Chapter 18

I could hear the old man's footsteps on the stairs, and I said nothing.

It was late now, nearly one in the morning, and I was taking a chance.

Most people, if they heard a noise that might have been a prowler downstairs, would do exactly

what Richard Marsh was doing right now.

They would come down to investigate.

It isn't a bad response, since almost every time that anyone does it, there's nothing there.

It was a cat, or the house was settling, or it was just a dream.

Something. Anything.

But not a rumpled private detective sitting in the best chair in your parlor.

See, investigating a strange noise yourself is a very good idea when there's nothing there.

Then you feel clever for not calling the police out and staying awake half the night waiting for them to pop by and investigate.

But sometimes you get halfway down the stairs and you do exactly what Richard Marsh was doing

now.

You slow to a crawl,

feeling even more certain that there really is someone in the house with you. Here are the two

options. You can go back upstairs to call the police and hope whoever it is hasn't cut the lines,

and I hadn't. Or you call out something stupid. You let your voice travel ahead of you into the

darkness and hope that if there is a prowler, he will scuttle away as he becomes aware of your

presence. This notion subscribes to the he's more afraid of you than you are of him, school

of thought. And it wasn't a bad one, really.

Hello? Richard Marsh called into the darkness.

...