It might be whatever had left the dead squid.
The sound came again, and this time I could tell it issued from the direction of the hall.
Still, I wasn’t relieved. Last July, I’d waked to find a horrible rat-like thing emerging from a hole in the baseboards. The experience had made me wary of strange sounds in the night.
I lit the candle, then pulled on my robe and took the knife from beneath my pillow. Once in the hall, I paused, listening.
“No,” sighed a low voice. It sounded as though it came from Irene’s room. “Please, don’t. I don’t want to.”
My heart beat rapidly, and I mentally ran through all the self-defense movements Dr. Putnam-Barnett had taught me. Taking a deep breath, I steadied my nerves and flung open the door.
The light of my candle revealed only Irene, lying in bed. The blankets were twisted around her, and even as I watched, her head thrashed madly from side to side.
“The song,” she gasped. “It’s calling me. Make it stop.”
“Irene!” I crossed to the bed and shook her. “Irene, wake up.”
Her eyes flew open, accompanied by a cry of horror. She stared at me, no recognition showing in her gaze.
“It’s just me,” I said. “You’ve had a nightmare.”
“Maggie.” My name came sluggishly from her lips. Her tense muscles relaxed beneath my hand, and she sagged into the bed. Her thrashing had pulled her nightgown tight across her breasts, and I glanced away, feeling my cheeks redden slightly.
“I heard you cry out in your sleep, loud enough it woke me,” I said. “A good thing I’m a light sleeper.”
“Yes.” She sat up, her face pale in the candlelight. Gooseflesh showed on her arms, and she tugged the covers higher. “Thank you.”
“Are you ill?” That would explain her earlier faint. I put a hand to her forehead. Her skin felt clammy, but cool rather than warm. “Should I have Mrs. Yagoda send for a doctor?”
“No.” A shiver wracked her. “It was just a nightmare, like you said.”
“Did you dream about the play?” I asked. “When I came in, you were moaning about a song. You said it called to you.”
Alarm flashed across her face, startling in its intensity. “No,” she said, then caught herself. “I mean, that must have been it,” she went on, pasting on an unconvincing smile. “How silly of me. This modern mode of theater must be too much for my poor brain.”
I wanted to ask her why she’d seemed so worried, but it was obvious she didn’t want to talk about it. “Would you like some tea?” I asked, helpless to do anything more. “Something to settle your nerves, perhaps?”
She shook her head. Her dark hair, unbound, whispered against her bedclothes. The sound reminded me of a wave retreating over sand. “Thank you for the offer, but no. I’m perfectly fine, really. You should go back to bed.”
Dismissed, I had no choice but to obey. But it was a long time before I fell back asleep. I couldn’t help but feel she had been lying. That she hadn’t been fine at all.
I should have gone back into her room. I should have insisted she tell me the truth.
Because in the morning, she was gone.
Chapter 3
When I arose the next morning, I went to Irene’s room to check on her as soon as I was dressed. My knock went unanswered.
Maybe she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after her fright, and so had arisen early. Perhaps she’d already gone down to breakfast, even offered Mrs. Yagoda a hand in the kitchen. I should go downstairs first.
But it would only take a moment to peek into her room. I wouldn’t set foot inside, just look. Maybe she had fallen back asleep, so deeply she hadn’t heard my knocking. If so, she’d appreciate being waked in time to go to her job at the department store.
“Irene?” I called, cracking open the door. “Are you in there?”
Only silence greeted me. I pushed the door farther open and peered inside.
Irene’s bed lay unmade, the sheets thrown back in an untidy heap. My first, foolish thought was that Mrs. Yagoda would be furious; we were meant to keep our rooms as neat as possible, to give less work to the maid. Then I noticed Irene’s shoes standing ready beside the bed, along with the clothes she’d laid out for today. Her pocketbook sat on the table.
She’d only gone downstairs for a cup of coffee, I told myself. Perhaps her faint and her nightmares last night had indeed been the first signs of illness. She’d gone down dressed in her nightclothes, because she was too sick to do anything but nibble on some toast.
I closed the door behind me and went downstairs. Mrs. Yagoda was in the process of laying breakfast on the sideboard, and my stomach grumbled at the smell of bacon and scrambled eggs. Several of the other boarders were already at the table, sipping coffee and eating biscuits slathered in butter.
Irene wasn’t among them.
“Has anyone seen Irene?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.