Tracked by Terror Read Online Free

Report how my sad tale ends, report me true, I beg, my friends, that the world at large may know of poor Iacchalus and his tale ... of woe!”
    Then another man’s voice: “Alas, he is dead, his spirit fled. His gallant heart has burst from sorrow. Friends, bear him away; we shall pause to judge and say what punishment to give his direst foe tomorrow.”
    Jarvey came to what felt like a metal railing, and looking ahead he realized that far below him, shrunk to postage-stamp size by distance, a stage lay bathed in light. On it actors who seemed no bigger than ants moved slowly. The light faded as a curtain came down, and then an unseen audience, thousands and thousands of people, began to applaud, crying out, “Bravo!” and “Author!”
    â€œIt’s a theater!” Jarvey said, feeling both relieved and surprised.
    Because it was certainly the largest theater he had ever been in, the largest he could imagine. He stood at the back of an enormous horseshoe-shaped auditorium, with curving banks of seats falling away before him, down to that far-off stage.
    The curtain rose again, and in the spill of light from it Jarvey could just make out the actors, bowing to the applause. That was what had sounded like surf! They took bow after bow, and then one stepped forward to an ovation like thunder. The sound very gradually died down, and then the man who had been acting the part of Iacchalus said, “Thank you, kind friends, thank you. Now that we have given you a tale of sadness and tragedy, we shall lift your spirits next time with a comedy. Our next performance, I am pleased to say, will be one of your old favorites, the happy story of the four foolish lovers and their equally foolish families, newly augmented with striking original scenes and three new songs. Please return to see our humble offering of The Lovers’ Stratagem, or, Two Couples Uncoupled. Good night!”
    The curtain fell for the last time on the stage, but now chandeliers dangling on long chains were creaking down from high openings in the ceiling, and a warm yellow wash of candlelight streamed from them, illuminating the crowd below. Jarvey had never seen so many people assembled in one place in his whole life, not at football games, not anywhere. The men all wore dark evening clothes, long black coats, white shirts, white ties, and top hats, and the women wore a rainbow of old-fashioned evening gowns, shimmering blues and reds. The men and women alike murmured as they turned to leave, all of them sounding very pleased with the play they had just seen. Jarvey caught fragments of their comments: Splendid voice . . . moved to tears ... another triumph ... glorious, glorious.
    Jarvey dodged aside as a torrent of people made their way up the slanting aisles toward the passages he had just left. Nobody seemed to notice him as he stared up at the passing throng. All around the auditorium, crowds of men and women poured into the aisles. Jarvey gawped at them because he felt vaguely bothered by something. Lots of the people looked very much alike. There were about half a dozen different models of men, half a dozen models of women. All the men with dark mustaches looked enough alike to be brothers, if not twins. All the blond women in dark dresses were nearly identical, and so it was with the other models as well. And the conversations repeated themselves too. For twenty or thirty times, Jarvey heard identical-looking men tell identical-looking women, “We must come back for the comedy. I know you’ll enjoy it.”
    Finally the last few straggling people walked past him, and as they left through the black velvet curtains and stepped into the dark passageway, a sudden silence fell. Jarvey brought up the rear of the group. He ducked through the curtain and stopped in his tracks, feeling the hairs on his arms prickling.
    The old man who had taken his candle stood alone, like a statue. No one else was in the passageway. But it