rodent.

The cistern lid was heavy, probably porcelain, and she held it tight, standing to the side of the door, waiting for it to give.

Then thought, why not give Troy a helping hand?

She waited for the next thump against the door, quickly reaching across and unbolting the lock. When he launched himself again she was ready and waiting.

The door flew open, catching him off guard, and he stumbled into the bathroom and crashed against the basin.