Halloween Party (Fear Street Book 8)

“We’ve got to get him,” David said.

Terry couldn’t think why, but he was glad to have something to do.

“One of us will have to go down there,” said David. He found a piece of rope on the floor and began unwinding it.

“I’ll go,” said Terry, without thinking. He climbed onto the slippery windowsill, then dropped onto the shingles of the dormer below. The wind stung his face, and the rain was blowing so hard he could scarcely see.

He slipped and nearly fell, but caught the edge of the roof and steadied himself. “Hold on, Les,” he said. “I’m coming.”

David dropped the rope from the window. Terry caught the free end, then began to inch toward where Les lay.

The knife still stuck out from his chest, like some strange sort of growth, and for the first time Terry realized not only that Les was dead, but that someone had killed him.

Murdered him.

Someone at the party was a murderer.

Terry forced himself to put that thought out of his mind and concentrated on crossing the sloping shingles. One step at a time, he told himself.

Les’s glasses had fallen off and his skin was no longer warm. But his eyes were still open, and Terry tried not to look at them as he tied the rope around Les, above where the knife was sticking out.

Then he pulled and dragged the body till it was just under the window and lifted while David pulled on the other end of the rope. Somehow, they got the body up over the windowsill and into the room. Then Terry boosted himself up through the window.

For a moment both boys just stared at their dead friend, both breathing hard. Finally David shut the window. “We’ve got to cover him up with something,” he said.

Terry nodded. They searched in the dusty attic till they found an old blanket. They straightened Les’s body, then covered him.

Now that they had finished, Terry realized they had to face the next big hurdle—what to do next.

“We’d better call the police,” he said.

David nodded. “Shouldn’t we tell everyone what happened?”

Terry thought a moment. “Not till we talk to the police,” he said. “After all—someone here is a murderer. We don’t want him to get away.”

“Let’s talk to Philip at least,” said David. “It might be better if he makes the call.”

They went back to the living room as if nothing had happened. It seemed to Terry that hours had passed, but a glance at his watch told him it had only been a few minutes.

The other guests were still playing Truth. Alex was standing on his head in a corner of the room, and Terry guessed he was paying a penalty, but he didn’t really care. All idea of fun and games was gone—for good.

“Hi, guys,” Justine said cheerily. “Ready for Truth?”

“Not just yet,” said Terry. “I need to ask your uncle something. Do you know where he is?”

“Isn’t he in here?” said Justine. “Or the kitchen?”

“I haven’t seen him,” said Angela.

“Maybe he’s disappeared too,” said Murphy, laughing. “Like Niki and Les. Maybe there’s a Bermuda triangle somewhere right in the middle of this house.”

Niki!

After Terry had found Les’s body, he’d forgotten all about her. She was still missing, and there was a murderer in the house.

All he could think of was to run back upstairs and start searching for her again. But David clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Terry,” he said, sounding almost normal. “Let’s go see if Philip is in the kitchen.”

Right, Terry told himself. Call for help. That’s definitely the first thing to do.

He followed David into the kitchen. An open window was banging in the wind, and next to it hung a wall phone, slick with rain.

His fingers still trembling, Terry picked up the phone and started to punch in 911. But there was no dial tone. “The line’s dead,” he whispered, wondering what else could go wrong.

“Maybe the wind knocked the line loose,” said David. “It was strong enough to blow open that window.”

“Let me look,” said Terry. He unlocked the back door and peered out. “The line comes in just above the window,” he said. “Maybe it—”

“It’s cut!” said David. He stepped out onto the porch, pointing. There was no question—the line hung in two pieces, obviously cut through.

The two boys exchanged glances. Terry wondered if he looked as scared as David did.

“Do you think the murderer did this?” Terry asked.

“It was Bobby and Marty,” David said. “It had to be. Who else could it be?”

Terry thought it over. Could Marty and Bobby have killed Les?

“They could have sneaked back and come in the window,” said David, obviously wondering the same thing.

No. Impossible, Terry thought.

The two bikers swaggered around a lot and pretended to be hard. But they weren’t murderers.

Someone is, said a voice in his head.

Someone is a murderer. Someone you know.

Someone at this party.

The only thing he knew for sure was that they had to get help—as soon as possible. And that he couldn’t leave the mansion until he found Niki.

“We’ve got to find Philip,” David said. “Then one of us can go for help.”

The boys ran back into the house and through the front hall. Terry glanced out a window panel beside the front door. Across the yard Marty’s wrecked motorcycle glinted in the lightning like a warning signal of doom.

A particularly bright flash lit up the yard then, and something caught Terry’s eye.

Quickly he ran out to the motorcycle, David close behind. Crumpled in the mud, just beneath the front wheel, was a blue satin jacket—Philip’s clown costume.

Terry examined the jacket. One whole arm was stained with blood.