Her fingers touched the cool glass and metal of her phone. And something else. Something cold and spongy and fleshy.

25

Margot felt as though a knife had been sliced into her heart.

Pinned under the hatch, she could only half turn her body. Her cell phone was still where she’d placed it, but she’d put it the wrong way down, and the light shone into the wood floorboards. Scant traces of illumination escaped around the edges, a whisper of sight all she had.

Her hand rested on top of the phone. And so did another set of fingers.

She could barely see them. But she knew they were pale. Unnaturally warped. Parts of the ring finger and little finger were missing entirely, leaving pale stubs.

Above them, the two disks of light shone, fixated on Margot.

She convulsed backward, a scream catching and dragging in her throat. The phone skittered, sliding over the edge of the hatch and hitting one of the ladder’s steps before smacking into the floor.

Margot felt herself losing her footing. The ladder tipped beneath her. The hatch, balanced by one arm and her head, was heavy. Her spare hand scrabbled, trying to hold on, but she was already gone, falling into the dark hall below.

Her shin scraped the stepladder’s edge. The ladder fell away, hitting the wall with a crunch, and Margot landed hard. Her ears rang and her knees and hands smarted.

For a moment, she simply hunched there on the floor, swallowed by the darkness of the house, waiting for the pain to register.

It came in smarting strips and dull, throbbing pulses, mostly along her leg but in her hands and wrists as well. It wasn’t enough to keep her from moving, though—no broken bones, no torn muscles. She could still stand.

Margot did exactly that. Her legs shook as she fumbled to find the closest door. It creaked as it opened, and Margot pushed it wide, allowing the pale moonlight shining through the window to flow into the hall.

The trapdoor above her was closed. Margot backed up, watching it, daring it to move. It stayed still. Quietly indistinct against the wooden ceiling, as though it had never been opened in the first place.

The fear had left her lungs raw and her body quaking, but Margot forced herself to keep moving. She pulled the stepladder away from the wall. It had left a nasty scrape in the wood. She straightened it under the hatch and climbed two steps. Unsteady fingers found the bolt and drew it home as hard as she could. She tested the lock, checking it again and again, before daring to apply pressure to the hatch. It refused to open. Finally reassured, Margot gingerly returned to the floor.