It Knows Where You Live Read Free

truth.
    She went back over to the bed, and in an act of defiance she picked up the book and opened it to the first page. The paper was blank: no publishing history, no printer’s name, and no list of acknowledgements. She turned to the next page, where she expected to find a table of contents, and saw yet another empty page. The paper looked cheap: it was rough to the touch and she could see the shape of the pulp.
    She turned another page, and found the first, untitled story. The opening line—a snatch of dialogue—made her take a step back, keeping the book at arm’s length:  
    “‘I remember hearing about something that happened here once.’”
    They were Terry’s words, the ones he’d started his story with. She couldn’t be certain if they were the exact words, of course—her memory wasn’t good. But she was pretty sure that he’d used a phrase very much like the one she’d just read.
    She closed the book, hard, slamming the covers shut. Then she placed the book carefully on the bed, but not too close to Terry, not this time...Why? In case the book was harmful?
    It was like a dream had bled into waking life. None of this seemed entirely real, but it felt real enough to make her afraid. “Terry?”
    Again, there was no response. She knew she could reach out, shake him awake, but for some reason she didn’t want to make a move. What if he doesn’t wake up? The thought, along with everything it implied, was simply too terrifying to contemplate.
    She walked backwards, staring at the bed, the book—but not at Terry. Then, when she brushed against the chair with her thigh, she turned around and reached for the door handle. She opened the door. The landing outside was quiet and empty. Light spilled through the window at the end, the one situated near the staircase. She listened, but there was nothing much to be heard. Night noises; sleep sounds; the whispers of a building at rest.
    She closed the door. Then she opened it again, but slowly this time. What was it she had noticed? The thing that had disturbed her yet intrigued her enough to look back out there.
    She turned her head to the side. Yes, that was it: the door to the room next to theirs was open. She hadn’t seen it—not exactly—but she must have sensed it, like a disturbance in the natural order of things. And the story—Terry’s story; the one she’d seen at least partly retold in that book—was still fresh in her mind.
    She’d read the stories and seen the movies. A woman roaming a darkened building, walking around and poking her nose into rooms she should have ignored. Acting silly, like a victim-in-waiting, as if she were deliberately looking to be hacked or slashed or beaten...
    Yes, she knew all the stories by heart, but still she stepped out onto the landing and turned to face the partially open door. Blackness showed at the edge of the frame. She reached out a hand and pushed, gently, almost hesitantly, and the door opened further: the darkness at the edge grew wider.
    “Hello. Is anyone in there?” Again, she felt silly saying the words, but it was all just part of the plot, an element of the story someone else had written. Why did she feel this way, as if her actions were being determined by another? Was it because the situation was so familiar from all the old stories and the scary films she’d ever seen?
    “Don’t be stupid,” she said, answering her own question. “It’s just an empty room. You know that.” And she did; she knew it very well. Terry had asked when they checked into the hotel if there was anyone in the room next door. They both made a lot of noise during sex, and he didn’t want to disturb anyone. The receptionist had blushed at his audacity, and then regained her composure, the professional mask slipping back into place. No , she’d said. The room next to yours is empty. There’s nobody staying there .
      Nancy pushed open the door. The room beyond was still and dim and not unlike their own. Light from