By Dean R. Koontz
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It fell over, backwards, but made little noise on the thick blue carpeting. More whispers arose in the distance and rushed towards him. He had opened up a floodgate of thought-projectionists, and the deluge was about to take him. Here, a man named Harry had drunk too much and was leaning into the bathroom sink, wondering if he should or could be sick. Here, a woman lay in a dark bedroom, alone, watching the patterns of automobile lights on her roughly plastered ceiling. Here a bitter argument over money.
XIV She wakes up and reaches out and feels cold sheets. When she opens her eyes on the dark room and his absence finally registers on all levels, she withdraws her hand, beneath the covers, holds her breasts and tries to keep her breathing even. She listens for him. She throws off the covers and gets out of bed, slips on her tongs and goes to the bedroom door. She opens it, steps into the hallway and stops again to listen for him. Silence. ' Silence yet. Perhaps, she thinks, he is dwnstairs, sitting in an easy chair, reading.
Simultaneously, he considered the tape loop of questions, so occupied between the two endeavours that he was not aware of the first stirrings of the alien mind which had intruded into his. At first, there was only a sudden calming influence, a sense of barrenness. Then the hard, clean mind weighed him down. He felt cold and hollow, drained by the contact. The child's thoughts ebbed. The alien consciousness flowed, filling his horizons until it commanded all his attention. He looked about the dark streets.