Roger, tired by celebration and resuming work, retired early, being sure that his switch was set, his room theoretically a sealed place.
Sleep came. Rest, though was disturbed by weird dreams.
Sometimes, he knew, dreams had outward causes stimulating them, as happens if a draft on exposed limbs makes one dream of riding on a sled and falling into a snow bank in howling wind.
His dream of a burglar, as he awakened and looked rather fearfully around, made him grin, though.
That room had been sealed by no one other than himself!
But a low, humming whine made him certain that machinery was in operation—the hum of the recorder motor. He located it. Proved it. Shutting off the device in case some jar had started it, he went to test his door. But he recalled that the motor still ran.
To his dismay, the door was not merely unsealed. It stood ajar.
Suddenly, startlingly, from behind him, his table radio spoke, in a thin, strained, bizarre cry.
“Fire!” and he heard, faintly, the crackle of flames.
Then an uncanny silence, dreadful by contrast, came.