CARVER’S LAUGHTER RATTLED like a disintegrating cough throughout the wing, echoed in the mouths of the victims as they slunk back into the shadows, the entire house shaking like a huge set of asthmatic lungs. Scott felt blindness rising to smother him like a cloak. The light in the stove was finally waning, but it didn’t matter; there was less and less to see. Corpses merged into the walls, their tissue blending with the wood and the dirt, absorbed from whence they’d come. Still their eyes burned on him; he felt them like a bed of nails.

Painstakingly, with monumental effort, Owen had managed to hoist his son up into the crook of his arm. The knife that he’d used to break the bodies apart lay forgotten in the straw. Owen slumped and took a step, then, still holding on to Henry, he glanced back at the trapdoor where Colette had fallen. A sense of realization washed over his face, smoothing it out, making him look both childlike and terribly old.

Scott forced himself into an upright position and looked at his brother. “Coming …?”

Owen didn’t answer. From outside, Scott could hear men’s voices and barking dogs approaching, getting louder. His brain was a blur of awareness, and then, when he heard the final peal of laughter inside the wing, he felt sudden clarity. He saw that Owen had let go of his son, but he had picked up the knife.

“Owen,” Scott said, “come on. Let’s go.”

“She was trapped like we are.” Owen was still staring at the trapdoor. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“I know it wasn’t,” Scott said, “but—”

“Take Henry. Get out of here.”

Before Scott could answer, Owen dove through the trapdoor.