Imagine footsteps from inside your own ceiling. Not a memory, but a presence, so close you can count each groaning creak of the floorboards. It is autumn, nineteen forty-one, in Denver. A man named Theodore Edward Coneys, frail and shivering, finds an unlocked door and slips into a silent hallway. He moves toward a closet, where he discovers a small, hand-sized panel. He wriggles through the ga...
