Thenightwasthickwithanoppressivesilence,brokenonlybythedistantcreakoftheoldhousesettlingintoitsbones.Afaintdraftslitheredthroughthecracksinthewindowframe,carryingwithitthescentofdampearthandsomethingelse—somethingfaintlymetallic,likethetangofrustediron.Thecandleonthebedsidetableflickered,castinglong,tremblingshadowsthatseemedtotwistandcoilagainstthewalls.Foramoment,IcouldhaveswornIsawafigurestandingjustbeyondthereachofthelight,itsfeaturesblurredasifsubmergedindarkwater.Then,asquicklyastheimpressioncame,itwasgone,leavingonlythecoldcertaintythatIwasnotalone.Theairgrewheavier,asthoughtheveryatmosphereweretighteningaroundme—likeascrewturning,inchbyrelentlessinch.
