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           Hisearsweregettingmostofthehallucinationsnow—forhecouldswearheheardstealthy,ploddingfootstepsintheworkroombeyondtheclosedandlockeddoor. HehadnobusinessthinkingofthatunexhibitedhorrorwhichRogerscalled“It”. Thethingwasacontamination—ithaddrivenitsmakermad,andnowevenitspicturewascallingupimaginativeterrors. Itcouldnotbeintheworkroom—itwasveryobviouslybeyondthatpadlockeddoorofheavyplanking. Thosestepswerecertainlypureimagination. 

           Thenhethoughtheheardthekeyturnintheworkroomdoor. Flashingonhistorch,hesawnothingbuttheancientsix-panelledportalinitsproperposition. Againhetrieddarknessandclosedeyes,buttherefollowedaharrowingillusionofcreaking—nottheguillotinethistime,buttheslow,furtiveopeningoftheworkroomdoor. Hewouldnotscream. Oncehescreamed,hewouldbelost. Therewasasortofpaddingorshufflingaudiblenow,anditwasslowlyadvancingtowardhim. Hemustretaincommandofhimself. Hadhenotdonesowhenthenamelessbrain-shapestriedtocloseinonhim? Theshufflingcreptnearer,andhisresolutionfailed. Hedidnotscreambutmerelygulpedoutachallenge. 

           “Whogoesthere? Whoareyou? Whatdoyouwant?” 

           Therewasnoanswer,buttheshufflingkepton. Jonesdidnotknowwhichhefearedmosttodo—turnonhisflashlightorstayinthedarkwhilethethingcreptuponhim. Thisthingwasdifferent,hefeltprofoundly,fromtheotherterrorsoftheevening. Hisfingersandthroatworkedspasmodically.