"Who's coming in my house?" demanded Henry, angrily. "Who's tramping around down there?" Heavy feet. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty of them. Fifty persons crowding into the house. The humming. The giggling of the children. "This way!" cried Mink, below. "Who's downstairs?" roared Henry. "Who's there!" "Hush, oh, nonononono!" said his wife, weakly, holding him. "Please, be quiet. They might go away." "Mom?" called Mink, "Dad?" A pause. "Where are you?" Heavy footsteps, heavy, heavy, _very_ HEAVY footsteps came up the stairs. Mink leading them. "Mom?" A hesitation. "Dad?" A waiting, a silence. Humming. Footsteps toward the attic. Mink's first. They trembled together in silence in the attic, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. For some reason the electric humming, the queer cold light suddenly visible under the door crack, the strange odor and the alien sound of eagerness in Mink's voice, finally got through to Henry Morris, too. He stood, shivering, in the dark silence, his wife beside him. "Mom! Dad!" Footsteps. A little humming sound. The attic lock melted. The door opened. Mink peered inside, tall blue shadows behind her. "Peek-a-boo," said Mink.