The door’s wails heaved rhythmically. A howling cry, then a stuttering breath in, repeated. And then, abruptly, the voice cried out “Ezra,” followed by a raw, aching scream of grief.

Margot felt her limbs turn to lead. She swiveled on the balls of her feet, one hand gripping a broom handle to hold herself steady.

The half-open door created a narrow band of light. The hazy illumination grazed across the edges of shelves, crates, and tools.

And a figure.

22

Margot felt as though her heart were being squeezed. She hunched, hoping she would be lost in the back of the shed, all but invisible.

Opposite, close to the partially open door, was a woman. She was swallowed in shadows. Only her edges were visible, framed by the light.

Windblown hair framed her head. A dress reached to the floor. She held her hands over her face as the splitting, aching wails rose from her.

Margot didn’t move her eyes, but her hand snaked down her side, feeling for the pocket where she kept her mobile. It was still empty.

The wails cracked, unnaturally rhythmic, and she was no longer able to distinguish between the woman’s cries and the rusted shed door.

Margot dropped farther back, hoping to bury herself in the dark of the room’s corner. The space had no windows and no other doors. The only way out was past the wailing woman. Margot’s back pressed into the stepladder.

There was something unnatural about the figure. She wasn’t perfectly still; strands of hair and the edges of her dress twitched as the cries shook through her. But the movements felt inauthentic. Rhythmic, even. Like an automaton quivering through a preset series of looping motions.

Margot’s heart ached from how hard it was beating. Shallow gasps weren’t properly filling her lungs. She fastened her hands across the nearest items—the broom handle and the stepladder—then spoke, her voice dry and whispery with fear. “Hello?”

The woman’s silhouette fell perfectly still, like someone had cut the power to her. A second too late, Margot remembered Witchety’s words. Don’t provoke anything you don’t want to know better.

Then the woman began to lower her arms. They moved in insect-like twitches, little jolts at a time, horribly stiff, horribly tense.

The head rose, turning toward Margot. With the light to her back and her face clouded by gloom, none of her features were visible. Except for her eyes. Tiny points of light existed where her eyes belonged, sharp and cold, seeming to float in the inky blackness as they flicked toward Margot.

Her throat closed over. She turned her head and covered her face, her arms shaking, as she silently willed the lights to be gone, begging for it to be over.