Trailing his hand above the dado, he found a light switch, flipped it. A row of lamps came on, throwing a musty glow over the long landing. Sophia hung close to him, clung to his arm, her face set forward, the taut expression of suspense on her features so perfect that it almost made him laugh. This old dark house, he thought, and the mysterious noise, and the stalwart hero, and the frightened girl: he could never have gotten this scene past the studios. He knew—he’d tried it—they’d thought it was too clichéd.

“I think it’s stopped,” Sophia murmured hopefully.

“What was it?” he asked her in the same low tone.

She pressed even closer to him, leaned against him. “I don’t know.”

“I mean that night, the last time you heard it. What was making that noise?”

She shook her head angrily. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

They went towards the stairway slowly, clinging to each other, Storm watching the corners, watching the shadows, catching the glimpses of the portraits as they watched him pass. He thought to call out, thought to shout for Sir Michael. But the house, the atmosphere of the house, seemed to press in on him like a threat. He was afraid to raise his voice, to bring the danger down on himself. They went on silently to the top of the stairs.

A switch there brought on the foyer chandelier. The base of the stairs became bright beneath them. The grandfather clock in the hall mimicked the ticking sounds they’d heard, but that was it, everything else was quiet. Storm’s faintness, the aura of unreality was passing now. He was still sweaty, still a little sick, his brain still clouded and sluggish. But the worst of it was fading. He felt surer of himself, calmer. His step on the stairs was firm, swift. And he bore Sophia along with him.

They reached the bottom. Stood under the light with the coatrack and umbrella stand and gilded mirror all sedate and familiar in the small space. There was the front door just ahead of them, and to either side the dark, old wooden doors into the corridors, both now closed.

Storm didn’t know which way to turn. And Sophia had stopped, had planted herself where she was.

And then she said softly: “Oh …”

And Storm heard it begin again.

Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

Seeming to vibrate in the fibers of the place so that he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

“Which way?” he said—his voice was still slow and dull. “Which way do we go?”

She said nothing, and he moved instinctively towards the right, in the direction of the abbey ruin. But Sophia held him back.

“Let’s … go back upstairs,” she said. “Let’s … I think we should just …”

Tick-tick. Tick-tick.