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int　to　the　Planning　mittee；　but　he　hadn't　even　mentioned　the　promising　situation。　The　only　thing　he'd　said　on　Stone's　departure　that　evening　was　'doubtless；　that　proposal　of　ours　will　go　through　now；　Walter'。　And；　of　course；　it　had。　Because　Walter　had　had　no　choice。
　　
　　Now　Marion　was　dead；　burned　up　like　that　curate　they'd　found　the　other　week。　Stone　hadn't　gone　into　the　office　that　day。　He'd　phoned　and　said　he　was　ill；　which　was　partly　true。　He　was　beginning　to　panic。　Boyce　had　said　that　there　was　some　kind　of　'haunting'　at　St　Monica's　but　it　was　nothing　that　an　exorcist　could　not　deal　with。　Christ；　look　what　had　happened　to　Cleehopes；　still　a　mindless　vegetable　liable　to　spend　the　remainder　of　his　days　babbling　nonsensically　to　himself　in　a　padded　cell！
　　
　　All　this　had　started　since　Stone　had　swayed　the　mittee。　He'd　convinced　them　that　the　ten　acres　was　an　eyesore；　would　bee　an　unsightly　wilderness　as　the　years　went　by。　'Go　and　look　at　the　state　the　churchyard's　in　if　you　don't　believe　me。'　In　the　end　the　planning　officer　had　got　his　way。
　　
　　He'd　spent　the　day　indoors；　tried　to　phone　the　bishop　twice　but　on　each　occasion　Boyce　was　not　available。　Jesus　Christ；　what　had　Marion　gone　there　alone　at　night　for？　The　only　thing　he　could　think　of　was　that　she'd　had　a　date　with　some　guy　and　it　had　all　turned　sour。　He'd　killed　her；　poured　paraffin　over　her　and　set　her　alight。　If　he　hadn't　known　there　was　something　inexplicable　going　on　at　St　Monica's　he　would　have　believed　that　and　felt　a　damned　sight　easier。
　　
　　Boyce　was　getting　windy　too。　And　this　fellow；　Sabat；　had　a　reputation　for　poking　his　nose　into　things　that　were　none　of　his　concern。　The　bishop　must　have　been　crazy　to　call　him　in。　It　was　like　hiring　a　man…eating　tiger　from　the　zoo　to　kill　the　rats　in　your　garden；　after　the　vermin　had　been　accounted　for　it　might　just　turn　on　you。
　　
　　Walter　Stone　spent　a　restless　day；　constantly　glancing　out　of　the　window　across　his　small　neat　garden。　The　weather　was　warm　and　spring…like　but　he　wasn't　going　outside。　No　sir；　he　was　going　to　stay　safely　locked　indoors。　And　maybe　he'd　phone　the　office　and　tell　them　he　was　taking　tomorrow　off；　too；　and　the　day　after　that　if　the　police　didn't　e　up　with　something　in　the　meantime。
　　
　　His　fears　were　magnified　with　the　approach　of　evening。　The　shadows　lengthened　as　he　sat　there　in　the　lounge；　mentally　and　physically　drained。　Soon　it　would　be　time　to　put　the　lights　on；　draw　the　curtains；　shut　himself　away　in　his　own　little　world。
　　
　　It　was　eight　twenty…five　by　the　clock　on　the　mantleshelf　when　Walter　Stone's　real　terror　began。　With　an　effort　he　dragged　himself　out　of　the　armchair；　almost　made　a　rush　for　the　light　switch。　God；　it　was　dark　already。　The　clock　must　have　stopped；　lighting…up　time　wasn't　until　eight　forty…five　but。　。　。　。
　　
　　He　clicked　the　switch；　stared　at　the　white　plastic　casing　in　amazement；　disbelief。　The　room　was　still　dark；　the　light　hadn't　e　on。　He　clicked　it　again。　And　again；　frantically　working　it　up　and　down　until　the　spring　weakened。　Something　gave；　the　switch　moved　loosely；　disconnected　somewhere。　And　it　was　getting　even　darker　in　the　room；　cold；　too。
　　
　　Stone's　mouth　went　dry；　his　stomach　churned　as　he　tried　to　e　up　with　a　reason　why　the　light　wasn't　working。　A　power　failure？　A　fuse　blown？　That　damned　clock　had　stopped　after　all。　It　was　bound　to　have　because　it　was　electric；　too。
　　
　　He　blundered　into　the　hall；　caught　his　knee　on　a　heavy　oak　chair　and　cried　out　in　pain。　A　sensation　of　disorientation；　not　knowing　exactly　where　the　hall　switch　was；　scrabbling　along　the　wall　with　his　fingers　until　he　found　it；　clicking　it　feverishly。　It　didn't　work　either！
　　
　　Panicking　now；　stampeding　from　one　room　to　another；　crashing　into　furniture；　oblivious　to　the　pain　because　his　escalating　terror　dominated。　Up　the　stairs；　falling；　dragging　himself　up　on　all　fours；　whimpering　when　each　switch　he　tried　was　dead。　Finally；　the　bedroom；　kneeling　against　the　bed　like　he　used　to　do　in　his　childhood　when　his　mother　insisted　that　he　said　his　prayers　every　night。
　　
　　It　had　to　be　a　power　failure　of　some　kind。　If　it　was　a　blown　fuse　then　he　had　no　idea　how　to　repair　it　because　he　had　never　been　of　a　practical　nature。　It　was　a　matter　of　cutting　a　length　of　fuse　wire　and　。。。　he　knew　the　fuse　box　was　somewhere　in　the　larder　but　he　had　no　idea　how　to　go　about　it。
　　
　　Suddenly　a　glow　of　white　hope　came　out　of　the　darkened　room；　a　shimmering　silent　ivory　saviour　in　his　hour　of　terror　…　the　telephone　extension　by　the　bedside！　Almost　luminous；　it　offered　hope　when　he　had　almost　given　up；　a　lifeline　to　an　outside　world　of　reality。
　　
　　He　scrambled　across　to　it；　still　on　his　knees；　grabbed　the　receiver　off　its　cradle　with　a　hand　that　shook　uncontrollably；　dropped　it　so　that　it　hit　the　floor；　bounced　away　from　him　and　would　have　rolled　under　the　bed　had　the　flex　not　pulled　it　up　short。　He　reached　for　it　again；　almost　afraid　that　it　might　jump　away。
　　
　　Walter　Stone　expelled　his　breath　in　a　rush　of　sheer　relief　as　he　pressed　the　receiver　to　his　ear；　stretched　out　a　shaking　finger　to　dial。　In　that　instant　a　new　wave　of　frustration　and　hopelessness　flooded　his　crazed　mind。　God；　he　didn't　know　the　electricity　board's　number；　The　directory　was　downstairs　in　the　hall　and　he　wasn't　going　back　down　there　again！
　　
　　Trying　to　think。　Nine…nine…nine？　Give　me　the　police；　fire　brigade　。　。　。　anybody。　My　lights　have　failed　and　I'm　all　alone　in　the　dark！
　　
　　A　brainwave　amidst　this　latest　panic　…　try　the　operator；　dial　100。
　　
　　Three　digits　and　it　took　him　three　attempts；　his　finger　slipping　off　the　dial　so　that　he　had　to　replace　the　receiver　and　try　again。　Finally　he　made　it。　And　that　was　when　his　fear　finally　erupted。　Silence。　The　line　was　dead！
　　
　　He　had　no　idea　how　long　he'd　crouched　there　on　the　floor　beside　the　bed。　The　small　bedside　alarm　clock　ticked　away　loudly　and　unconcernedly；　a　tinny；　irritating　noise；　its　luminous　hands　stating　that　the　time　was　eleven　forty…five。　It；　too；　could　have　been　lying　even　if　it　wasn't　electric。
　　
　　He　shivered　with　cold；　half　considered　getting　into　bed　fully　dressed。　Somehow；　though；　one　was　at　a　disadvantage　when　in　bed　…　you　couldn't　flee　at　a　moment's　notice！　Not　that　there　was　anywhere　to　run；　except　downstairs　and　。　。　。　and　outside！
　　
　　He　experienced　a　drowsiness　that　stemmed　from　fatigue；　a　state　in　which　you　thought　you　might　doze　off　but　you　made　every　effort　not　to　because　something　might　creep　up　on　you　while　you　slept。　So　cold；　the　temperature　must　have　dropped　below　freezing。
　　
　　Noises　that　got　on　your　nerves。　Every　house　has　its　creaking；　nocturnal；　inexplicable　groans　but　suddenly　they　became　terrifying　as　though　somebody　（or　something）　was　creeping　up　the　stairs。　The　alarm　clock　…　tick…lock；　tick…lock；　tick…lock；　unceasing。　It　reminded　him　of　a　pantomime　he'd　seen　when　he　was　five。　Peter　Pan。　The　crocodile　had　swallowed　an　alarm　clock；　a　cheap　thing　very　similar　to　this　one。
　　
　　Tick…tock；　tick…tock；　tick…tock；　it　was　ing　to　get　him。　。　。　。　Something　moved；　rolled。　He　screamed；　then　realised　what　it　was。　Momentary　relief；　he'd　kicked　the　telephone　receiver　which　lay　on　the　floor。
　　
　　His　teeth　were　chattering；　at　least　he　thought　at　first　that　it　was　his　own　teeth。　Like　the　embarrassment　of　a　rumbling　stomach　in　pany；　nobody　can　be　quite　sure　whose　it　is；　even　the　offender；　so　everybody　looks　round　and　。　。　。
　　
　　Oh；　Merciful　God！　A　head；　a　face！
　　
　　Walter　Stone　croaked　his　terror；　a　strangled　scream；　tried　to　tell　himself　that　it　was　some　kind　of　hallucination　or　even　an　optical　illusion。　That　alarm　clock's　luminous　dial；　it　was　about　the　right　size。　。　。　。
　　
　　But　it　wasn't　the　alarm　clock！　It　was　a　skull；　a　tiny　shrunken　thing　the　size　of　a　tennis　ball；　features　so　malign；　eyes　that　glowed　redly　and　illuminated　the　peeling　flesh　on　the　bone；　mouth　screwed　up　to　spit　out　volatile　hatred；　slobbering　mucus　which　strung　down；　moving　in　time　with　the　pendulum…like　motions　of　the　head。　Suspended　several　feet　in　the　air；　its　cold　breath　stinking　like　a　rotting　carcase；　it　watched　the　cowering　man；　gloating。　Waiting。
　　
　　Somehow　Walter　Stone's　shaking　legs　precipitated　the　rest　of　his　body　into　action；　lurching　him　upright；　making　him　stagger　towards　the　open　door　leading　out　on　to　the　landing。　He　half　expected　this　awful　abomination　to　bar　his　way；　drive　him　back　into　a　corner　from　which　there　was　no　escape；　but　it　made　no　move　to　hinder　his　progress。
　　
　　Out　on　to　the　landing；　groping　for　the　stair…rail　but　airborne　before　he　realised　it。　Falling；　bouncing；　bone…shattering　blows　to　back　and　shoulders；　lying　prone　on　a　polished　block　floor；　scarcely　daring　to　look　behind　him。
　　
　　But　he　had　to；　pelled　to　turn　his　head；　oblivious　to　the　pain。　Nothing　else　mattered　except　。　。　。
　　
　　It　was　still　there！　It　swung　gently　like　a　ball　suspended　by　an　invisible　thread　at　a　fairground；　defying　the　efforts　of　bean…bag　throwers。　Smiling　its　malevolence；　its　fetid　breath　clouding　it　like　vile　marshland　vapours　rising　to　hide　a　patch　of　bog。
　　
　　Stone　got　to　his　feet；　his　fe