Burial by Graham Masterton Page A

andtook hold of one of the chairs. It felt as if it were caught on one of the other chairs, and I had to tug it hard to get it free. It was only then that I realized it hadn’t been caught at all. It was being drawn toward the wall as strongly as if it were magnetized.
    I looked around at Michael in bewilderment.
    â€˜Take it into the centre of the room,’ he told me. ‘Go on. Then put it down.’
    With considerable difficulty, I carried the chair to the centre of the room, underneath the chandelier, and set it on the floor.
    â€˜Now let it go,’ said Michael.
    I lifted my hands. Immediately, the chair tumbled noisily back to the opposite side of the room. No strings, no hidden mechanisms. It literally
fell
sideways, and clattered back into place with all the other furniture.
    I stood and stared at it and didn’t know what to do. I went back to get it, but Michael said, ‘It’ll do that every time.’
    â€˜Well,’ I agreed, hunkering down, and inspecting the chair closely, ‘that’s some problem.’
    â€˜And it sure isn’t a medical problem, is it?’
    â€˜No, I have to agree with you. It isn’t a medical problem. There’s definitely some element of the paranormal involved here. Right now, I’m not too sure what it is; or what the extent of it is.’
    â€˜But you can deal with it?’ Michael insisted. ‘Five minutes ago you
guaranteed
you could deal with it. “All it takes is good psychic management,” that’s what you said.’
    â€˜Exactly, exactly! But you can’t exercise good psychic management until you know what kind of psychic phenomenon you’re supposed to be managing.’
    â€˜And you don’t?’
    â€˜Not yet,’ I admitted. ‘As I said … we could be talking psychokinesis here. Or it might be a poltergeist On the other hand, it might be neither of those things. It might betransmutation. Or levitation, even. Kind of
sideways
levitation.’
    Michael shook his head. ‘I see,’ he said, in obvious disappointment. Even Karen looked uncomfortable. I suddenly felt shabby and unconvincing, and about as professional as a door-to-door soap salesman. All the same, I turned back to Naomi and said, ‘Naomi … listen. I need you to tell me what happened.’
    She stared at me, her head nodding and nodding as if she had Parkinson’s Disease, saying nothing.
    â€˜Was there anybody here? Did you see anybody moving the furniture?’
    She shook her head. ‘Nobody … here. Only … shadows.’
    â€˜What shadows?’
    Fearfully, she edged her eyes towards the wall. ‘Shadows … on … the … wall … it …
bit
him …’
    â€˜It bit him?
What
bit him?’
    There was a very long silence. Naomi sat staring at the wall, breathing deeply and harshly. Then, without warning, she did something that — for some reason — utterly chilled me. She covered her face with her hands so that only her eyes looked out; and looked slowly and threateningly from right to left, and back again.
    â€˜It …
bit
… him …’ she repeated, and made her fingers writhe and wriggle like a nest of white snakes. ‘It …
bit
… him …’
    Then she raised both writhing hands so that they rested on top of her shock-white hair, like horns or antlers, or a Gorgon’s snakes.
    As unexpectedly as she had started this performance, she lowered her hands and resumed her grip on the seat of her chair, staring at me as if she expected me to understand exactly what she had been doing.
    â€˜Has she ever done that before?’ I asked Michael.
    â€˜No, never. Not to anybody.’
    â€˜Has she said “it bit him” to anybody else?’
    â€˜Not unless she said it to Dr Stein when I was out of the room.’
    I stood frowning, thinking.
Shadows on the wall
. Naomi had seen shadows on the wall. At the moment,