I’ll be done in twenty minutes.”
That was fine. The man had hardly been inside the door for two minutes and Phil could hardly wait to be rid of him—and not because he found anything distasteful about the installer, or because he wouldn’t enjoy a little company, but from the feeling which now constantly assailed him that he never was alone within these walls, that anyone else made an uncomfortable third.
For days the sense of some presence in the house had been accumulating in his mind. A second pack of cigarettes had disappeared, after he had found the first one, crumpled and empty, on a table outside on the dance floor—twice now he thought he had seen someone out there in the dark. And at night there was the noise from the room above, too soft for the tread of a living human being yet inexplicable as anything else.
Sometimes he felt almost as if he himself were the second occupant of the Moonlight. Or as if this other only occupied some corner of his mind. The thoughts that kept coming unbidden into his head—not his thoughts, not really his, for all that he was thinking them. . .
“I remember now!” the installer announced triumphantly as he leaned across the kitchen counter to unscrew the plate over the phone jack. “I put the phone in here for the last customers. A man and his wife—the guy was runnin’ a service station. I should’ve remembered the minute I saw the gas pump outside. Jeez!”
In the next moment he was lost in contemplation of the skein of colored wires that had popped out from behind the little metal plate.
“I hope you have better luck, though,” he went on at last, in a murmur that suggested he might be talking to himself.
“Pardon?”
For a long time there was no answer.
“The phone lines.” The installer brushed his finger across the exposed ends of the wires, making them dance like a child’s toy. “I was back here about half a dozen times—they kept hearing strange voices, like they got connected to the wrong party. The last time I was here the guy’s wife had already moved out, but I don’t suppose it was over the phone service.”
He laughed good-naturedly at the recollection of this domestic calamity, too distant in time to have any meaning except as the set-up for a joke.
“There—so much for that!” With the triumph of a man who has solved a knotty technical problem, he fitted the plate back on and inserted the screw into the center hole. “You got your own phone, or you want me to get you one out of the truck?”
When Phil shook his head, the man nodded sagely and started for the door. Then he stopped and turned around.
“What color?”
“Color?”
“The phone—what color?”
Phil looked around at the kitchen, which looked just as it must have looked in George Patchmore’s time.
“Black,” he said.
“Black?” The installer sounded as if he could hardly believe his ears. “I ain’t even sure I got a black one with me. I’ll have to check.”
Five minutes later the truck had pulled out of the driveway, and Phil was left alone with two new phone books and his shiny black phone.
Whom should he call? It seemed a shame to just leave the thing sitting there. He had to call somebody. Beth? Would her roommate be asleep? He decided he didn’t care whether she was or not—it was not a case in which roommates had any rights worth considering. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and started looking for the phone number he had been carrying around for a week and had never had occasion to use. He hoped he hadn’t lost it.
No, there it was. In his hand was a ragged slip of paper with Beth’s writing on it: “Beth Saunders 665-4759.” In spite of himself, he was impressed by its odd formality. How many Beths did she think he knew?
He picked up the receiver and cradled it against his ear. The index finger of his left hand wavered uncertainly over the “6” button.
“Put
That was fine. The man had hardly been inside the door for two minutes and Phil could hardly wait to be rid of him—and not because he found anything distasteful about the installer, or because he wouldn’t enjoy a little company, but from the feeling which now constantly assailed him that he never was alone within these walls, that anyone else made an uncomfortable third.
For days the sense of some presence in the house had been accumulating in his mind. A second pack of cigarettes had disappeared, after he had found the first one, crumpled and empty, on a table outside on the dance floor—twice now he thought he had seen someone out there in the dark. And at night there was the noise from the room above, too soft for the tread of a living human being yet inexplicable as anything else.
Sometimes he felt almost as if he himself were the second occupant of the Moonlight. Or as if this other only occupied some corner of his mind. The thoughts that kept coming unbidden into his head—not his thoughts, not really his, for all that he was thinking them. . .
“I remember now!” the installer announced triumphantly as he leaned across the kitchen counter to unscrew the plate over the phone jack. “I put the phone in here for the last customers. A man and his wife—the guy was runnin’ a service station. I should’ve remembered the minute I saw the gas pump outside. Jeez!”
In the next moment he was lost in contemplation of the skein of colored wires that had popped out from behind the little metal plate.
“I hope you have better luck, though,” he went on at last, in a murmur that suggested he might be talking to himself.
“Pardon?”
For a long time there was no answer.
“The phone lines.” The installer brushed his finger across the exposed ends of the wires, making them dance like a child’s toy. “I was back here about half a dozen times—they kept hearing strange voices, like they got connected to the wrong party. The last time I was here the guy’s wife had already moved out, but I don’t suppose it was over the phone service.”
He laughed good-naturedly at the recollection of this domestic calamity, too distant in time to have any meaning except as the set-up for a joke.
“There—so much for that!” With the triumph of a man who has solved a knotty technical problem, he fitted the plate back on and inserted the screw into the center hole. “You got your own phone, or you want me to get you one out of the truck?”
When Phil shook his head, the man nodded sagely and started for the door. Then he stopped and turned around.
“What color?”
“Color?”
“The phone—what color?”
Phil looked around at the kitchen, which looked just as it must have looked in George Patchmore’s time.
“Black,” he said.
“Black?” The installer sounded as if he could hardly believe his ears. “I ain’t even sure I got a black one with me. I’ll have to check.”
Five minutes later the truck had pulled out of the driveway, and Phil was left alone with two new phone books and his shiny black phone.
Whom should he call? It seemed a shame to just leave the thing sitting there. He had to call somebody. Beth? Would her roommate be asleep? He decided he didn’t care whether she was or not—it was not a case in which roommates had any rights worth considering. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and started looking for the phone number he had been carrying around for a week and had never had occasion to use. He hoped he hadn’t lost it.
No, there it was. In his hand was a ragged slip of paper with Beth’s writing on it: “Beth Saunders 665-4759.” In spite of himself, he was impressed by its odd formality. How many Beths did she think he knew?
He picked up the receiver and cradled it against his ear. The index finger of his left hand wavered uncertainly over the “6” button.
“Put
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