Shivers by William Schoell

He put the coffee into the pot. Who cared? No one ever expected the weather forecasts to be right. Least of all his.
    Finally, somewhere under his continuous preoccupation with endless hedonism and self-concern, Harry remembered the phone call he’d gotten from Steven. Something about his brother. The guy’d been pretty upset.
    Steven was an okay fellow. They’d known each other an awfully long time. He picked up the kitchen extension and dialed his friend’s number.
    “Stevie baby! How’s tricks?”
    “Harry! How’d the party go?”
    “Te riff . Te riff . I’m telling you.” He was good at segues. “How’s your brother? He come home yet?”
    “No. Haven’t heard a word. I might as well go back to work. I’m too upset to enjoy my time off.”
    “Still got a couple of weeks, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Listen. Don’t worry. The kid’ll turn up. You know how they are. Let’s get together for brunch today. Talk the whole thing over.”
    “Okay. Where’ll I meet you?”
    Harry gave him a name. A place conveniently located. For Harry, that is.
    “See you then, Harry. It’ll be good to talk to someone about this.”
    “You and Andrea still have problems?”
    “She’s out of town. I’ll tell you all about it.”
    “Okay, pal. Coffee’s boiling over. See you soon.”
    “Bye.”
    Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. Harry, my boy, he thought, you make a good friend.
     
    It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon when Eric Thorne was finally able to take a break and go have a talk with Emily. His day at the Institute for Psychic Research had been a hectic and unrewarding one. Perhaps it was because his mind was so preoccupied. All he could think about was getting away to talk to someone about the uncanny experience he’d had in his apartment the night before. It all seemed so distant now. Except for a brief moment when he’d first stepped off the train and started to walk toward the building, he hadn’t succumbed to panic or fear once during the day. But he couldn’t help but dwell on the incident. Just telling someone about it would be of enormous therapeutical value.
    Dr. Emily Jannings was another young person on the staff, and her specialties were divided. She would occasionally assist Thorne in his ESP research, but her main thrust was toward the more physical manifestations of brain power. Mind over matter, for instance. Thorne would test a person’s ability to pick up thought waves from another room, while Emily would see if—and to what degree—someone could use their mental abilities to make an object move.
    Thorne decided to speak with Emily because he was closer to her than to anyone else on the staff, and because he respected her opinion over everyone’s. There might be others who were more knowledgeable, perhaps, but none who had her warmth and sympathy and understanding. She would listen with her heart as well as her mind.
    He approached her office, hoping she was free at this hour, free long enough for them to discuss the matter in detail. He turned into the small room where Emily sat looking over some papers.
    Eric rapped once on the open wood door. “Mind if I disturb you?”
    “Eric! Come in,” she said brightly, putting the papers together and placing them on top of a pile in the corner of the desk. “What can I do for you?” She. was in her late thirties, with wavy brown hair cut short and curving away on either side of her forehead. Her eyes were light blue. She had a long graceful neck, and a pretty face with soft features and high cheekbones. She had a preference for dark suits; this afternoon was no exception. She handed Eric her pack of cigarettes as he spoke.
    “I’d like to talk to you about something that happened to me last night. Something disturbing.” He declined her offer of a smoke, but lit hers with his lighter.
    “Thank you,” she said. “Well, what happened exactly?”
    “I believe it was either a psychic