"The Spirit of Things"
John Skipp
They were screaming downstairs, in Bob Wallach’s apartment. He
couldn’t tell how many people Bob had down there with him. He
couldn’t even tell how much of it was human
screaming. He really
didn’t
want to know.
“Damn it all, I tried to warn him,” Wertzel hissed.
It didn’t help. The
floorboards thudded
and death-twitched beneath
his feet. Books and knickknacks threatened to tumble from their perches. Something snapped and shattered against a wall below: furniture, bone, he couldn’t be sure. A window exploded
into tinkling shards. The stereo died in mid-song, groaning.
The screaming got louder, crazier. Wertzel swallowed
painfully and white-knuckled the handgrip of his .45. Something, decidedly
not human, shrieked. The
screaming got worse, if that was possible.
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