A body moved in front of the window. The foot landed with a slam so heavy that she felt the reverberations along her spine.

Terror flooded her veins. She’d flinched at the motion but managed to keep her hold on the curtain. At that height, Margot could only see its thigh. Gray skin, puckered and mottled, tiny holes bored into it by countless insects. Muscles twitched underneath.

She held her breath as she lowered the curtain back into place, desperately afraid that the movement might draw the dead figure’s attention. She wanted to crawl back, to put some space between herself and the horrible, gray form. If the wall hadn’t stood between them, she could have reached out and touched the clammy skin.

Instead, she held herself still, muscles cramping from the position, her pulse like a torrent through her veins.

The world was silent for a moment. And then, above her head, a muffled tap against the glass. There was a second of silence, then the sound repeated, louder.

She could picture it. Spongy fingers missing their nails, stabbing into the window, looking for a way through.

The urge to run was overwhelming. She held where she was. Don’t panic, Kant had repeated to her. Panicked people act rashly. Panicked people make mistakes.

One of the porch’s wooden boards groaned. Then, a heavy thud sounded out as the body moved forward. Margot, her light still pressed against her chest, let her head droop and her eyes close as she listened to the body circle the porch in painstaking, measured paces.

More sounds began to register at the edges of her hearing. The creak of someone climbing the porch’s stairs. A low, slow clicking noise coming from somewhere to her right.

Then the groan of heavy rope not far outside her window.

The footsteps stopped outside the front door, and the sounds repeated. Dulled fingers stabbing into the wood. Knocking. Seeking a way in. After a moment, the figure turned, and its slow march across the porch continued.

Margot waited until the footsteps were at the kitchen window before lowering herself to sit. Her muscles ached from holding one position for so long. She put her back against the wall and slowly stretched her legs out to give them some relief.

They said that the dead might spend the night just walking around the house, knocking. That they might not come in at all.

If she stayed very quiet and very still, she might be lucky. Margot kept her arm pressed tight against her chest, where not even a whisper of light could escape. And she kept her ears open, tracking the corpses’ movements. There were at least three. The largest one—the one that had been outside the window—paced back and forth at the house’s front. Sometimes it stopped and stood still for minutes at a time. Sometimes it turned around the side of the house, only to return again.