The morning light was thin, argentine, and pulsing as it strained through the half- drawn curtains of Alex’s bedroom. He awoke on the bottom, flashlight gripped in his hand, the murk from the former night moping like cobwebs in the corners of the room. Every muscle pained, and his mind reeled from the memory of what had happed however “ memory ” sounded shy. It was as if the house had ingrained itself directly onto his knowledge, threading terror and seductiveness into a single, thick pattern. He could still feel the cold wave, deliberate touch at his shoulder, the muttered asseveration of the whispers, case, knowing.