Night Shift by Stephen King

on that side could get up.”
    â€œBut who locked it?” Wisconsky asked.
    â€œAh,” Hall said mockingly, looking at Warwick. “A mystery.”
    â€œListen,” Brochu whispered.
    â€œOh, God,” Wisconsky sobbed. “I ain't going down there!”
    It was a soft sound, almost expectant; the whisk and patter of thousands of paws, the squeaking of rats.
    â€œCould be frogs,” Warwick said.
    Hall laughed aloud.
    Warwick shone his light down. A sagging flight of wooden stairs led down to the black stones of the floor beneath. There was not a rat in sight.
    â€œThose stairs won't hold us,” Warwick said with finality.
    Brochu took two steps forward and jumped up and down on the first step. It creaked but showed no sign of giving way.
    â€œI didn't ask you to do that,” Warwick said.
    â€œYou weren't there when that rat bit Ray,” Brochu said softly.
    â€œLet's go,” Hall said.
    Warwick took a last sardonic look around at the circle of men, then walked to the edge with Hall. Wisconsky stepped reluctantly between them. They went down one at a time. Hall, then Wisconsky, then Warwick. Their flashlight beams played over the floor, which was twisted and heaved into a hundred crazy hills and valleys. The hose thumped along behind Wisconsky like a clumsy serpent.
    When they got to the bottom, Warwick flashed his light around. It picked out a few rotting boxes, some barrels, little else. The seep from the river stood in puddles that came to ankle depth on their boots.
    â€œI don't hear them anymore,” Wisconsky whispered.
    They walked slowly away from the trapdoor, their feet shuffling through the slime. Hall paused and shone his light on a huge wooden box with white letters on it. “Elias Varney,” he read, “1841. Was the mill here then?”
    â€œNo,” Warwick said. “It wasn't built until 1897. What difference?”
    Hall didn't answer. They walked forward again. The sub-cellar was longer than it should have been, it seemed. The stench was stronger, a smell of decay and rot and things buried. And still the only sound was the faint, cavelike drip of water.
    â€œWhat's that?” Hall asked, pointing his beam at a jut of concrete that protruded perhaps two feet into the cellar. Beyond it, the darkness continued and it seemed to Hall that he could now hear sounds up there, curiously stealthy.
    Warwick peered at it. “It's . . . no, that can't be right.”
    â€œOuter wall of the mill, isn't it? And up ahead . . .”
    â€œI'm going back,” Warwick said, suddenly turning around.
    Hall grabbed his neck roughly. “You're not going anywhere, Mr. Foreman.”
    Warwick looked up at him, his grin cutting the darkness. “You're crazy, college boy. Isn't that right? Crazy as a loon.”
    â€œYou shouldn't push people, friend. Keep going.”
    Wisconsky moaned. “Hall—”
    â€œGive me that.” Hall grabbed the hose. He let go of Warwick's neck and pointed the hose at his head. Wisconsky turned abruptly and crashed back toward the trapdoor. Hall did not even turn. “After you, Mr. Foreman.”
    Warwick stepped forward, walking under the place where the mill ended above them. Hall flashed his light about, and felt a cold satisfaction—premonition fulfilled. The rats had closed in around them, silent as death. Crowded in, rank on rank. Thousands of eyes looked greedily back at him. In ranks to the wall, some fully as high as a man's shin.
    Warwick saw them a moment later and came to a full stop. “They're all around us, college boy.” His voice was still calm, still in control, but it held a jagged edge.
    â€œYes,” Hall said. “Keep going.”
    They walked forward, the hose dragging behind. Hall looked back once and saw the rats had closed the aisle behind them and were gnawing at the heavy canvas hosing. One looked up and almost seemed to grin at him before lowering his head