Temptation by R. L. Stine

Author:R. L. Stine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse

CHAPTER 26 FLUTTERING

Seconds. It took precious seconds to untie one of the rowboats from the dock.

Then more precious seconds to leap inside the bobbing boat, to grab up the oars.

Tick tick tick. The seconds were passing.

He could hear Jessica now, close behind, calling to him, begging him to come back. He turned for a second and saw her running toward the dock, seeming to glide over the sand. But in the next second, he was hunkered low, pulling the oars, pulling away from the shore, Jessica’s calls fading behind the wind.

The incoming current was stronger than Matt had imagined. Each time he rowed, leaning forward and pulling his arms back with all his strength, the boat seemed to lurch forward a foot, and slide back two.

Puddled water on the floor of the small rowboat rolled over his sneakers, soaking his socks. Salty spray off the waves forced him to close his eyes.

I’m too late, he thought. Too late. Too late.

But he knew he couldn’t give up.

Where was April’s boat?

Probably already at the island.

Matt squinted toward the black island silhouette ahead of him, low in the water like an enormous sea creature waiting to swallow him up. He couldn’t see April’s boat.

Turning his eyes to the sky, he saw the flickering forms of bats hovering over the island. And as he drew closer, the fluttering of their wings drowned out the rush of the water, the wind, drowned out all other sounds, even the sounds of his own breathing.

There were hundreds and hundreds of bats, he saw, fluttering noisily, swooping and darting over the trees, filling the sky, buzzing and cluttering, nearly as thick as a swarm of bees.

Drawing near to the island, Matt spotted a small dock tucked into the tree-laden shore. A rowboat—April’s rowboat—bobbed at one side.

Empty.

He pulled his boat to the dock, leapt out without bothering to tie the boat up, and looked around. A narrow dirt path curved through the trees.

Matt had started down the path when he realized he was carrying one of the oars. My only weapon, he thought as a chill of renewed dread pulsed down his spine. He crouched down as he hurried through the trees, bending away from the relentless fluttering above his head, the flapping wings, the shrill whistles that echoed through the woods.

The low, shingled beach house at the end of the path was completely dark. As Matt drew near, he saw that the windows had no glass.

Bats swooped over the low, angled roof. A bat hovered by one window, just inches from Matt’s face, then fluttered away with a shrill cry.

Leaning against the oar, holding it firmly with both hands, Matt peered into the window. It was pitch-black inside, blacker than the night. He couldn’t see a thing.

Having no choice, he transferred the oar to one hand, lifted a leg over the windowsill, and lowered himself into the house.

It smelled so musty in there, even with all the windows open.

Musty and . . . dead.

He gasped from the foul smell, then forced himself to breathe normally.

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