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Inside 217

           

           Jackwasinthecellar.Hehadgonedowntocheckthefurnaceandboiler-suchcheckshadbecomearitualwithhimsincethesnowhadclosedthemin-andaftersatisfyinghimselfthateverythingwasgoingwellhehadwanderedthroughthearch,screwedthelightbulbon,andhadseatedhimselfinanoldandcobwebbycampchairhehadfound.Hewasleafingthroughtheoldrecordsandpapers,constantlywipinghismouthwithhishandkerchiefashedidso.Confinementhadleachedhisskinofitsautumntan,andashesathunchedovertheyellowed,cracklingsheets,hisreddish-blondhairtumblinguntidilyoverhisforehead,helookedslightlylunatic.Hehadfoundsomeoddthingstuckedinamongtheinvoices,billsoflading,receipts.Disquietingthings.Abloodystripofsheeting.Adismemberedteddybearthatseemedtohavebeenslashedtopieces.Acrumpledsheetofvioletladies’stationery,aghostofperfumestillclingingtoitbeneaththemuskofage,anotebegunandleftunfinishedinfadedblueink:"DearestTommy,Ican’tthinksowelluphereasI’dhoped,aboutusImean,ofcourse,whoelse?Ha.Ha.Thingskeepgettingintheway.I’vehadstrangedreamsaboutthingsgoingbumpinthenight,canyoubelievethatand"Thatwasall.ThenotewasdatedJune27,1934.Hefoundahandpuppetthatseemedtobeeitherawitchorawarlock…somethingwithlongteethandapointyhat,atanyrate.Ithadbeenimprobablytuckedbetweenabundleofnatural-gasreceiptsandabundleofreceiptsforVichywater.

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