the kind that every father recognizes from his own youthful career of broken windows and 
stolen candy bars. The only time you could be sure that a boy had done something bad was 
when he took the trouble to tell you that he hadn't. Then there was all this weirdness 
with the Clay twins. Had Detective Clay really spoken to Lenny, or had Lenny imagined it? 
And if he had said that - Better watch out, kid, you're one of them - what the hell was 
that supposed to mean? One of whom?
   There you are, he thought with some satisfaction, I can even be grammatical inside my 
own head.
   He felt a yawn coming on. He allowed his mouth to open slowly, his eyes to close, his 
back muscles to stretch. While he yawned, a soft thunder filled his ears, of rushing 
blood and rusting bedclothes. But that thunder only partially blotted out the scratching 
noise from the corridor.
   He stopped yawning instantly and lay there with yawn-tears still glistening in his 
eyes, listening.
   There it was again, another scratch. Loose and hollow, like somebody dragging a garden 
fork along the wall. Closer this time, as far as John could make out.
   'Lenny?' he called under his breath, trying not to wake Jennifer. 'Lenny, is that you?'
   Silence. The scratching had stopped. John lay in bed with his heart beating hard and 
his toes stiffly curled and his ears listening so acutely that he could have heard a bird 
landing on the roof.
   Maybe that was it, a bird scratching in the roof-space. Or squirrels. Squirrels were 
notorious for finding their way into lofts and tearing up insulation and paper to make 
themselves nests. He would have to tell Jack when the Fellings came home.
   Krrrrrrrrrr. The scratching was repeated. This time it was much closer. And this time 
he knew it couldn't be squirrels because it was too long and too loud and in any case it 
wasn't in the roof, it was out in the corridor - right outside the door.
   My brother says you should lock your bedroom door.
   'Lenny?' he called, and this time his voice was loud enough to wake up Jennifer. She 
sat up beside him, with her hair tousled.
   'What is it? John - what's the matter?'
   'Ssh!' he said. 'Listen!'
   'Listen to what? John - you woke me up!'
   'Listen!'
   They listened. There was nothing at all. No scratching, no movement. At last John 
said, 'I thought I heard something. Kind of a scratching noise, outside in the corridor.'
   'It could have been Lenny.'
   'Yes, well, maybe it was. But it didn't sound like Lenny.'
   There was a very long pause. Then Jennifer said. 'Aren't you going to go check?'
   John looked at her, then back toward the door, and then said, 'It's quiet now.'
   'You ought to make sure. Perhaps he's sleepwalking.'
   'Sure, you're right.' John pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed. He slept 
naked, but even though it was a warm night and there was nobody else in the house, he 
reached for his robe. Nobody relishes a nude encounter with the unknown.
   'It's probably squirrels,' he remarked, tightening the knot in his sash.
   Jennifer said nothing as she watched him go to the door. He put his hand on the 
doorknob, and hesitated.
   'John?' asked Jennifer.
   'I was just giving it one more listen. They have quite a few burglaries up here on 
Chestnut Hill. Last thing I want to do is run straight into a burglar.'
   'My God,' said Jennifer, laughing. 'Vandalized and burgled, all in one week.'
   John opened the door. He opened his eyes again. It was still dark. He must have been 
dreaming. He lay still for a long time, and he was aware that the room around him was 
unfamiliar. It wasn't his own bedroom on Third Street: the window was on the wrong side. 
It didn't smell the same, either. This room smelled neutral and stuffy. No perfume. No 
wine. No hint of sex.
   Somewhere nearby, he could hear voices. Somebody laughing. Then chimes, like a 
doorbell.
   He felt peculiarly numb. He tried to lift his arms, but found that they wouldn't move. 
They were still there, lying by his sides, but none of the instructions his brain sent 
down to them seemed to be able to reach them. In fact, he couldn't persuade any of his 
body to move.
   He began to wonder, vaguely, if he were dead.
   But why should he be dead? All he had done was to eat supper in the kitchen with 
Jennifer and Lenny, and then finish a bottle of wine, and go to bed.
   Perhaps he had died of alcohol poisoning. Perhaps he had vomited in bed and 
asphyxiated on his own vomit. Perhaps the giant prawns had been contaminated, and he had 
died of botulism.
   Perhaps he wasn't dead, but simply paralyzed. His brain felt so anesthetized that it 
was difficult to work out which. He could feel himself slowly surfboarding in and out of 
sleep, over a dull, silvery-gray ocean that had no horizon.
   Jennifer, he thought. Then, out loud, he said, 'Where's Jennifer?'
   It seemed as if hours had passed him by, or possibly days. He was dimly conscious that 
it had been light, and then it had grown dark, and now it was light again. He could still 
hear the voices. Sometimes they were near, and sometimes they were very far away. 
   And, wave after wave, he surf-boarded over the silvery-gray ocean, on and on, as if 
his journey would never end.
   He slept. He dreamed.
   He dreamed he was reaching out for the doorknob. Jennifer said, 'Vandalized and 
burgled, all in one week.' He turned slowly back to smile at her, a glutinous movement 
like a man wading through syrup.
   He said, 'It's squirrels, I'll bet you.'
   And then the door was racketed open as if an express train were hurtling through it, 
and John was ripped across the chest by something that felt like red-hot wires, and was 
slammed speechless against the Italian bureau, hitting his head on the marble top.
   Something huge and black rushed toward the bed, treading right on top of his pelvis so 
that the bone snapped like a broken dinner-plate. He experienced instant and 
over-whelming agony, and he screamed.
   Jennifer was screaming, too, high and piercing, right through his head. And the huge 
black monstrosity tore the bedclothes off the bed with claws as sharp as kitchen knives, 
shreds of linen and feathers and silvered silk, and seized hold of Jennifer's naked body 
and raked her open from shoulders to thighs, blood bursting everywhere, gouting over the 
sheets, spattering the ceiling, raining hot and sticky on John's unprotected face. 
Shocked, maddened, he wailed like an injured animal.
   He felt the huge black thing rush away again, leaving a cold vacuum of terror behind 
it. But all he could do was lie on his side on the blood-sprayed carpet, whimpering with 
pain.
   He lost consciousness. When at last he opened his eyes, he saw Lenny's bare feet, 
close to his face. 'Lenny,' he whispered. 'For God's sake, Lenny, save me.'