the video camera, and made another tour of the apartment, filming each room. Replacing the camera, he took out a small notebook and a rectangular device about the size of a police radio, with a control knob centered at the bottom and a large analog gauge monopolizing the top: a trifield natural EM meter. He made yet another tour of the apartment, carefully watching the needle of the meter and making occasional jottings in his notebook. Finally, he pulled another handheld device from the duffel, studded with knobs, toggle switches, and a digital readout: an air-ion counter. He took several readings, but found the air ionization to be no different from that of the other areas of the mansion he’d sampled already.
His eye drifted around the room, stopping at the antique radio. It was a cathedral-style tabletop model of rose-colored wood. Absently, he turned the power knob to the on position. Nothing happened. Curious, he picked up the radio, turned it over in his hands, opened the back. There was a jumble of old brownand yellow wires and machinery, but the vacuum tubes had been replaced with what at a brief glance appeared to be more modern equipment. He shrugged, replaced it on its shelf, and turned away.
Placing the tools and the notebook back in the duffel, he glanced around again, selected the most comfortable-looking armchair—judging from the nearby book stand and the well-used footrest, Strachey’s favorite chair as well—settled into it, closed his eyes, and waited.
At quite a young age, Logan had discovered he was an empath—someone with a unique, almost preternatural ability to sense the feelings and emotions of others. At times—if those feelings were strong enough, or if the person had resided in one place for a sufficient length of time—Logan could still sense them even after the occupant had departed.
He sat in the chair, in the dim amber light, emptying himself of his own feelings and preoccupations and waiting for the room to speak to him. At first, there was nothing save a vague, dissociated sense of security and comfort. This was not surprising: there were clearly no smoking guns, no hidden skeletons, no emotional issues, that would have prompted Strachey to…
And then something odd happened. As Logan sat there, eyes closed, relaxed, he began to hear music. At first it was soft—so soft it was barely audible. But as he waited, growing attentive, it began to grow clearer: lush, deeply romantic.
This had never happened before. As a sensitive, Logan was used to receiving emotional impressions, strong feelings, occasionally bits and pieces of memories. But never any sensory stimuli such as music. He sat up in the chair and opened his eyes, looking around, to see if perhaps the music was coming from an adjoining set of rooms.
Immediately, the music stopped.
Logan got up, shut off the lights, then returned to the chair. Once again, there was nothing at first. The sense of comfort was gone; so was the music. Gradually he began to be aware that,instead of the well-being he’d felt earlier, he now felt a faint—very faint—sense of uncertainty, perplexity, unease.
And then the piano music returned: once again, softly at first, then louder. The lush, romantic melody was still there—but as Logan listened, it slowly changed. It grew strange, haunting, maddeningly complicated: long rushes of rising arpeggios in a minor key, played faster and faster. There was something disturbing and ineffable in the music—something interwoven into the complex passages, almost below the threshold of comprehension, that seemed to Logan, as he listened, to be almost diabolical.
And then, along with the music, he began to smell something—a smell that was somehow part and parcel of the music itself—an increasingly strong and nauseating reek of burning flesh. A memory came to him suddenly, or perhaps it was precognition: an old house, flames billowing ferociously from its windows…
Suddenly, he jumped up from the
His eye drifted around the room, stopping at the antique radio. It was a cathedral-style tabletop model of rose-colored wood. Absently, he turned the power knob to the on position. Nothing happened. Curious, he picked up the radio, turned it over in his hands, opened the back. There was a jumble of old brownand yellow wires and machinery, but the vacuum tubes had been replaced with what at a brief glance appeared to be more modern equipment. He shrugged, replaced it on its shelf, and turned away.
Placing the tools and the notebook back in the duffel, he glanced around again, selected the most comfortable-looking armchair—judging from the nearby book stand and the well-used footrest, Strachey’s favorite chair as well—settled into it, closed his eyes, and waited.
At quite a young age, Logan had discovered he was an empath—someone with a unique, almost preternatural ability to sense the feelings and emotions of others. At times—if those feelings were strong enough, or if the person had resided in one place for a sufficient length of time—Logan could still sense them even after the occupant had departed.
He sat in the chair, in the dim amber light, emptying himself of his own feelings and preoccupations and waiting for the room to speak to him. At first, there was nothing save a vague, dissociated sense of security and comfort. This was not surprising: there were clearly no smoking guns, no hidden skeletons, no emotional issues, that would have prompted Strachey to…
And then something odd happened. As Logan sat there, eyes closed, relaxed, he began to hear music. At first it was soft—so soft it was barely audible. But as he waited, growing attentive, it began to grow clearer: lush, deeply romantic.
This had never happened before. As a sensitive, Logan was used to receiving emotional impressions, strong feelings, occasionally bits and pieces of memories. But never any sensory stimuli such as music. He sat up in the chair and opened his eyes, looking around, to see if perhaps the music was coming from an adjoining set of rooms.
Immediately, the music stopped.
Logan got up, shut off the lights, then returned to the chair. Once again, there was nothing at first. The sense of comfort was gone; so was the music. Gradually he began to be aware that,instead of the well-being he’d felt earlier, he now felt a faint—very faint—sense of uncertainty, perplexity, unease.
And then the piano music returned: once again, softly at first, then louder. The lush, romantic melody was still there—but as Logan listened, it slowly changed. It grew strange, haunting, maddeningly complicated: long rushes of rising arpeggios in a minor key, played faster and faster. There was something disturbing and ineffable in the music—something interwoven into the complex passages, almost below the threshold of comprehension, that seemed to Logan, as he listened, to be almost diabolical.
And then, along with the music, he began to smell something—a smell that was somehow part and parcel of the music itself—an increasingly strong and nauseating reek of burning flesh. A memory came to him suddenly, or perhaps it was precognition: an old house, flames billowing ferociously from its windows…
Suddenly, he jumped up from the
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