Page 77 of From the Darkness

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He sent a fork of lightning stabbing across the sky. Then wrapped the structure of the house in a gust of wind.

Bree had done what he’d asked without question. Now he was taking control of the drama.

He tugged dark clouds into place before calling down a torrent of rain from their depths.

As the storm raged outside, he went looking for Martindale and Graves. Bree had said he had special powers. He had hardly known how to use them at first. He had played tricks. Small pranks.

But he had felt his abilities growing. Now he knew his supernatural talents had come into their own. He found Martindale and Graves in the basement, heard them stumbling around, and gave them a nudge toward the steps.

They scrambled up and into the kitchen, where Martindale made her way across the kitchen and opened a cabinet, then cursed loudly.

“The flashlight. It’s always here. But it’s gone.”

“I told you I couldn’t find it! Maybe you have the wrong cabinet,” Graves suggested.

“Of course not!”

In his best horror movie imitation, Troy sent his voice into the confines of the kitchen. He had frightened these people before—frightened everyone in the old mansion. Now he multiplied that power, playing the part of an evil demon.

“Go, get out. Get off my property,” he shouted, ending the instruction with a cackling laugh that reverberated in the air.

He punctuated the order with a sizzle of lightning along the kitchen counters and a thunderclap to match

“Get out. Get out before it’s too late. I mean you, Edith Martindale. And you, Foster Graves.”

The housekeeper screamed and pulled her apron over her head. She dashed out the door, Graves right behind her

“I told you,” he shouted. “I told you he’d get us.”

“Quick, the truck.”

They staggered toward the vehicle. But when Graves reached inside his pocket for the keys, his hand came out empty.

“The key’s missing too!” he screamed.

“What did you do, lose them, you fool?”

“I had them! They’re gone. Don’t call me a fool. You’re the one who let Helen London talk you into this mess.”

The wind swirled around them, howling its anger, tearing at their clothing and their hair, even as it confused their senses.

“Run!” Graves shouted. “Run for your life before he gets us.”

Yes, run. That’s what I want you to do, run.

He tore at them with blasts of wind, blinded them with swirling fog. Pelted them with rain that drenched them to the bone.

Teeth chattering, eyes straining in the darkness, they staggered through the tempest, seeking safety.

He spun them around with a gust of wind, heard them gasp in terror as they lost all sense of direction. But he knew where they were at every moment. Near the cliffs. He used small bursts of wind to urge them closer, then closer still—the margin where he knew the ground was unstable.

Nature did the rest. The earth gave way beneath their feet, and they plunged to the rocks below.

His night vision was excellent, and he watched them go over, heard their screams carried off by the wind.

He lingered for long moments, watching their bodies washing back and forth in the roiling waves.

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