The Mask

introduce his cute little sister, Marie, to a panting audience of Osmond fans. There was a disquieting zeal in Alsgood’s manner.
    “If it does turn out to be a poltergeist,” Alsgood said, “if things do get a lot worse, will you call me right away? I’ve been fortunate enough to observe two poltergeists, as I said. I’d like nothing better than to see a third going through its tricks. The opportunity doesn’t arise very often.”
    “I guess not,” Paul said.
    “So you’ll call me?”
    “I very much doubt there’s a poltergeist involved here, Mr. Alsgood. If I keep looking long enough and hard enough, I’ll find a perfectly logical explanation for what’s been happening. But on the off-chance that it is a malign spirit, rest assured I’ll give you a call the moment the first refrigerator or chiffonier levitates.”
    Alsgood wasn’t able to see anything amusing about their conversation. He frowned when he detected levity in Paul’s voice, and he said, “I didn’t really expect you to take me seriously.”
    “Oh, please don’t think I’m not grateful for—”
    “No, no,” Alsgood said, waving him to silence. “I understand. No offense taken.” The excitement had gone out of his watery eyes. “You’ve been raised to believe strictly in science. You’ve been taught to put your faith only in things that can be seen and touched and measured. That’s the modern way.” His shoulders slumped. The color in his face faded, and his skin became pale, grayish, and slack, as it had been a few minutes ago. “Asking you to be open-minded about ghosts is as pointless as trying to convince a deep-sea creature that there are such things as birds. It’s sad but true, and I have no reason to be angry about it.”
    He opened the front door, and the sound of the rain grew louder. “Anyway, for your sake, I hope it isn’t a poltergeist you’ve got here. I hope you find that logical explanation you’re looking for. I really do, Mr. Tracy.”
    Before Paul could respond, Alsgood turned and walked out into the rain. He no longer seemed like a zealot; there was no trace of passion in him. He was just a thin, gray man, shuffling through the gray mist, head slightly bowed against the gray rain, illuminated by the gray light of the storm; he almost seemed like a ghost himself.
    Paul closed the door, put his back against it, and looked around the hall, through the nearest archway, which opened onto the living room. Poltergeist? Not very damned likely.
    He preferred Alsgood’s other suggestion: that the hammering might simply stop as suddenly and inexplicably as it had started, without the cause ever being known.
    He glanced at his watch. 6:06.
    Carol had said she would remain at the hospital until eight o’clock and would then come home for a late meal. That gave him an hour or so to work on his novel before he had to start cooking dinner—broiled chicken breasts, steamed vegetables, and rice with bits of green pepper.
    He went upstairs to his office and sat down at the typewriter. He picked up the last page he had written, intending to reread it a few times and get back into the mood and tone of the story he was telling.
    THUNK! THUNK!
    The house shook. The windows rattled.
    He bolted up from his chair.
    THUNK!
    On his desk, the jar full of pens and pencils toppled over, cracked into several pieces, and spilled its contents onto the floor.
    Silence.
    He waited. One minute. Two minutes.
    Nothing.
    There was no sound except the snapping of the rain against the windows and the drumming of it on the roof.
    Only three hammer blows this time. Harder than any that had come before. But only three. Almost as if someone were playing games with him, taunting him.
     
----
     
    Shortly before midnight, in room 316, the girl laughed softly in her sleep.
    Outside her window, lightning pulsed, and the night flickered, and the darkness seemed to gallop for a moment, as if it were a huge and eager beast.
    The girl turned onto her stomach without waking, murmured into her pillows. “The ax,” she said with a wistful sigh. “The ax….”
    On the stroke of midnight, just forty minutes after she had fallen asleep, Carol bolted up from her pillows, trembling violently. As she struggled out of the grip of her nightmare, she heard someone say, “It’s coming! It’s coming!” She stared wildly, blindly into the lightless room until she realized the panic-stricken voice had been her own.
    Suddenly she could not tolerate the darkness one second longer. She fumbled desperately for