After serving dinner and clearing off their plates, Billings disappeared, and the rest of them quickly tried the kitchen door and the cellar door to see if either of them offered a way to get out of the House, but it was to no avail. Outside each of the windows, the world was dark, pitch-black, and Norton found himself wondering if the windows looked out onto the other world or were simply facing the blankness of the border in between.

Neither thought was particularly comforting.

They spent some time comparing notes, comparing theories, hashing over some of their concerns, but they did not seem to be making much headway, and when Norton’s wristwatch had—correctly or incorrectly—informed him that it was ten o’clock, he said he was tired, excused himself, and went upstairs to his bedroom. As he climbed the stairs, he heard Stormy complain loudly about not having a television or radio, and Norton had to admit that he himself would appreciate having something to read. If they were going to be stuck in here with only each other for company and no entertainment or intellectual stimulation of any sort, nerves were going to get awfully frayed awfully fast. They were already starting to grate on each other. They had the Houses in common, yes, and their current predicament, but they were also five separate people from five different walks of life, and even under the best of circumstances that was not always a recipe for harmony.

And these were far from the best of circumstances.

He lay in his bed, unable to sleep, staring upward at the ceiling. He’d lied. He wasn’t tired. He’d just wanted some time alone, some time to think. Even if everything the butler said was true, there were still gaps, still things he didn’t understand, and he wanted to be able to sort through it all and see if he couldn’t somehow make sense of it.

A half hour passed. An hour. He heard Mark walk down the hallway to his room. Another hour passed. Two. He tried to go to sleep. Couldn’t. Tossing and turning, he closed his eyes, lying first on his back, then on his stomach, then on his side, but sleep would not come. Sighing, he turned his head on the pillow, looked toward the window. He saw the moon outside, stars. A typical night sky.

A typical night sky?

His heart pounding, excited but afraid to get his hopes up, he sat up in bed, threw off the covers. He stood, walked over to the window, and looked out.

Lights.

The lights of Oakdale.

He could make out the blinking red light atop the water tower, assorted streetlights, the glowing orange ball of the 76 station.