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int to the Planning mittee； but he hadn't even mentioned the promising situation。 The only thing he'd said on Stone's departure that evening was 'doubtless； that proposal of ours will go through now； Walter'。 And； of course； it had。 Because Walter had had no choice。
Now Marion was dead； burned up like that curate they'd found the other week。 Stone hadn't gone into the office that day。 He'd phoned and said he was ill； which was partly true。 He was beginning to panic。 Boyce had said that there was some kind of 'haunting' at St Monica's but it was nothing that an exorcist could not deal with。 Christ； look what had happened to Cleehopes； still a mindless vegetable liable to spend the remainder of his days babbling nonsensically to himself in a padded cell！
All this had started since Stone had swayed the mittee。 He'd convinced them that the ten acres was an eyesore； would bee an unsightly wilderness as the years went by。 'Go and look at the state the churchyard's in if you don't believe me。' In the end the planning officer had got his way。
He'd spent the day indoors； tried to phone the bishop twice but on each occasion Boyce was not available。 Jesus Christ； what had Marion gone there alone at night for？ The only thing he could think of was that she'd had a date with some guy and it had all turned sour。 He'd killed her； poured paraffin over her and set her alight。 If he hadn't known there was something inexplicable going on at St Monica's he would have believed that and felt a damned sight easier。
Boyce was getting windy too。 And this fellow； Sabat； had a reputation for poking his nose into things that were none of his concern。 The bishop must have been crazy to call him in。 It was like hiring a man…eating tiger from the zoo to kill the rats in your garden； after the vermin had been accounted for it might just turn on you。
Walter Stone spent a restless day； constantly glancing out of the window across his small neat garden。 The weather was warm and spring…like but he wasn't going outside。 No sir； he was going to stay safely locked indoors。 And maybe he'd phone the office and tell them he was taking tomorrow off； too； and the day after that if the police didn't e up with something in the meantime。
His fears were magnified with the approach of evening。 The shadows lengthened as he sat there in the lounge； mentally and physically drained。 Soon it would be time to put the lights on； draw the curtains； shut himself away in his own little world。
It was eight twenty…five by the clock on the mantleshelf when Walter Stone's real terror began。 With an effort he dragged himself out of the armchair； almost made a rush for the light switch。 God； it was dark already。 The clock must have stopped； lighting…up time wasn't until eight forty…five but。 。 。 。
He clicked the switch； stared at the white plastic casing in amazement； disbelief。 The room was still dark； the light hadn't e on。 He clicked it again。 And again； frantically working it up and down until the spring weakened。 Something gave； the switch moved loosely； disconnected somewhere。 And it was getting even darker in the room； cold； too。
Stone's mouth went dry； his stomach churned as he tried to e up with a reason why the light wasn't working。 A power failure？ A fuse blown？ That damned clock had stopped after all。 It was bound to have because it was electric； too。
He blundered into the hall； caught his knee on a heavy oak chair and cried out in pain。 A sensation of disorientation； not knowing exactly where the hall switch was； scrabbling along the wall with his fingers until he found it； clicking it feverishly。 It didn't work either！
Panicking now； stampeding from one room to another； crashing into furniture； oblivious to the pain because his escalating terror dominated。 Up the stairs； falling； dragging himself up on all fours； whimpering when each switch he tried was dead。 Finally； the bedroom； kneeling against the bed like he used to do in his childhood when his mother insisted that he said his prayers every night。
It had to be a power failure of some kind。 If it was a blown fuse then he had no idea how to repair it because he had never been of a practical nature。 It was a matter of cutting a length of fuse wire and 。。。 he knew the fuse box was somewhere in the larder but he had no idea how to go about it。
Suddenly a glow of white hope came out of the darkened room； a shimmering silent ivory saviour in his hour of terror … the telephone extension by the bedside！ Almost luminous； it offered hope when he had almost given up； a lifeline to an outside world of reality。
He scrambled across to it； still on his knees； grabbed the receiver off its cradle with a hand that shook uncontrollably； dropped it so that it hit the floor； bounced away from him and would have rolled under the bed had the flex not pulled it up short。 He reached for it again； almost afraid that it might jump away。
Walter Stone expelled his breath in a rush of sheer relief as he pressed the receiver to his ear； stretched out a shaking finger to dial。 In that instant a new wave of frustration and hopelessness flooded his crazed mind。 God； he didn't know the electricity board's number； The directory was downstairs in the hall and he wasn't going back down there again！
Trying to think。 Nine…nine…nine？ Give me the police； fire brigade 。 。 。 anybody。 My lights have failed and I'm all alone in the dark！
A brainwave amidst this latest panic … try the operator； dial 100。
Three digits and it took him three attempts； his finger slipping off the dial so that he had to replace the receiver and try again。 Finally he made it。 And that was when his fear finally erupted。 Silence。 The line was dead！
He had no idea how long he'd crouched there on the floor beside the bed。 The small bedside alarm clock ticked away loudly and unconcernedly； a tinny； irritating noise； its luminous hands stating that the time was eleven forty…five。 It； too； could have been lying even if it wasn't electric。
He shivered with cold； half considered getting into bed fully dressed。 Somehow； though； one was at a disadvantage when in bed … you couldn't flee at a moment's notice！ Not that there was anywhere to run； except downstairs and 。 。 。 and outside！
He experienced a drowsiness that stemmed from fatigue； a state in which you thought you might doze off but you made every effort not to because something might creep up on you while you slept。 So cold； the temperature must have dropped below freezing。
Noises that got on your nerves。 Every house has its creaking； nocturnal； inexplicable groans but suddenly they became terrifying as though somebody （or something） was creeping up the stairs。 The alarm clock … tick…lock； tick…lock； tick…lock； unceasing。 It reminded him of a pantomime he'd seen when he was five。 Peter Pan。 The crocodile had swallowed an alarm clock； a cheap thing very similar to this one。
Tick…tock； tick…tock； tick…tock； it was ing to get him。 。 。 。 Something moved； rolled。 He screamed； then realised what it was。 Momen