Shivers by William Schoell Page B

life.”
    “We all get that way sometimes.”
    “Yes. Yes, we do. But this was intense. Remarkably intense. Not brought on by anything in particular.”
    “Subconscious memories of the images you saw. People crying out. Herded together in pain.”
    “Yes. That could be it. It had to be unconscious, though, because at that time, I wasn’t even thinking about what I’d seen in the trance.”
    “And to counteract the despair, the emptiness, you turned on the TV.”
    “Yes.” He was excited now, hoping that together they could help him understand his ordeal.
    “And there was no more terror.”
    “No. Except for one moment.”
    “When? When did it happen?”
    “I—I can’t remember.”
    “Try. It could be important.”
    “I—uh. I can’t. Yes. Yes, now I remember. It was when I first turned on the TV set. But it went away as soon as the picture came in.”
    “You mean it happened right after you switched on the set, right before there was any picture?”
    “Yes. No. I mean it happened just as the picture came in. I think. Then it went away. For good.”
    “Hmmm. Interesting. Blackness and then harsh, bright white light.”
    “What’s that?”
    “What you told me you saw during your trance. Darkness, through an aperture. Then a rectangle of light getting larger and larger.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, when you turn on a set, you’re looking at a sort of window. At first it’s dark, and then the picture comes in. A flash of light, getting bigger and bigger on the screen.”
    Eric sat back in the chair. “Yes. Exactly. That must have been a reaction to what I saw in the trance. Not really similar. But enough of a suggestion to recreate the fear I’d felt.”
    “Well, that explains it. You just accidentally hooked up with someone’s TV reception, and with all the junk on the air these days, it’s no wonder you had a nightmare.”
    Emily laughed. But Eric could only manage a weak smile. Talking with her had helped, but had brought him no closer to answering the questions that bothered him. But then, he hadn’t really thought it would.
    They conversed a short while longer, of innocuous things, minor things, relating to the job and the people they worked with. Then Eric left, thanking Emily for her time.
    He knew as he walked down the corridor toward his office that Emily had only been trying to make him feel better; she certainly hadn’t meant to laugh at his distress. Or had he communicated his distress eloquently enough? Whatever the case, he knew that he was far more worried about the past evening’s experience than he had let on to Emily.
    And he truly dreaded dusk.
     
    At a quarter past one that afternoon, Henry Judson was looking through a microscope in the police laboratory, his face constricted with mounting horror. During his five years with the department, he had analyzed poisonous chemicals, determined blood types, and studied samples of skin and hair. But he had never seen anything quite as bizarre as what he was seeing now. He removed the smeared slide from the microscope and placed it on the table beside it.
    Then, he quickly jotted down some notes on a white pad, labeled the paper carefully, and took it down the hall to his superior’s office.
    Ernest was taking a break, chatting by the water cooler with a young man and a middle-aged woman. Henry excused himself and asked Ernest if he could speak to him privately in his office. His superior complied.
    Ernest lit one of his odorous cigars. “What is it, Henry? You don’t look so good.”
    “Well, sir . . .” Henry said, hesitating. “I was analyzing a substance that was brought in after lunch.” He consulted his paper. “Sample 8IB. Unknown substance—uh—found on the wall of a hotel room.”
    “Yes, I recall that. Looked something like jelly, right?”
    “Yes. But it isn’t.”
    “What did you find, Henry?”
    “Well, sir—it seems to be a solidified mixture of blood plasma and cell tissue and . . . well, I