Bernard could feel the coffin’s stone lid pressing down on him, the rancid air growing more rancid yet. He could feel that skull beside him, not inches from his face, staring, grinning.

“I’ve never stopped keeping watch over you,” said the voice. “You might know that.”

Bernard closed his eyes, opened them. It made no difference; there was only the dark.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Some of the people you’ve met on your night excursions. Some of the people you’ve … played with, been intimate with …”

“Yes.”

“You’ve known that.”

Bernard cried quietly.

“In fact, I feel I already know you fairly well,” said the voice. “In fact, I feel you already know me, but … But the truth is, I don’t feel that you know you know me. If that makes any sense. I don’t feel that you admit to yourself that you know me as well as you actually do.”

“Let me out.” The plea broke from Bernard before he could stop it. He screwed up his face, furious with himself for his weakness. But when he tried to slow his crying, he only produced a loud and humiliating sob.

“That’s why I’m here,” the cool voice went on, went on like smoke, filling the sarcophagus like smoke. And the worst thing about it, Bernard thought, was that it was so much better than nothing. He could feel how desperately he was holding on to the sound of it, holding on to the power of the presence above him, the power to set him free. He had to hang on to it. Where there was life … he thought. “I want to let you out,” the speaker went on. “That’s all I want. It’s as much to my benefit as it is to yours. Maybe more. But I have to make sure you hear first what I have to say. So the bargain is, you promise to listen, I promise to set you free. Is that fair enough?”

Bernard shuddered, trying to control his breathing, to fight his panic. He didn’t want to answer. It was degrading to agree where he had no choice.

But the voice insisted: “Isn’t that fair enough?”

“Yes, yes,” he said angrily, his own voice full of tears.

“Because everything you know about me, every single thing, has been told to you by one person, one person only. And that one person—I tell you this in all honesty—that one person has every reason to hate me. Isn’t that true? Even from what you already know, wouldn’t you agree that she’s not an objective observer? Wouldn’t you agree with that?”

Bernard hugged himself. “I don’t know,” he said wearily. “I don’t know.”