Shadows 7 Read Free Page B

here—mister?" he managed finally in a gravelly voice.
    I nodded.
    He shook his head in disbelief. "Don't know how you stand it! This was my first night—and my last! That old crone downstairs has the whole place packed with sick people! Some of 'em dying, I'll bet! Heard 'em moan and holler half the night! Roamin' the halls too, they was. I'm gettin' out!"
    He turned, took a tight grip on the battered suitcase which he carried, and headed for the stairs. Half a minute later I heard the front door slam.
    Thoughtfully, I returned to my room. Recalling the ringing of the doorbell just before I had fallen asleep, I now surmised that it had been the wild-eyed departed character inquiring about a room.
    Well, at least I wasn't merely dreaming or hallucinating, I told myself. Someone else had heard the same sounds, or similar sounds, as I. Perhaps the fleeing one-night roomer was right: Mrs. Clendon was operating some sort of shady nursing home or last refuge for the senile and terminally ill.
    But why were the occupants active and vociferous only at night? Why were the corridors always empty, the rooms always closed and quiet whenever I came or went? I couldn't answer my own questions. They raced around in my head like starving squirrels in a treadwheel cage.
    In spite of the cold morning air and a brisk walk, I had developed a dull, persistent headache by the time I arrived at Eats.
    I had lost my appetite. I nibbled sandwiches, but I got through the day thanks to extra cups of strong black coffee. On several occasions I caught Mr. Karda watching me with disapproving, suspicious eyes, but he made no complaint. I did the work assigned.
    After he had paid me, and as I was about to leave, he approached me, frowning, and spoke. "You got trouble?"
    I hesitated. I was tired and I didn't think he could be of much help in any case.
    I shrugged. "Place where I room gets noisy at night. I don't get half enough sleep."
    "Carousing? Women? Drunks? Stuff like that?"
    "No, not any of those. Seems like a lot of sick people in there. I guess they get worse at night. Groan, yell, prowl around."
    "Where you stayin'?"
    I told him.
    An odd expression crossed his face. I couldn't quite fathom it. He walked back to the counter and wiped it very carefully.
    I had my hand on the doorknob before he looked up. "If I was you," he said, "I'd get a room somewhere else."
    "What do you know about the place?"
    It was his turn to shrug. "Oh, nothin', I guess. Rumors is all. I heard once that old bag takes in anybody for a quick buck. That's an old, old house too. Must be a lot of people died in there."
    For some reason his comments exasperated me. "A lot of people have died in old rooming houses all over the city," I replied irritably. "And everybody's out for a quick buck these days."
    He hung up the counter cloth and grinned. "Sure, sure. That's the truth! Just forget about it and try to get a night's sleep."
    After the sordid ceremony of Mrs. Clendon's sliding bolts and clutching, bony hand, I ascended to my room and sprawled on the bed. As usual, I saw no one in the corridors. The doors of the rooms were all closed. Occasionally, a sporadic wind shook a broken shutter; otherwise the house was gripped in silence.
    "Holding its breath," I told myself—and immediately regretted it. If I was to go on working all day, eating inadequately as I had been, it would be vital for me to get more sleep.
    After minimum ablutions and perfunctory glances at a week-old newspaper which I had picked up, I undressed and got into bed.
    Sleep would not come. Though I ached with fatigue, my brain remained active and alert. In my mind, Mr. Karda repeated his comment endlessly: That's an old, old house. Must be a lot of people died in there.
    I finally got up and dressed. I had had enough, I told myself. I would take the initiative. I was tired of lying in bed, tense with fear, waiting for the sounds to start.
    I stole into the corridor, locked my door, slipped the key into my