As she turned her back on it, Margot was once again struck by the unnerving way the cloth-covered shape seemed to morph into something human, something real, once it was only in her peripheral vision.

Other than the archway to the main hall, the living room had one other doorway: at its rear, behind the row of couches. Margot approached it. She’d half expected it to be just a linen closet, but it opened into another hallway clad in desaturated wood paneling.

Lights hung from the ceiling, but Margot couldn’t see a switch. She squinted as she moved into the narrow passage. Her path was lit solely by the glow from the living room at her back.

This part of the house seemed less used. Dust was thicker on the floor and the air tasted stale. Occasional doors broke up the lines in the paneling, but she didn’t try to open any of them. She was starting to develop the irrational fear that, if she took too many turns, she might never find her way back to center.

The hallway ended, with new offshoots splitting to the left and the right. Margot turned left and was rewarded by the shape she’d been searching for: the dark angular lines of stairs leading to the second floor.

The wood groaned as she stepped onto the stairway. Margot held one hand just above the railing, in case she might need to catch herself, as though at any second the stairs might begin to writhe and coil in on themselves like a snake.

A small amount of filtered light came from the upper floor. Warm air was supposed to rise, she knew, but the higher she climbed, the colder she felt. The wooden steps gave way to a landing and Margot stopped there, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the new environment.

The wind was louder on the second floor, even though Margot couldn’t see any windows. It shuddered across the walls and rattled against the roof above. The landing bent to the side and split into several paths: closed doors, more hallways, and to Margot’s right, the source of the light: a large wooden door that hung open.

Its hinges groaned as it shifted backward and forward on air currents. Margot, cautious, moved toward it. This was the first open door she’d seen in the house, she realized. The entrance to the kitchen and the living room had been open archways, but every other door was sealed tight.

As she neared the room, Margot could see the edge of a dresser and, farther back, a window with slowly drifting curtains.

Prickles ran over her skin, flaring across her fingertips like a thousand needles. She knew what this room was and why its door was open.

The master bedroom. Their bedroom.