thumping of her own heart.
The metal casing of the radio gleamed with a brittle crust of ice. She touched it wonderingly. A sliver of ice broke loose under her finger and fell onto the nightstand. It didn't begin to melt; the room was cold.
The window was frosted. The dresser mirror was frosted too, and her reflection was dim and distorted and strange.
Outside, the night was cool but not wintry. Maybe fifty degrees. Maybe even fifty-five.
The radio's digital display began to change, the orange numbers escalating across the frequency band, sweeping through one station after another. Scraps of music, split-second flashes of disc jockeys' chatter, single words from different somber-voiced newscasters, and fragments of commercial jingles blended in a cacophonous jumble of meaningless sound. The indicator reached the end of the band width, and the digital display began to sequence backward.
Trembling, Vivienne switched off the radio.
As soon as she took her finger off the push switch, the radio turned itself on again.
She stared at it, frightened and bewildered.
The digital display began to sequence up the band once more, and scraps of music blasted from the speakers.
She pressed the on-off bar again.
After a brief silence, the radio turned on spontaneously.
"This is crazy," she said shakily.
When she shut off the radio the third time, she kept her finger pressed against the on-off bar. For several seconds she was certain that she could feel the switch straining under her fingertip as it tried to pop on.
Overhead, the three model airplanes began to move. Each was hung from, the ceiling on a length of fishing line, and the upper end of each line was knotted to its own eye-hook that had been screwed firmly into the drywall. The planes jiggled, jerked, twisted, and trembled.
Just a draft.
But she didn't feel a draft.
The model planes began to bounce violently up and down on the ends of their lines.
"God help me," Vivienne said.
One of the planes swung in tight circles, faster and faster, then in wider circles, steadily decreasing the angle between the line on which it was suspended and the bedroom ceiling. After a moment the other two models ceased their erratic dancing and began to spin around and around, like the first plane, as if they were actually flying, and there was no mistaking this deliberate movement for the random effects of a draft.
Ghosts? A poltergeist?
But she didn't believe in ghosts. There were no such things. She believed in death and taxes, in the inevitability of slot-machine jackpots, in all-you-can-eat casino buffets for $5.95 per person, in the Lord God Almighty, in the truth of alien abductions and Big Foot, but she didn't believe in ghosts.
The sliding closet doors began to move on their runners, and Vivienne Neddler had the feeling that some awful thing was going to come out of the dark space, its eyes as red as blood and its razor-sharp teeth gnashing. She felt a presence, something that wanted her, and she cried out as the door came all the way open.
But there wasn't a monster in the closet. It contained only clothes. Only clothes.
Nevertheless, untouched, the doors glided shut . . . and then open again. . . .
The model planes went around, around.
The air grew even colder.
The bed started to shake. The legs at the foot rose three or four inches before crashing back into the casters that had been put under them to protect the carpet. They rose up again. Hovered above the floor. The springs began to sing as if metal fingers were strumming them.
Vivienne backed into the wall, eyes wide, hands fisted at her sides.
As abruptly as the bed had started bouncing up and down, it now stopped. The closet doors closed with a jarring crash—but they didn't open again. The model airplanes slowed, swinging in smaller and smaller circles, until they finally hung motionless.
The room was silent.
Nothing moved.
The air was getting warmer.
Gradually Vivienne's heartbeat subsided from the hard,
The metal casing of the radio gleamed with a brittle crust of ice. She touched it wonderingly. A sliver of ice broke loose under her finger and fell onto the nightstand. It didn't begin to melt; the room was cold.
The window was frosted. The dresser mirror was frosted too, and her reflection was dim and distorted and strange.
Outside, the night was cool but not wintry. Maybe fifty degrees. Maybe even fifty-five.
The radio's digital display began to change, the orange numbers escalating across the frequency band, sweeping through one station after another. Scraps of music, split-second flashes of disc jockeys' chatter, single words from different somber-voiced newscasters, and fragments of commercial jingles blended in a cacophonous jumble of meaningless sound. The indicator reached the end of the band width, and the digital display began to sequence backward.
Trembling, Vivienne switched off the radio.
As soon as she took her finger off the push switch, the radio turned itself on again.
She stared at it, frightened and bewildered.
The digital display began to sequence up the band once more, and scraps of music blasted from the speakers.
She pressed the on-off bar again.
After a brief silence, the radio turned on spontaneously.
"This is crazy," she said shakily.
When she shut off the radio the third time, she kept her finger pressed against the on-off bar. For several seconds she was certain that she could feel the switch straining under her fingertip as it tried to pop on.
Overhead, the three model airplanes began to move. Each was hung from, the ceiling on a length of fishing line, and the upper end of each line was knotted to its own eye-hook that had been screwed firmly into the drywall. The planes jiggled, jerked, twisted, and trembled.
Just a draft.
But she didn't feel a draft.
The model planes began to bounce violently up and down on the ends of their lines.
"God help me," Vivienne said.
One of the planes swung in tight circles, faster and faster, then in wider circles, steadily decreasing the angle between the line on which it was suspended and the bedroom ceiling. After a moment the other two models ceased their erratic dancing and began to spin around and around, like the first plane, as if they were actually flying, and there was no mistaking this deliberate movement for the random effects of a draft.
Ghosts? A poltergeist?
But she didn't believe in ghosts. There were no such things. She believed in death and taxes, in the inevitability of slot-machine jackpots, in all-you-can-eat casino buffets for $5.95 per person, in the Lord God Almighty, in the truth of alien abductions and Big Foot, but she didn't believe in ghosts.
The sliding closet doors began to move on their runners, and Vivienne Neddler had the feeling that some awful thing was going to come out of the dark space, its eyes as red as blood and its razor-sharp teeth gnashing. She felt a presence, something that wanted her, and she cried out as the door came all the way open.
But there wasn't a monster in the closet. It contained only clothes. Only clothes.
Nevertheless, untouched, the doors glided shut . . . and then open again. . . .
The model planes went around, around.
The air grew even colder.
The bed started to shake. The legs at the foot rose three or four inches before crashing back into the casters that had been put under them to protect the carpet. They rose up again. Hovered above the floor. The springs began to sing as if metal fingers were strumming them.
Vivienne backed into the wall, eyes wide, hands fisted at her sides.
As abruptly as the bed had started bouncing up and down, it now stopped. The closet doors closed with a jarring crash—but they didn't open again. The model airplanes slowed, swinging in smaller and smaller circles, until they finally hung motionless.
The room was silent.
Nothing moved.
The air was getting warmer.
Gradually Vivienne's heartbeat subsided from the hard,
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