than two weeks ago, all other objects in George’s office began to fade, until the shining instrument was the only thing that she could see in any detail. She was aware of every tiny scratch and minute nick on its handle. Every humble feature of its design seemed abruptly and enormously important, as if this were not a doctor’s ordinary tool but the linchpin of the universe, an arcane instrument with the potential for catastrophic destruction.
Disoriented, suddenly made claustrophobic by a heavy, insistent, pressing mantle of irrational fear that had descended over her like a great sodden cloak, she pushed the chair away from the desk and stood up. Gasping, whimpering, she felt suffocated yet chilled to the bone at the same time.
The shank of the ophthalmoscope glistened as if made of ice.
The lens shone like an iridescent and chillingly alien eye.
Her resolve to stand fast now swiftly melted, even as her heart seemed to freeze under the cold breath of terror.
Run or die, a voice said within her. Run or die.
A cry escaped her, and it sounded like the tortured appeal of a lost and frightened child.
She turned from the desk, stumbled around it, almost fell over a chair. She crossed the room, burst into the outer office, fled into the deserted corridor, keening shrilly, seeking safety, finding none. She wanted help, a friendly face, but she was the only person on the floor, and the danger was closing in. The unknown threat that was somehow embodied in the harmless ophthalmoscope was drawing nearer, so she ran as fast as she could, her footsteps booming along the hallway.
Run or die.
The mist descended.
Minutes later, when the mist cleared, when she was again aware of her surroundings, she found herself in the emergency stairwell at the end of the office wing, on a concrete landing between floors. She could not remember leaving the office corridor and taking to the stairs. She was sitting on the landing, squeezed into the corner, her back pressed to the cinderblock wall, staring out at the railing along the far side of the steps. A single bare bulb burned behind a wire basket overhead. To her left and right, flights of stairs led up and down into shadow before coming to other lighted landings. The air was musty and cool. If not for her ragged breathing, silence would have ruled.
It was a lonely place, especially when your life was coming apart at the seams and you needed the reassurance of bright lights and people. The gray walls, stark light, looming shadows, the metal railing... The place seemed like a reflection of her own despair.
Her wild flight and whatever other bizarre behavior she exhibited in her inexplicable fugue had evidently not been seen, or she would not now be alone. At least that was a blessing. At least no one knew.
She knew, however, and that was bad enough.
She shivered, not entirely from fear, for the mindless terror that had gripped her was gone. She shivered because she was cold, and she was cold because her clothes clung to her, damp, soaked with sweat.
She raised one hand, wiped her face.
She rose, looked up the stairwell, then down. She did not know whether she was above or below the floor on which George Hannaby had his office. After a moment she decided to go up.
Her footsteps echoed eerily.
For some reason, she thought of tombs.
“Meshuggene, ” she said shakily.
It was November 27.
6. Chicago, Illinois
The first Sunday morning in December was cold, under a low gray sky that promised snow. By afternoon the first scattered flakes would begin to fall, and by early evening the city’s grimy face and soiled skirts would be temporarily concealed beneath the white pancake makeup and pristine cloak of snow. This night, from the Gold Coast to the slum tenements, everywhere in the city, the number-one topic of conversation would be the storm. Everywhere, that is, but in the Roman Catholic homes throughout the parish of St. Bernadette’s, where they would still be talking about the
Disoriented, suddenly made claustrophobic by a heavy, insistent, pressing mantle of irrational fear that had descended over her like a great sodden cloak, she pushed the chair away from the desk and stood up. Gasping, whimpering, she felt suffocated yet chilled to the bone at the same time.
The shank of the ophthalmoscope glistened as if made of ice.
The lens shone like an iridescent and chillingly alien eye.
Her resolve to stand fast now swiftly melted, even as her heart seemed to freeze under the cold breath of terror.
Run or die, a voice said within her. Run or die.
A cry escaped her, and it sounded like the tortured appeal of a lost and frightened child.
She turned from the desk, stumbled around it, almost fell over a chair. She crossed the room, burst into the outer office, fled into the deserted corridor, keening shrilly, seeking safety, finding none. She wanted help, a friendly face, but she was the only person on the floor, and the danger was closing in. The unknown threat that was somehow embodied in the harmless ophthalmoscope was drawing nearer, so she ran as fast as she could, her footsteps booming along the hallway.
Run or die.
The mist descended.
Minutes later, when the mist cleared, when she was again aware of her surroundings, she found herself in the emergency stairwell at the end of the office wing, on a concrete landing between floors. She could not remember leaving the office corridor and taking to the stairs. She was sitting on the landing, squeezed into the corner, her back pressed to the cinderblock wall, staring out at the railing along the far side of the steps. A single bare bulb burned behind a wire basket overhead. To her left and right, flights of stairs led up and down into shadow before coming to other lighted landings. The air was musty and cool. If not for her ragged breathing, silence would have ruled.
It was a lonely place, especially when your life was coming apart at the seams and you needed the reassurance of bright lights and people. The gray walls, stark light, looming shadows, the metal railing... The place seemed like a reflection of her own despair.
Her wild flight and whatever other bizarre behavior she exhibited in her inexplicable fugue had evidently not been seen, or she would not now be alone. At least that was a blessing. At least no one knew.
She knew, however, and that was bad enough.
She shivered, not entirely from fear, for the mindless terror that had gripped her was gone. She shivered because she was cold, and she was cold because her clothes clung to her, damp, soaked with sweat.
She raised one hand, wiped her face.
She rose, looked up the stairwell, then down. She did not know whether she was above or below the floor on which George Hannaby had his office. After a moment she decided to go up.
Her footsteps echoed eerily.
For some reason, she thought of tombs.
“Meshuggene, ” she said shakily.
It was November 27.
6. Chicago, Illinois
The first Sunday morning in December was cold, under a low gray sky that promised snow. By afternoon the first scattered flakes would begin to fall, and by early evening the city’s grimy face and soiled skirts would be temporarily concealed beneath the white pancake makeup and pristine cloak of snow. This night, from the Gold Coast to the slum tenements, everywhere in the city, the number-one topic of conversation would be the storm. Everywhere, that is, but in the Roman Catholic homes throughout the parish of St. Bernadette’s, where they would still be talking about the
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