Free Ancient Images by Ramsey Campbell

curl wagging over his forehead as enthusiasm carried him out of reach of his self-consciousness. "Which you wrote your first book about," she said.
        "I thought someone should. It isn't every day you get to watch a genius at work. And then the book did so well the publishers came to me for another, and over a particularly drunken lunch I said I'd write a book about shower scenes in the movies."
        "A whole book?"
        "Yeah, that's what I thought when I sobered up. So I wrote about persistent images in the movies, starting with how if you don't end up dead in any shower you take since Psycho you can guarantee someone will leap in pretending to be the monster."
        "I'm waiting for the person in the shower to turn the heat up all the way and let him have it in the face."
        "I wish I'd known you then, I'd have used that. So I wrote about how if you're shown a newspaper headline in a movie, chances are the story underneath is about something else entirely."
        "Or whenever anyone walks past someone reading a newspaper you know the one who's reading will follow them."
        "Or whenever someone's reading a book they always hold it as if they're advertising the cover."
        "Or whenever someone talking on the phone is cut off they always jiggle the rest as if that will somehow bring the callback."
        "Or if someone refuses at the top of their voice to do something, the next thing you'll see is them doing it. Like, you know, a woman saying on no account will she stay the night."
        "Why, have you had that problem?"
        "Well, you know, now and then, mostly then, I guess." He reached for the Californian Chablis and stared hard at her glass while he filled it. "That wasn't meant to be a sly pass just now, you understand."
        "I didn't think it was sly."
        "Good, okay. So you see another reason I was pissed at Stilwell. I believe you can both be serious about movies and have fun speculating about ways to read them. Say, listen, I nearly forgot," he said, and stood up so quickly she felt rebuffed. "I got these for you."
        They were photocopies of entries in reference books for three of the names from Graham's notebook. "These look pretty old," she said.
        "The British Film Institute was the only place that had them. None of these guys worked in movies very long after they made Tower of Fear."
        "But they would only have been young then. Why was that, do you think?"
        "Another mystery for you to solve. Or for us, if you like."
        "I'd be glad of any help."
        "Fine. Well, I think I've shown you all I have to offer. Maybe you can use a coffee?"
        "I wouldn't mind." If he didn't care enough to make a move, nor did she. Maybe he'd seen too many films to be able to act spontaneously in real life. She drank the coffee stiffly, feeling frustratingly English and prim, and said, "Thanks for the evening. I enjoyed it and I learned a few things."
        "Let's stay in touch," he said, "for Graham's sake," and his pause made her so breathless it was infuriating, all the more so because she couldn't tell whether or not he intended it to mean anything. She thought it unwise to kiss him goodnight: she patted his cheek on her way out instead.
        
***
        
        After the compactness of the flat, the vastness of the sky, blinking minutely down at her, came as a shock. His closing door took in the light from his hallway; darkness crouched forward on the path between the shrubs. Echoes dogged her as she hurried across the cobblestones. The furniture that sat outside shops in the daytime had been locked away; chairs perched on shadowy chairs beyond plate glass. As she made for her platform at Highbury & Islington, she glimpsed a man who must be very drunk further along the tiled ramp, crawling upward to ground level. A train with a few snoozers propped in it took her to Highgate, and she jogged up Muswell Hill. She came in