I arose and pulled cobwebs from my hair, brushed dirt from my clothes. It seemed from my experience with the two hitchhikers and the cat that there were limits to my mind-­clouding; I could not mesmerize more than one person at a time. Maybe, though, I could surround myself with the music as I had surrounded the car when I slept therein. Maybe I could cloak myself, become as a shadow to their eyes for the briefest of moments—that’s all I would need, a moment—and then I would be on my way and they need never know another thing.

I walked to the outside door, feeling the cold through the cracks. I turned the knob, and as I did so, the kitchen door at the top of the stairs opened, throwing noise down; a bare bulb that hung over the stairs flashed to life, illuminating everything that wasn’t in the shadow of the stairs. Feet encased in soft shoes trotted lightly down the wooden risers.

I crouched, feeling the hair at the back of my neck prickle. A feral growl waited at the back of my throat. The woman came into view, tall, slender, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, her long auburn hair brushed and dazzling. She stopped before the stacks of canned goods, her back to me. She began to sway as she considered the array, making a mealtime decision.

If she turned around, she would see me.

She picked up one can, and then another, replaced the first, and still she scanned the assortment. I began the music, not directed toward her, but to raise the level of my own vibrations, to render my flesh safe from prying eyes or dangerous discovery.

The woman stopped swaying. She slowly turned toward me, and her eyes flicked across the expanse of cellar, resting for a long moment on the cellar door. She did not see me, but she sensed me. Her slim fingers rubbed her arms, and I could smell the acrid scent of fear. She looked quickly at the can in her hand, grabbed another almost without looking, and ran up the stairs, flicked off the light, and slammed the door behind her.

Relief weakened me. It had worked, but only to a degree. She knew I was there—she may not have known the nature of my being, but her instincts had found mine, and so my time must be short here, short and cunning.

The cellar door opened with little noise, and I was again standing in snow.

I walked through the backyard, alongside the neighbor to the rear. I turned north on the next street and headed for town, beyond town, for the nicer neighborhood, for the upper class of Wilton, where they fed their children butter and sweet cream, where the children were plump and tender, pinchable and delicious.