The North Stairwell fire door glided open across the polished lobby tile without the faintest squeak from its steel hinges.
Through the opening, the dark corridor beyond seemed to stretch into infinite blackness.
Inside the Proctor’s Booth, Julian Vance kept his feet planted firmly behind the Dutch door. Though the hallway outside made no acoustic sound, a sickening rhythm throbbed inside his inner ear.
It was the wet, rhythmic squeak-slap of crepe-soled orthopedic shoes.
The vibration bypassed the air and his eardrums entirely, traveling directly through the temporal bone behind his right temple. It was an acoustic distance violation -- Register Two of the Oakhaven auditory phenomena. The entity was twenty feet away, but her footsteps sounded as if she were pacing inside his own skull.
Matron Bell glided across the black-and-white checkerboard tiles of the lobby.
Her movement was unnaturally smooth. Her ankle-length charcoal wool skirt did not sway. She hovered three inches above the waxed linoleum, drifting forward like a dark iron statue on hidden casters.
As she crossed beneath the emergency exit lamp, the starched white collar of her blouse parted.
