The pilot had heard the knocks and heard the shuffling of feet outside his door, but didn't hear any voices. All the sound stopped, in fact, and he strained so hard to hear from inside his closet his ears filled his head with the empty white noise of an imagined far off surf, just for something.

Carefully, he cracked the closet door and looked out.

A thundering knock on the bedroom door made him cry out and jump.

"Murdock! Murdock, buddy! Come on. We've gotta go!"

It was Face's voice, Face's smooth, deceptive voice, Face's normal voice. Faceman was talking to him in his normal way, calling him buddy, asking him to come out.

"Let's go, man. I told you there was still lots to do!"

Face's voice Face's voice Face's voice . . . but was it Face himself? Was it a puppet, was it a shade, was it a homunculus made in the shape of his best friend?

Murdock whimpered in paralyzed fear. The shadowy wisps in the corners grew bolder, lifting themselves off the surfaces to nose the air.

The deafening knocks came again, a tight fist slamming on the wooden door.

"Murdock! We're leaving! Get out here!"

Face's voice took on a sharper tone.

"Right now, buddy. If you don't come out, we're coming in."

Even sharper now; the voice of a CO who demands to be obeyed. It was like Hannibal's voice, back when they were in the military.

And now Murdock saw the doorknob twisting, and the unmistakable sound of someone pushing against the door in an effort to open it. When it didn't budge—oh, thank heavens above that there'd been enough solid wooden furniture to fill the space between the door and the opposite wall!—the pounding came again.

"Murdock! Open this door right now. Come out here right now!"

Face's voice lost its velvet edge completely and was raw anger and command.

Murdock flinched again.

The pounding, the drumming, the jackhammering on the door filled the room and suddenly Murdock realized one of the inky strands of infinite blackness had almost reached him. It was a mere inch away.

That was scarier than a monster in the shape of his friend attempting to break down his door, and Murdock scrabbled up and away. In his panicked haste to get away he cracked his head on the shelf in the closet with enough force to rock him. He grasped at the unlatched closet door but it offered no support, swinging on its hinges. He lost his balance and fell back, striking his head again.