He turned on his flashlight and shone it down into the opening, revealing loose dirt, concrete floor, and scraps of lumber.

Cautiously, he descended, one step at a time, shining the light around as he went.

Bare concrete, a small pile of broken bricks, scattered chunks of two-by-four, sand and dirt, a tangle of wire. An area of concrete wall was striped by steel studding. Twenty feet off to one side panels of plywood were stacked up five feet high, the lower part of the pile still bound into two tight bundles by metal shipping bands.

He reached bottom and stepped off onto concrete.

Nothing looked out of place or at all unusual except for the disturbance of the dirt where dozens of people had come marching out of the south end of the basement, out past the plywood and up the stairs.

He shone the light around, and realized that there were no tracks anywhere else; to the north, east, and west of the stairs the dust and dirt were undisturbed.

That made the whole thing seem stranger than ever. The practical joke theory seemed to have just developed a problem. How could the pranksters have kept the entire group crammed into one end of the basement all morning? Hadn’t the kids gone running around, playing with the scraps? Hadn’t anybody gone exploring to see if there might be a better corner to take cover in?

Nervous, he shone the light at the plywood.

It was ordinary plywood, the manufacturer’s code symbols stamped on the side of each bundle. A spanch of reddish-brown paint was smeared across the top sheet.

He blinked and stepped out of the light of the stairwell, looking more closely, shining his light directly on that top sheet.

Was that paint?

He couldn’t be sure.

He swallowed, walked up to the pile of plywood, and dabbed at the smear with a finger.

Whatever the stuff was, it was dry and powdery, and some of it came up when he rubbed at it, but it left a dark reddish stain.

It didn’t feel like paint.

He shone the light into the gloom beyond the plywood, expecting to see more concrete and scrap.

The concrete and scrap were there, but everything was liberally splashed with that same reddish-brown, and there were white fragments heaped on the floor that did not look like any sort of building material.

He knew what the brown stuff was. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew perfectly well what it was.

He walked around the stack of plywood, his hand trembling slightly so that the light danced across the floor in frantic whirls, and he looked at the stains that spread across the floor, across the walls, across the plywood and the scattered bits of lumber, and even, in spattered rows of uneven reddish dots, across the metal beams overhead.

Then he looked at the fragments on the floor, white where they weren’t stained.

He knew what those were, too. He stooped and shone his light directly on one of them.

It was bone, a curving chunk of bone broken off unevenly at one end. It was a piece of rib, like a bit of leftover from a barbecue, except that it wasn’t smoky from cooking; it was gleaming white.

He stared at it and saw marks on it, tiny scratches and indentations. They looked like toothmarks.

Knowing what he would see he swung the light onward, across scattered bits of bone, to a heap of bones piled in the corner, thrown together haphazardly.

All of them had those little marks.

He stood, and began backing out, away from the bones and the bloodstains, back around the stack of plywood, back to the stairs, where he turned and ran up them into the blinding summer sunlight, ran back out across the plywood flooring, back out of the skeletal building, skidding on the bare dirt, scrambling desperately back out under the fence to his car, where the mad struggle to find his car keys, to unlock and open the door, finally broke his unthinking panic.

He stood panting for a moment, the car keys in his hand and the door of the car standing open, trying to think.

He had to do something. He had to call the police.

What would he tell them, though? That there were bloodstains and what looked like human bones all over the basement here?

That was too lurid, too much like something out of a horror movie. He would just report a dead body. And he’d do it anonymously, disguise his voice – he didn’t want to be connected with this.

He turned and looked back at the building. In the bright sunlight, with the solid normality of his car beneath his hands, the everyday reality of the dirt and the chain-link fence and the scrub grass that grew here and there, it was very hard to believe that he had seen monsters, or that he had found human bones – fresh human bones – just a few yards away in that basement.

Something moved.

He blinked, and tried to focus on it.

Someone was standing under the trees behind the construction site, the trees that separated it from the Bedford Mills apartments. It was a boy in his teens, wearing a pair of cut-off shorts and a wide-brimmed hat; Smith thought he looked familiar, despite the distance; he squinted, and finally placed him.

That was Bill Goodwin, one of the four kids that Charlie and Lillian Goodwin had crammed into Apartment C12. Smith had met the whole clan as soon as he had arrived at Bedford Mills – Bill’s kid brothers, Harry and Sid, had helped him carry boxes of books and dishware upstairs when he had first moved in. Later on he’d talked to Bill a few times, and let him try out a few things on his desktop computer. The Goodwin kids were probably the closest thing to real friends he had in the whole complex.

He started to raise a hand to wave, and then stopped.

Was it really Bill Goodwin?

Wasn’t it one of the monsters?

Whoever or whatever it was, the boy stared at him for a moment, then abruptly turned and hurried away.

Smith’s mind refused to work properly. He had just seen a basement strewn with human remains, evidence that some sort of horror was loose, but all he could see now was an ordinary summer day, and an ordinary teenager, and he couldn’t reconcile his theories of monsters disguised as their victims with that calm, everyday reality. Every impulse, every habit, made him want to wave and call a polite hello to the Goodwin boy, but at the same time the memory of the pile of bones had left a knot of panic just below the surface, a knot that was trying to choke him, to force him into his car, to make him drive to the nearest pay-phone and call the police, or to flee as quickly as he could, drive away and never come back.

Despite his panicky confusion, the prankster theory somehow pushed its way to the surface of his mind. Could the blood and bone be fake?

He doubted it – but he wasn’t sure. He was no expert. He couldn’t be certain the bones were human.

He hadn’t really taken that close a look, and it was dark down in there. He hadn’t touched them. The bones might even be some sort of plastic replicas.

It could be a prank. A horrible and elaborate prank, but a prank.

If it was a prank, was Bill Goodwin in on it?

And if the monsters were real, was Bill Goodwin one of them?

Was Bill going to call for help, get the pranksters or monsters or whatever they were to clean up the basement, hide the bones, do something to cover their tracks?

Almost certainly, Smith realized, that was exactly what would happen. Why else would the boy have behaved as he did?

Or was his imagination running away with him? Was he panicking, turning paranoid?

He suddenly wished he had thought to bring a camera. His own battered Pentax was still in his apartment, but he could have bought a cheap little Instamatic or something when he got his crowbar and flashlight.

Or he could run across to his apartment and get the Pentax right now.