That Thing

Trudy’s room was unoccupied when we arrived, leaving us to discuss whether to stay and see if the others returned or to travel to Applewood in case they were looking for clues or—it was Friday, after all—to head to the Crypt. Within a few minutes, though, we did that thing where one person says, “Do you hear that?” and the conversation stops, both people listen, and the other person says, “It’s probably the wind/the house settling/the rats/etc.,” but then it sounds louder and the two people, now in agreement, decide to investigate. It turned out to be nothing mysterious or shocking or even, really, intentionally hidden from view. It was Trudy’s police radio, significant merely for being there. It ruled out Applewood and possibly the Crypt. Dennis and I did that other thing where you exchange worried looks.

Moshe appeared in the door.

“Oh! I’m glad you showed,” I said. “I need to find Patrick. Do you know where he is?”

He said nothing at all. He looked at me and then at Dennis. Then he turned and started walking out again.

I followed him out to the hall, calling, “Moshe! I’m serious. This isn’t a good time for grudges. Come back.”

“Maybe we’re supposed to follow him?” Dennis offered.

“Oh, shit. I think he’s under again. Yeah, we’d better.” We started trailing him down a main artery that, I knew, ran underneath the quad the long way.

There were lights on at intervals—this hall actually received occasional traffic of the buildings-and-grounds sort—as far apart as they could be and still prevent people from bumping into walls. The dimness is hard on the eyes; you would have to squint to see your own feet. We were approaching the next light, yellow from the layers of dust accumulating on the bulb, about halfway down the corridor, when I thought I saw someone standing underneath it. The figure was blurry and seemed to flicker in and out of the beam. I glanced over at Dennis, but he didn’t seem to notice it.

As we came nearer, it didn’t come any more into focus, even appearing to fade. When finally we were within feet of the light, I felt a strong but concentrated disruption in the air around me. It wasn’t a draft, exactly, but a patch of atmosphere that had taken on a vibration out of sync with the air around it. For a moment it pressed against my chest, as if to prevent me from moving forward, and the next moment it expanded, lost density, and coiled its way between my molecules and out the other side. When I stumbled back a couple of paces, Dennis finally noticed; Moshe, of course, continued on his oblivious path. I turned to face the way we’d come and saw, some distance down the corridor, the same dark image barely visible in the last lamp’s light.

“You all right?” asked Dennis. He was following my gaze back down the hall, apparently not seeing the shadowy form.