Nightside 01 - Something From the Nightside

effect the house was having on her. This frantic, almost out of control Joanna, wasn't at all the woman I'd come to know, and care for. She hadn't been this freaked out before, even in the Timeslip. It had to be the house.
    "You shouldn't have brought her here, John," said Suzie. "She doesn't belong here."
    Her voice wasn't especially harsh, or unforgiving. She was speaking the truth as she saw it, just as she always did.
    Joanna glared at her, her voice rising angrily again. "You don't give a damn about what might have happened to my daughter! You're only here because I'm paying you to be here!"
    "Damn right," said Suzie, entirely unmoved. "And you'd better be good for the money."
    They went on snarling at each other for a while, in their own hot and cold way, but I wasn't really paying attention. The house, what there was of it, baffled me. I kept thinking I was missing something. Something had called, or even summoned, Cathy to this place, and all those missing important people Walker had mentioned, but now I was here, at the heart of the mystery, there was nothing here. Except for whatever
    was playing games up on the next floor. Nothing in the house, nothing at all... I started up the stairs, and Joanna and Suzie immediately stopped arguing and hurried after me, Suzie pushing forward to take her place at my side again, shotgun to the fore.
    No more slamming doors. No reaction at all. When we got to the next floor, all we found were more bare walls and more doors leading off. All the doors were safely, securely, closed. Suzie looked slowly about her, checking for targets, the shotgun tracking along with her gaze. Joanna was all but trembling with eagerness, and I took a few seconds to impress on her that Suzie and I were going to take the point. I looked at the closed doors, and they looked smugly back at me. Suzie raised her voice suddenly.
    "Is it me, or is it lighter up here?"
    I frowned, as I realised I could make out much more on this floor, even outside of the flashlight's beam. "It's not you, Suzie. The gloom seems to be lifting; though I'm damned if I can see where the light's coming from ..." I broke off, as I looked up at the ceiling and realised for the first time that there were no light bulbs, or even any sign of the original light fittings. Which was ... unusual, even for Blais-ton Street.
    "I just had another thought," said Suzie. "And a rather unsettling one, at that. If this house isn't really
    here, what are we standing on, right now? Are we actually floating in mid air, over some vacant lot?"
    "You're right," I said. "That is an unsettling thought. Just what I needed right now. Hang about while I check it out."
    But when I went to raise my gift, nothing happened. Something from outside had wrapped itself around my head, unfelt but immovable, forcibly preventing me from opening my private eye, from seeing the world as it really was. I struggled against it, with what strength I had left, but there was nothing there that I could get a grip on. I swore briefly. What was going on here, that Something didn't want me to see, to understand? Suzie scowled about her, desperate for something solid she could attack.
    "What do you want to do, John? Kick in all the doors and take it room by room? Shoot anything that moves and isn't the runaway?"
    I gestured abruptly for her to be quiet, straining my ears for the sound I thought I'd caught. It was there, faint but definite. Not too far away, behind one of the closed doors; someone was giggling. Like a child with a secret. I padded quickly down the corridor, Joanna and Suzie right on my heels, stopping to listen at each door until I'd found the right one. I tried the handle, and it turned easily in my grasp, like an invitation. I pushed the door in an inch, and then stepped back. I gestured for Joanna to stick close to me, and then nodded to Suzie. She grinned briefly,
    kicked the door in, and we all surged forward into the room beyond.
    It was bare and empty like the rest of the house, except for Cathy Barrett, found at last, lying flat on her back on a bare wooden floor on the other side of the room, covered from neck to toe by a long grubby raincoat, tucked under her chin like a blanket. She made no move to rise as her would-be rescuers charged in, just smiled happily at us as though she didn't have a care in the world.
    "Hello," she said. "Come in. We've been expecting you."
    I looked carefully about me, but there was no-one else in the room with her. I