Free The List Of Seven by Mark Frost

by the time Doyle realized he could no longer see his hand before him, he was not at all sure where he was. The air felt as frigid and heavy as the blackness was dense. He wiped the sweat from his hands. Fear of the dark was not something he commonly fell prey to, but after the last two days all such presumptions were forfeit. Attempting to retrace his steps—there had been lights burning in Sacker's office, a place that now seemed a haven of warmth and security—he kept one hand on the cool marble wall and took each step cautiously.
    An intersection. Did I turn right or left here? His answer was not confident. Right then.
    Fear of the dark is a primitive, instinctual leftover, he reminded himself: Our remote forebears spent the better part of their lives groping blindly in the dark- —and since there could be huge, carnivorous predators lying in ambush around every turn, it seemed altogether a very sensible response—tout that by no measure meant the same dangers still existed in the modern civilized—What was that?
    Doyle stopped. A sound, some distance away. What was it?
    Stay calm. It could be help, a neutral or friendly presence. Even Sacker himself. Perhaps we'll hear it again. Perhaps it would be a fine idea if we didn 't move from this spot until we do. Err on the side of caution, and not only because we're plunged into absolute darkness in an unfathomable maze and there are pitiless, unspeakable horrors tracking us from who knows which side of the etheric membrane—
    Wait ... there it was again.
    Try to identify. Not a footstep, was it? No. No smack of heel, no shuffling skid or impact on marble whatsoever.
    Go on, Doyle, you know perfectly well what you heard.
    Wings. A flap of wings. Leathery, cartilaginous.
    Well, perhaps a sparrow or pigeon's flown through a window and gotten lost in the halls—let's be honest, shall we? Late December, even if birds were still about, that was not the exercising of a small or even midsized wingspan, if there exists anywhere in the world a bird that could produce that sound, that could displace that much air—
    It's coming this way. Those first two flaps issued from a stationary position, loosening, limbering up, almost as if the—Doyle, put your mind in order, man: Allow into your heart the idea that those stone gargoyles on the stairs can fly, and in two ticks you 'II find yourself chained to a pallet in Bedlam.
    On the other hand, something immense is moving through the air and coming closer, so from a purely precautionary standpoint, let's move on. Don't run, Doyle, use your walking stick ahead of you, like that—quietly, please—find a door, there's a good fellow, any door will do—got one: locked. Damn. On to the next.
    Rummaging for bird facts—do they see well in the dark? Depends on the bird, doesn't it? How's their sense of smell? Do they have one? They must: Their entire lives constitute an uninterrupted search for food. Terrifically reassuring. What have we squirreled away in there about the eating habits of gargoyles?
    It's not possible, but the wings seem to be advancing and receding simultaneously. Unless there are two of them; one on either side of the stairs for a grand total of—enough!
    A door, Doyle, and please hurry, because one of them just
    rounded the corner we recently turned, which puts it fifty feet behind us and closing rapidly—
    There: Grip the handle and turn and push and enter and close the door behind you. Can you lock the door? No bolt. Can you recall any avian facts that would support the possibility of a bird turning a doorknob? Be serious. Is there a window in this door? Solid oak. Blessed old, thick old door, God save the English craftsman—
    You heard that, didn't you? A settling of weight, a soft scratching on the marble floor. What goes with wings? Talons. And if talons were raked across the good old solid oak door, they would undoubtedly produce something remarkably similar to the sound we're hearing now.
    Time to see what