Shift by Chris Dolley Page B

anomalous, only bare walls, floor and ceiling.

    A thud from upstairs to his left. He swung round, instinctively pointing the imager at the sound. A ceiling rippled back. An ordinary colour-soaked ceiling.

    He turned and took the stairs, quicker now, still keeping to the edge but not checking the imager. Not yet. He stopped a few steps from the next floor, reached out and placed the imager on the landing floor, turning it to point down the left-hand corridor, tilting and angling the display screen back towards him. The corridor snapped into focus, psychedelic but sharp.

    And empty.

    He rotated the imager to point down the right-hand corridor. Also empty.

    Another thud. Closer this time. One of the rooms to the left. Maybe front, maybe back—he couldn't tell.

    He scooped up the imager, crept along the corridor, hunching down, his eyes glued to the display screen. He paused at the first set of doors. One left, one right, both open. He held out the imager and scanned into both rooms. Nothing. He leaned further in, stretching to scan behind the doors. Still nothing. A light from a passing car tracked across the ceiling then disappeared. Darkness and silence.

    Thud. Closer still. It had to be from the next room. The next room at the front.

    Back into the corridor, hunching lower still. Wasn't the White Room along this corridor? He'd been told the third door from the stairs. That's where he'd set up his equipment. What if they'd told him wrong? Or included the door at the top of the stairs in their count?

    Had he been monitoring the wrong room?

    The imager shook in his hands. Nerves, excitement, the sudden appreciation that he was alone in a dark, deserted old house.

    With a history of death and hauntings.

    Thud. Or was that more of a bang? He fought to place the sound. Wood striking wood? A door banging?

    He edged closer, colours dancing in the monitor, a few more yards, feet . . . He froze, then slowly bent his legs, sliding his back down the wall into a squatting position. His hand reached out, placed the imager on the floor to his right as noiselessly as he could, just clear of the door jamb and pointing into the room.

    The display screen filled with colour. Something was inside. Something he couldn't quite make out. He narrowed his eyes, peered, leaned as close as he dare. The screen showed a mass of colour. Not moving but complex—a large projection into higher dimensional space but too obscured to be recognisable. Was it a ghost?

    A rush of cold air came from the room. Nick swallowed, his eyes fixed on the screen. If anything started to move towards the door . . .

    Bang. Nick jumped. Definitely a bang this time. From well inside the room. And was that something moving on the screen? Something at the rear by the windows.

    He steeled himself, reached out and grabbed the imager. He needed a shot from another angle. And he wanted to be on his feet—just in case. He pushed himself upright and held the imager out at shoulder height into the doorway. Whatever had been moving had stopped. And the mass of immobile colour was now at floor level, not very tall but long, a few feet from the door.

    Shit! He couldn't keep his hands still. The image danced and rippled. Did it look human? A second ago he was almost sure but now . . .

    It would have to be adult by its size but why was it lying on the ground? Weren't apparitions supposed to walk? Or was he totally misreading the image?

    He closed his eyes for a long second, took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway.

    His eyes flicked between the screen and the grey murk that filled the doorway. He could see a shadow, a slightly darker grey outline on the floor. And a mass of orange, yellow and red from the screen.

    Something was lying on the floor.

    There was a bang and another rush of cold air. Nick jumped, pointing the imager at the sound. A window? An open window banging in the wind?

    His hand steadied for a second. Colours stopped dancing. It had