What did ECH IV become to Horace’s mind? Where did he lodge in his brain? An obsession? Perhaps an irrational fixation? Or a figment of emotional displacement? But one thing was beyond doubt. Horace hated him. Despised, loathed, abhorred him. His father was a law professor, a descendant of Boston freedmen with Beacon Hill addresses; his mother was of old Washington, D.C., stock and position, a member of the Church Terrell clan. Everett had gone to the right schools. Everett wore the right clothes. Everett talked the right talk. Everett had the right friends. Everett read the right books. Everett saw the right movies. Everett could do no wrong. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Right. Everett became like a thorn in his eye. Everett. Everyone loved Everett. And so did Horace. Or did he really?

Horace found himself in front of the costume barn. A lock hung down on the high, wide metal door to the prefabricated aluminum block of a building. For some reason, not from the demon’s order, Horace wanted to go inside. He went around the side to a window. He pushed it and it slid free; he clambered over, landing on his sprained ankle and emitting a yelp. The racks and racks of costumes caused a strange configuration of shadows, and the musky scent of the warehouse, with its high ceiling, was of dust and rotting cloth, cotton and wool. Suddenly he felt a presence. It was as if he knew someone was in the building with him. He could see a glowing light coming from the other end of the barn, stronger than the moonlight, but not too bright. He walked as stealthily as possible toward the end, hiding in the costumes.

The closer he got to the light, the more he felt there was indeed someone there. He heard something and stopped stock still. Should he go on? Now it was curiosity that pulled him along.

He pulled back a coat, clutching the gun, and saw someone sitting in front of a mirrored dresser, putting on makeup. He was a black man, dressed in a sun-bright costume, orange and green and blue and red, like a harlequin’s. As Horace looked into the mirror, the face appeared more and more familiar, though it was becoming obscured by milky white greasepaint. He realized. Saw clearly. It was him. Horace. Sitting before the mirror, applying makeup. Of all the things he had seen this night, all the memories he had confronted, all the ghouls and ghosts and specters, this shook him the most. Stunned, confused, bewildered, he could only stare at his reflection, seeing him and him and him.

As if on cue from his thoughts, the Horace at the table turned to the Horace standing there in the moldering clothing. He looked at Horace for a moment, still and calm, as if he had been expecting him and knew he would be late, and then motioned for Horace to step closer, closer.