Part 6 (2/2)

The room smelled of stale sweat and fever dreams. But no trace of spoiled meat.

The final door was flanked on both sides by stacks of newspaper. One of the stacks had tipped over, clogging the width of the corridor with a jumble of yellowing newsprint, a mad collage of text and black-and-white photographs. Smiling politicians. Crowded cityscapes. I bent down and read the date off the nearest sheet: June 15, 2002.

The smell was stronger here. It was coming from inside the apartment.

I reached for the doork.n.o.b, hesitated, and decided to knock. There was a sound of movement on the other side of the door-the groaning of mattress springs, followed by the sound of a foot hitting the floor-then abrupt silence.

I knocked again and cleared my throat. ”h.e.l.lo? I don't mean you any harm. Really. I'm just looking for somebody-my friend's mother. Have you seen anyone? Do you think you could help?”

There was no response. I tried to turn the doork.n.o.b, but the door was locked.

I waited for nearly a minute, keeping my head c.o.c.ked next to the door, but there was no sound of movement inside the room. There was nothing. The sound of held breath, maybe, I thought. Held breath and paralysis. I retreated back to the stairwell and continued up to the third floor.

There was nothing on the third floor, and again, nothing on the fourth. Just empty, abandoned rooms, the refuse of long-gone squatters.

A sound greeted me on the fifth-floor landing, a scramble of movement coming from the far end of the corridor. It was a faint, small sound, like a horsehair brush sliding back and forth over wood. But different-something foreign, alien-nothing I could place. Charlie's mother? Doing what? I quickly made my way past the other apartments on the floor, noting the empty, unremarkable rooms as they swam past the corners of my eyes. As I drew near, the sound didn't seem to get any louder. It stayed a quiet, unearthly whisper-the shhhhhh of a record player hitting blank grooves, maybe-and I was afraid it would peter out entirely, disappearing before I could reach that last apartment.

I rounded the open doorway and found an empty room.

My lungs were working hard now, and I stopped with my hand on the doorjamb, trying to hear over my panting breath. The sound was still there, coming from somewhere inside the room.

I stepped forward and noticed a hole in the left-hand wall. It was a ragged oval, about three feet wide and two feet tall, punched through the drywall and plaster. No, not punched, I realized. The edges of the hole jutted outward, into the room, as if scrabbling, frantic hands had pulled at the opening, trying to make it wider. Or, I thought, as if something had pushed its way through from the other side.

The hole didn't go all the way through to the neighboring room; there was no hint of light on the other side, just darkness. Darkness and sound. It was a little bit louder now. Definitely coming from the hole.

I approached the hole and paused for a handful of seconds, trying to gather the courage to peer inside. Finally, I took a deep breath and moved forward, easing my head through the opening.

The gap between the walls was about a foot wide, and I could see plumbing snaking down toward the lower floors. A tiny breeze, cool and damp, trickled up from the bas.e.m.e.nt. I glanced down and saw blue light five or six floors down. At first, I wasn't sure if it was actually there; my eyes were treacherous, swimming with afterimages as they adjusted to the dark. But the light solidified, becoming a line in the distance.

Something underground, I realized. Beneath the building.

I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced to my left. There was a ma.s.s sprouting from the neighboring wall, about five feet down. At first, it wouldn't register, this thing that I was seeing. I just couldn't comprehend it. A flesh-colored mound fringed with dark fluff. Then I noticed movement on its surface, a quivering blotch of white.

An eye. A face.

I sucked breath in through my teeth-it got trapped there, in my throat and lungs. I couldn't move, not for at least half a minute.

What is it? It wasn't a body, wasn't a person. It wasn't even a head. It was half a head, trapped between the walls. A face, bisected. And the eye was trembling, moving in tiny, uncoordinated bursts.

A mirror! I grasped at the possibility. It explained what I was seeing: my own face-half in the hole, half out-reflected in something down below.

I reached in and ran my hand across my cheek, moving it in front of my teeth, but there was no corresponding movement on the face. The teeth and lips, sheared in two, remained clear, un.o.bstructed.

I felt dizzy, the blood in my head rus.h.i.+ng and pounding behind my temples. No, I chided myself. None of that fainting s.h.i.+t!

I scrabbled for my camera, slinging my backpack off my shoulder and digging through it one-handed. I did this blind, keeping my head in the hole. I just couldn't look away-I couldn't-afraid that if I took my eye off that face, it would disappear. Just some transitory phantom, caught, for a moment, in the fragile juncture between eye and world. I flicked the lens cap off my wide-angle zoom and brought the camera up to my face. The light was horrible here; almost nothing made its way in through the hole. I cranked open the aperture and tried to hold the camera steady. I took a couple of wide-angle shots in the dark, hoping to capture that line of light in the distance, then flicked on the flash. My hands were shaking as I focused on the face. It was male, I saw. Its hair was black ... his hair was black.

I twisted the lens from wide-angle to telephoto, filling the viewfinder. The camera focused, and I found myself staring at a close-up of that quivering eye.

Then the eye stopped quivering-its brow steepled up.

Suddenly, there was sense there, in that eye. And surprise.

I heard a click behind my head and realized that the sound that had drawn me here-those sandpaper whispers and horsehair brushes, that crackling record player-had grown louder in the last couple of minutes, while I'd been focused on the face down below. It was behind my head now, between the walls. And there was movement in that sound. It wasn't getting louder, it was getting nearer. I braced my hand on the hole's ragged edge and turned to look.

There were dark shapes in the gap up above. A jumble of moving limbs-large and tentacled things, just inches away. Something brushed against my cheek-just the barest, lightest touch-and I immediately recoiled, my skin p.r.i.c.kling in a wave of gooseflesh.

My hand caught on something at the hole's edge, and there was a brief burst of fire across my palm. Then I was free, stumbling back. I slipped my camera's carry strap around my neck and took a half dozen steps back. My legs were weak, and for a moment I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep them beneath my body. The sweat on my cheeks was freezing cold.

And there was movement at the edge of the hole. At first, it was just a tiny blur of black-at one spot along the top of the hole, then, a moment later, at a dozen more, all around its perimeter. Then a black, finger-thick tentacle reached out, waving, snakelike, up toward the wall, touching and repositioning itself, as if trying to find purchase. It was a dark, jointed stub bristling with whisker-thick hair.

I was holding my breath. I thought about the camera hanging against my chest, but I couldn't break my paralysis, I couldn't lift my hands and start taking pictures. Not now. I was transfixed by that hole-consumed-just standing there on weak, shaking legs, watching as it gave birth to ... whatever.

To something dark. And bristling. And wrong.

Then more of those dark limbs reached out, and a form heaved itself through the hole. Considering its initial, tentative movements, it moved fast, skittering on a bouquet of long limbs. A spider, I thought, suddenly flush with relief. Just a spider! But it wasn't a normal spider. At least, it wasn't like any spider I'd ever seen. It was huge, about the size of a small cat. And its limbs were surprisingly long, out of proportion with its body. It moved in a quick, rhythmic lurch, hauling itself down the wall in drunken uneven spurts. But fast.

And by the time it reached the floor, a half dozen of its ilk had made their way through the opening.

Now that I could see what they were-or at least I could comprehend their form-I broke my paralysis and grabbed for my camera. I started taking shots, the motor in the lens whirring as I tried to keep focus on the skittering things. I got wide shots of the spiders swarming through the hole-there were dozens now, crowding the wall. I zoomed in on one, filling the frame with a single black spider against the dirty gray carpet. I even got a series of shots of one spider crawling over another; the latter was an undersized specimen, spinning in a circle. There was something strange about the smaller spider, but, caught in its tornado of motion, I couldn't see what. I lowered the camera from my eye and activated the display, scrolling back to the start of that series.

Its leg, I saw. It was damaged or stunted. Congenitally deformed. I scrolled forward, looking for a better view. And I found it. Right there, protruding from the spider's body: a limb, much smaller than its other legs. But it wasn't a leg.

It was a finger. A human finger, pale and white.

Something touched my pant cuff, and I glanced down to find a spider climbing up my leg. My skin erupted in p.r.i.c.kles of heat-an intense, instinctual revulsion-and I shook myself violently. The spider hung on, somehow managing to continue its ascent. I swept my camera down, striking the spider from my stomach. In that brief moment of contact, I felt bristles scrabbling against my hand, and I almost fell over backward, trying to get away.

I caught my balance and looked around.

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