Hand cupped to ear, ear to floor, listening. There followed a faint double thud on the trapdoor and he could picture Somebody kneeling on the floor overhead, The footsteps neither progressed nor receded, they merely stopped. He waited for the grating protest of iron hinges he knew must follow. There they went again, surreptitious, creepy, sneak-up-on-you steps. "No sir!" Niles retorted, grimacing with suspense, eyes roving the floorboards above. "Somebody-" Somebody human, he had meant to say at least he imagined it human. "Somebody's up there," he rigidly insisted. Unconsciously Niles rubbed the palm of his hand, greased by hot wax. It's nobody." Niles was unable to see him, but Holland's voice had that familiar, well-honed edge of ridicule. Somebody crafty up there, crafty enough to be barefooted, or to be wearing sneakers. Almost soundless they were, the footsteps, so soundless you had to make a face to hear them, but there they were all the same. Somebody trying very hard not to be heard, Somebody being a sneak, Somebody out for trouble. There was Somebody walking around up there, you bet. He had hastily put out the candle, flatting his hand against the flame, knocking over the bottle the candle was stuck in its empty clatter still echoed up and down the room. "Holland - listen! " he insisted, his voice ecstatic with horror. "Stop!" Niles cried, and the music stopped, stopped precisely and immediately, that twanging sound that rang in his ears and made him nervous.
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