He soon discovered that this wood was not like the paneling he had just broken through. Each pummeling fist was absorbed by the floor. Although the wood appeared solid, it was like punching marshmallow. Though his hand fired down with punishing force, he failed to make a single dent.
Worse than that, there was no longer any hint of a trapdoor. As though one had never existed.
The first hint of panic began to ring in Remo's ears. As concern for his teacher grew, he was vaguely aware that his hands were slick with some wet substance. At the same time Remo heard a soft gurgle in either direction.
He snapped his head left.
The walls were excreting some slippery liquid. At first glance it looked like blood. But the smell was wrong.
It was oil. It seeped out invisible pores above the trapdoor.
Somehow the house had known that Chiun would attempt to grab on to something when the passage opened beneath him. It had prevented him from doing so by greasing everything within reach.
Remo hopped to his feet. Thoughts only on Chiun, he raced for the opening they had used to enter the passage.
He'd start his search on the first floor and move to the basement if necessary. To find Chiun, he would tear the entire house down brick by brick.
When he reached the spot where the opening had been, Remo froze.
It was gone. Somehow the jagged hole he'd torn in the paneling had healed itself.
And on either side of the narrow passage, the walls began to thrum, as if with a pulsing life force all their own.
Whatever was happening, it wasn't good. Remo slashed out a hand at the wood. It absorbed the blow.
He tried again. Still nothing. The paneling that had shattered so easily two minutes before now seemed impervious to his attacks.
A click and a whir behind him, followed by a low rumble.
Remo didn't turn. He didn't need to look to know that the walls were closing in.
There wasn't a sense of hydraulics. Just the inexorable move of the wall toward his back.
And as the passage constricted, threatening to crush Remo to paste, a single camera winked on at the far end of the corridor, its somber lens focused on the dramatic final moments of life of the younger Master of Sinanju.
Chapter 22
At first he had an impossible time orienting himself. All around him the world was shaded in black.
But after a time, shapes began to form. Angled shadows rose right or left, indicating where walls and ceiling were.
Mark Howard was at Folcroft. As usual. That much he knew. But he couldn't quite place exactly where. He started walking.
As he headed down the long hallway, each footfall was thunder only he could hear.
When he felt the first kiss from the icy rush of air, he knew what it preceded.
Come for me....
The disembodied voice echoed forlornly off the shadowy walls. It seemed to be inside his head, as well.
He had heard the voice before. In this same place. But as far as he knew, it wasn't a voice he recognized. The hallway grew longer with each step. He passed a window. In the tree beyond, an owl blinked inquisitively, its eyes washed in purple from the strangely deformed moon.
Release me....
A door. Mark had seen it before. Each time he visited this hallway, he managed to get this far. With growing dread he knew that it would soon be over.
It was a patient's door. Crisscrossing wires were buried in the small Plexiglas rectangle.
Mark crept forward. The thudding of his shoes faded, overwhelmed by the pounding of his own heart.
The door was solid, unbreakable.
He touched the handle. As usual, no sense of cold or warmth. For a moment he considered turning it. Some unexplainable inner dread held him back. He released the knob.
The instant he let go, there issued a timid scratching from inside, as from a dying animal. Whatever it was, it gave the sense that captivity was sapping its vitality.
Holding his breath, Mark moved to the window. Though it was dark inside, he could still glimpse a few familiar shapes. A bed. A dresser.
The rustle of movement.
He leaned in close, his heart beating a chorus in his ears.
Movement no more. For an instant he thought it might have been imagined.
And in that moment of doubt, it sprang at him. When it shot up from the shadows, Mark fell back. It pounded the window, cracking the reinforced mesh. "Release me!" the beast shrieked.
The features were feral. Not human, not animal. It was all hatred and rage.
Howard skittered back on all fours, slamming the wall. He blinked. The instant he did, the darkness turned to gray, quickly fading up to white. And even as the light returned, the beast continued to slam the door, demanding release.
Pounding, pounding, pounding...
KNOCK, knock knock.
Mark opened his eyes.
It took him a moment to realize where he was. Four walls. Close enough to touch.
Folcroft. This was where he worked now. A dream. The dream. Again.
He rubbed his head where he had bumped it against the wall. His office was so small that his chair barely fit behind his desk. During his first month here, he had hit his head against the wall at least twice every day.
Knock, knock knock.
"Mr. Howard?" a timid voice called from the hall. Okay. He was back. The dream was rapidly becoming nothing more than a disturbing memory.