It Knows Where You Live Read Free Page A

the corridor illuminated the interior, not a lot, but just enough for her to see what was inside: a double bed, a wardrobe, a rickety chair by the door. Another door, this one closed to the frame, which must lead to the bathroom. A pile of books on the bed. A camera set up on a tripod against the adjoining wall.
    Something flickered inside her head, like a faulty light bulb. Her thoughts went dark.  
    She was caught in a moment, stuck between two different reactions: should she backtrack and return to their room, and confront the possibility of Terry’s deep sleep not being sleep at all, or should she push on into this new room, this new situation, and face whatever was waiting for her?
    She found herself stepping across the threshold, moving into the room. She made her way to the bed, and before she’d even picked up a single book she knew what she’d see on the cover. Two words; a hackneyed phrase:
    Horror Stories
    She picked up one, two books. They were identical...and exactly the same as the one she’d found in the other room, on the bed, next to her motionless lover. She opened one of the books and found it filled with blank pages. The next one was the same. And the next, the next, along with the several others she tried after that...perhaps a hundred copies of the same book, all filled with empty pages. She couldn’t remember there being that many books when she’d first seen them.
    She turned away from the bed and focused her attention on the camera. She knew nothing of this kind of technology, but it didn’t look current. It wasn’t digital. It was hooked up to a video recorder on top of a small television she had initially failed to see because it was on the floor, with its screen turned to face the wall.
    Recalling the specifics of Terry’s scare-story, she moved closer to the camera, trying not to touch it, not to brush against the legs of its tripod. The end of the lens was pressed right up against a small hole in the wall. She backed away, feeling a rush of panic. Then, recovering herself, she crouched down and turned the television set around so she could see its screen.
    She glanced over her shoulder, at the door, and there was nobody out there on the landing. She was still alone. There was no threat here. This whole scene possessed the quality of an art installation: lots of attention to detail, a sense that somebody had arranged things in a certain way to evoke a specific emotional response.
    On the television screen she could see the bed in the other room, and the shape of Terry on the mattress. The image was grainy, like CCTV footage, and it flickered constantly. She watched as a woman she knew to be herself entered the shot. The woman—this other Nancy—stood over the bed and picked up the book. She opened the book and looked at the pages. It was impossible to tell if they were blank or if anything was written on them. It was like a time-lapse image, a delayed recording of events she’d already lived through, things she had already done.
    And then everything changed.
    The woman began to read aloud, facing the bed, as if she were reciting a bedtime story to the man who was lying there, so unmoving. There was no sound; hers was a silent performance. The window blind was closed. The darkness in the room seemed to stir, but that could have been a result of the constant flickering of the image on the screen.
    Nancy was no longer afraid. None of this felt real or solid. It was just another horror story, but one she was now part of. She stood up straight and walked across the room, casting one final glance at the pile of books on the bed. This time the books were all open to the first page, and there were regular lines of cramped text covering the paper. She didn’t pause to read them; she just continued on her way, out of the room, onto the landing. To her right, where the staircase had been, there was now a wall of books—a dusty red hardbound barrier stretching from floor to ceiling, each