around them, making everything that much worse. No wonder people used to believe in ghosts, Reg thought. He couldn’t imagine living like this…by firelight and lantern light. Just the idea of it was spooky.
“What is it?” he asked Burt.
“Thought I heard something.”
Reg licked his lips and gripped the poker. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. It was faint. Probably nothing.”
He stepped onto the landing and into the corridor. Reg made an effort to regulate his own breathing. Probably nothing. That’s what Burt said but, of course, he didn’t really mean it. That was the kind of shit scriptwriters threw in horror movies. It was probably nothing. One of those not-so subtle little hints to the audience that would get their imaginations rolling. He wondered if that’s what Burt was doing. Playing a game. Reg didn’t know much about Burt beyond the fact that he was pretty much a driver and a gopher around the studio. He’d never really talked with him outside of going on location shoots. He couldn’t say he’d heard anything bad about the guy, or good, for that matter.
But he was remembering some of those cliques in school.
If they couldn’t get you one way, they’d try another.
Was that what Burt was doing? Doc had his number and he knew it and he couldn’t get Reg to come around to his way of thinking and turn on Doc, so he was trying something else. Maybe trying to put a scare into him. Was he that low? Would he do something like that?
“I don’t hear a damn thing,” Reg said, moving into the corridor.
“Like I said, kid, it was probably nothing.”
They found the master bedroom and its attendant brick fireplace, which looked big enough to step into. There was a log rack and a nice pile of birch there. Reg hauled the logs out into the corridor while Burt looked around.
“You gonna help?” Reg asked him.
“You’re doing just fine, kid.”
“Shit.”
Once he had the logs out in the hallway they went into the bedroom next door, which faced on the other side chimney, and got the wood from its rack. Reg figured it would take two or three trips to get downstairs with it all and if Burt thought he was doing that by himself, too, then he was—
“I heard it again,” Burt said.
Reg felt tense inside. If this guy was messing with him, playing some game, then he was going to get his ass kicked because there was absolutely nothing funny about this.
Reg set his logs out in the hallway. “What did you hear?”
“Not sure…sort of like a tapping.”
Reg listened now, too, forgetting that maybe he was being played. In the darkness with nothing but the lantern light flickering and the shadows coiling thick in the corners of the room, the snow whispering at the windows…it was all too easy to believe in unknown sounds and maybe even the hungry shades gathering outside the old house. The situation reduced him to a childlike state of fear where every shadow was a threat that adu lt logic could not dispel. It grew inside him in a swelling black mass of pure rising terror and he felt sick with it, physically sick.
Burt made his way over to the window.
He set the lantern on the nightstand, then carefully pulled open the heavy curtains. Reg was right next to him. There was nothing out there looking back in at them, just the ever-present storm circling the house, throwing snow at the window and whistling around the eaves. The old house creaked and groaned in the onslaught. Reg peered closer to the glass. It was dark out, but backlit by that weird pink illumination of blizzards. He could see the road below, a few of the other buildings of Cobton, but nothing else. The lights of the bus had gone out.
“I don’t see them out there,” he said.
“Me either.”
It was weird how they put together old towns like this, Reg got to thinking. Everything so crowded, wedged together in an unbroken mass like animals pressing together to keep warm…or huddled out of fear. The roof overhang of one house
“What is it?” he asked Burt.
“Thought I heard something.”
Reg licked his lips and gripped the poker. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. It was faint. Probably nothing.”
He stepped onto the landing and into the corridor. Reg made an effort to regulate his own breathing. Probably nothing. That’s what Burt said but, of course, he didn’t really mean it. That was the kind of shit scriptwriters threw in horror movies. It was probably nothing. One of those not-so subtle little hints to the audience that would get their imaginations rolling. He wondered if that’s what Burt was doing. Playing a game. Reg didn’t know much about Burt beyond the fact that he was pretty much a driver and a gopher around the studio. He’d never really talked with him outside of going on location shoots. He couldn’t say he’d heard anything bad about the guy, or good, for that matter.
But he was remembering some of those cliques in school.
If they couldn’t get you one way, they’d try another.
Was that what Burt was doing? Doc had his number and he knew it and he couldn’t get Reg to come around to his way of thinking and turn on Doc, so he was trying something else. Maybe trying to put a scare into him. Was he that low? Would he do something like that?
“I don’t hear a damn thing,” Reg said, moving into the corridor.
“Like I said, kid, it was probably nothing.”
They found the master bedroom and its attendant brick fireplace, which looked big enough to step into. There was a log rack and a nice pile of birch there. Reg hauled the logs out into the corridor while Burt looked around.
“You gonna help?” Reg asked him.
“You’re doing just fine, kid.”
“Shit.”
Once he had the logs out in the hallway they went into the bedroom next door, which faced on the other side chimney, and got the wood from its rack. Reg figured it would take two or three trips to get downstairs with it all and if Burt thought he was doing that by himself, too, then he was—
“I heard it again,” Burt said.
Reg felt tense inside. If this guy was messing with him, playing some game, then he was going to get his ass kicked because there was absolutely nothing funny about this.
Reg set his logs out in the hallway. “What did you hear?”
“Not sure…sort of like a tapping.”
Reg listened now, too, forgetting that maybe he was being played. In the darkness with nothing but the lantern light flickering and the shadows coiling thick in the corners of the room, the snow whispering at the windows…it was all too easy to believe in unknown sounds and maybe even the hungry shades gathering outside the old house. The situation reduced him to a childlike state of fear where every shadow was a threat that adu lt logic could not dispel. It grew inside him in a swelling black mass of pure rising terror and he felt sick with it, physically sick.
Burt made his way over to the window.
He set the lantern on the nightstand, then carefully pulled open the heavy curtains. Reg was right next to him. There was nothing out there looking back in at them, just the ever-present storm circling the house, throwing snow at the window and whistling around the eaves. The old house creaked and groaned in the onslaught. Reg peered closer to the glass. It was dark out, but backlit by that weird pink illumination of blizzards. He could see the road below, a few of the other buildings of Cobton, but nothing else. The lights of the bus had gone out.
“I don’t see them out there,” he said.
“Me either.”
It was weird how they put together old towns like this, Reg got to thinking. Everything so crowded, wedged together in an unbroken mass like animals pressing together to keep warm…or huddled out of fear. The roof overhang of one house
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