Quite a hullabaloo was breaking out upstairs, and most of the sounds were by no means pleasant: at least they made the other hazard seem less formidable—until Colin opened the door. There was a rasping growl, and out of the mist came a shape that sent the children stumbling backwards into the house, and before they could close the door the hound of the Morrigan crossed the threshold and was revealed in all its malignity.

It was like a bull-terrier; except that it stood four feet high at the shoulder, and its ears, unlike the rest of the white body, were covered in coarse red hair. But what set it apart from all others was the fact that, from pointed ears to curling lip, its head and muzzle were blank. There were no eyes.

The beast paused, swinging its wedge-shaped head from side to side, and snuffing wetly with flared nostrils, and when it caught the children’s scent it moved towards them as surely as if it had eyes. Colin and Susan dived for the nearest door, and into what was obviously a kitchen, which had nothing to offer them but another door.

“We’ll have to risk it,” said Susan: that thing’ll be through in a second.” She put no trust in the flimsy latch, which was rattling furiously beneath the scrabbling of claws. But as she spoke they heard another sound; footsteps rapidly drawing near to the other door And then the latch did give way, and the hound was in the room.

Colin seized a kitchen chair. Get behind me, he whispered.

At the Sound of his voice the brute froze, but only for an instant: it had found its bearings.

“Can we reach a window?” Colin dared not take his eyes off the hound as it advanced upon them.

“No.”

“Is there another way out?”

“No.”

He was parrying the lunges and snappings with the chair, but it was heavy, and his arms ached.

“There’s a broom cupboard, or something, behind us, and the door’s ajar.”