“You can do what you want,” Randal said.  “But I’m getting the hell out of here.” 

He clutched the model trains and planes and looked more like an overgrown Ken doll than ever before, Eva noticed.  Not that his fear wasn’t warranted.  In their search for the old man, they had come across signs of a struggle.  Overturned and shattered vases.  Toppled bookshelves.  And a patch of what looked like quivering muscle stuck to a carpeted rug in the center of a massive crimson ink blot.  Only it wasn’t ink.  Of course it wasn’t. 

Someone had died from it, she thought.  There was no way someone could lose that much blood and live. 

“We have to stay together!”  Eva pleaded. 

But it was...

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