Diane imagined finding great clues. She imagined film noir, dim but high-contrast light pressing through the blinds creating smoky, white slices across the pitch-black room. Diane imagined her face lit softly in blue by the computer monitor. She imagined not her own face but the face of a hardened detective wearing an archetypal hat.

She imagined being watched. She heard a soft thump from over her shoulder. She felt a warning zing up the back of her neck. She was being watched.

She did not turn her head. She did not move. She looked only with her eyes, pressed so far to the right it hurt her sinuses.

There was a shadow against the blinds. The blinds were closed. There was a person just on the other side.

The person was neither tall nor short. She did not know if the person could see her. They were not leaving.

If you are seen you will be eaten, the tarantula thought without human vocabulary.

Diane was unintentionally not breathing. When she noticed, she continued to hold her breath. Her hands stayed where they were.

There was a rapid clicking. The doorknob rattled back and forth. She couldn’t remember if she had locked it. She was eventually going to have to breathe. The doorknob rattled.

She breathed. Her breath sounded so loud. Was it always this loud?

The computer flashed to a screen saver. She did not know if this change in light was visible through the blinds.

Again the doorknob rattled. Then a knock. Another. Three hard taps on the door.

There was nothing she could do. She stayed where she was. Did nothing. The shadow returned to the window and stayed for a long moment. She didn’t know how long the moment was. It felt endless to her, motionless in the chair.

Then the shadow blurred as its source moved away from the window. Light began to come in around the blinds’ edges.

She heard a muffled creaking, like wheels. Wheels on a cart. A custodial cart. The sound moved away down the hall.

Diane imagined that custodians worked long hours, and would not be out of the office for some time. Hours maybe. She turned off the computer monitor and waited in Catharine’s office, quietly, alone, breathing.

THE VOICE OF NIGHT VALE

CECIL: . . . allergies to shellfish, dislike of shellfish, apathy to shellfish, philosophical disagreement with shellfish, or a general uncertainty about the whole concept of shellfish should let the event planners know when making their reservation.

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