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il 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。 Momentary relief； he'd kicked the telephone receiver which lay on the floor。
His teeth were chattering； at least he thought at first that it was his own teeth。 Like the embarrassment of a rumbling stomach in pany； nobody can be quite sure whose it is； even the offender； so everybody looks round and 。 。 。
Oh； Merciful God！ A head； a face！
Walter Stone croaked his terror； a strangled scream； tried to tell himself that it was some kind of hallucination or even an optical illusion。 That alarm clock's luminous dial； it was about the right size。 。 。 。
But it wasn't the alarm clock！ It was a skull； a tiny shrunken thing the size of a tennis ball； features so malign； eyes that glowed redly and illuminated the peeling flesh on the bone； mouth screwed up to spit out volatile hatred； slobbering mucus which strung down； moving in time with the pendulum…like motions of the head。 Suspended several feet in the air； its cold breath stinking like a rotting carcase； it watched the cowering man； gloating。 Waiting。
Somehow Walter Stone's shaking legs precipitated the rest of his body into action； lurching him upright； making him stagger towards the open door leading out on to the landing。 He half expected this awful abomination to bar his way； drive him back into a corner from which there was no escape； but it made no move to hinder his progress。
Out on to the landing； groping for the stair…rail but airborne before he realised it。 Falling； bouncing； bone…shattering blows to back and shoulders； lying prone on a polished block floor； scarcely daring to look behind him。
But he had to； pelled to turn his head； oblivious to the pain。 Nothing else mattered except 。 。 。
It was still there！ It swung gently like a ball suspended by an invisible thread at a fairground； defying the efforts of bean…bag throwers。 Smiling its malevolence； its fetid breath clouding it like vile marshland vapours rising to hide a patch of bog。
Stone got to his feet； his fear overing the agony of a twisted ankle； maybe even a broken bone。 Lurching away； struggling at the door…catch with useless trembling fingers。 He sensed it ing again； tore himself away； broke into a hobbling run。 The kitchen； or it might have been the lounge； he did not know； did not care in the awful blackness。 He banged into furniture； fell； picked himself up again。 One way； then another； fleeing； turning back。 But always it followed him。
He wanted to look away but it was impossible； those hypnotic orbs manded his attention； forced him to glance back as he stumbled from one room to another。
Then； suddenly； he didn't care anymore。 His legs buckled beneath him and he sank down to the floor； lay there just staring up at his inexplicable tormentor。 He wanted to die； wondered vaguely why it did not move in and take him。 But always it kept its distance； a yard； maybe two； expelling that putrid breath； that stench of evil。
The head was still smiling。 It wasn't going to harm him after all so why had he been frightened？ He gave a laugh； a strange throaty sound that echoed in the confined space。
Now they were both laughing； babbling incoherently and trying to build up some kind of a rapport。 It was silly to have fled from it like that； Walter Stone thought。 When you got to know it； it was really quite a friendly sort of a thing。 Bigger than he'd thought at first； or else it had grown these last few minutes； stretched the translucent skin so that in places the tissues had snapped and peeled away； hanging down in strips。 The flesh seemed alive； crawling as though hundreds of tiny beings moved within it； white worm…like things that crawled and wriggled。 And stank。 。 。 。
CHAPTER TWELVE
SABAT HAD parked the Daimler on the outskirts of the town shortly after midnight。 It had taken Kent and himself less than a quarter of an hour to walk to Walter Stone's home。 Now they stood in the shadow cast by a council…planted weeping willow and studied the detached house