The Other

by Thomas Tryon

surreptitious, creepy, sneak-up-on-you steps. He waited for the grating protest of iron hinges he knew must follow. Silence. The footsteps neither progressed nor receded, they merely stopped. There followed a faint double thud on the trapdoor and he could picture Somebody kneeling on the floor overhead, hand cupped to ear, ear to floor, listening . . . He held his breath. Now Somebody moved away, went tippy-toeing back across the trapdoor; a board creaked; Somebody must have gone outside. Phew. Niles inhaled the terror like exotic incense, his thin frame rippling with fright. Nyang-dang-ga—dang-drumm-drumm—dang-ga-dang— Cripes, there he went with his harmonica again, that idiot Mother Goose rhyme. Niles had heard it so often he knew the words by heart. How many miles to Babylon? Threescore miles and ten— Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again. A mocking, lilting refrain, perfect for blowing on a harmonica. On it went, the tripping refrain: If your heels are nimble and light, You may get there by candlelight . . . nyang-dang-ga-dang— Damn Mother Goose. Next, Holland’s hateful crooning: “Ni-yuls—Ni-yuls Alex-an-der Per-ry.” Cripes. The Alexander was by way of Alexandra, his mother, and had, Niles felt, sort of a sissy sound. “Ni-yuls Al-ex-an-der—” At last, defeated: “What?” he answered Holland. “What?” They were sitting there in the dark; some light, you fool! Niles groped for the bottle, righted it. He fingered a kitchen match from the Prince Alber...