THE home of Doctor Jeremiah Brockbank was an old residence that had withstood the inroads of newer buildings in that vicinity. It stood like an old curio amid a mass of tall apartment buildings — a reminder of New York in the late ‘90s.
The house was closed. Its windows were boarded. The massive oak door was a formidable barrier.
There was nothing of value in the house — a casual observer could surmise that fact. The owner had been away for many months, and there was no indication of his return.
A shadow appeared in front of the building. It was only visible for a moment. Then it vanished. It did not reappear.
Behind the old house, in the darkness of a delivery alley, the same fleeting shadow crossed a spot of light.
A board came loose from a back window of the house. It seemed to move of its own volition, soundlessly, without the contact of a human hand. Another board followed. The window was raised.
Then the boards moved back into place.
No sound occurred as the window sash was lowered. Something from the blackness had entered the old house.
Only the boards had moved. Still, they were white in color, and white may be seen when it trembles in semidarkness. Eyes peering from a dark room in an apartment house behind the Brockbank residence had seen the motion of those white boards.
There was an immediate result. Stealthy forms crept up the delivery alley. Men in plain clothes stationed themselves on either side of the front of the Brockbank home. The back door was unlocked by a careful hand. Figures entered softly.