“Go back to the hole,” Amy said, pressing her palms against the wall. “Can you find your way back to the closet? I’ll meet you there—”

THUD!

Something slammed into the other side of the wall, knocking Amy back. Ruth Anne gabbled in fear. “They’re coming!”

“The hole! Meet me at the hole!”

Amy ran back to the supply closet. She didn’t see how she could fit through, but if Ruth Anne could make it, then so could she. She crouched down, ready to crawl through, only to discover that something was already crawling out. A hand, black with grime, wrapped its fingers around the lip of the opening.

“Help me,” Ruth Anne whispered.

“Give me your other hand,” Amy said.

She grabbed both of Ruth Anne’s wrists and knew immediately that something was wrong. Ruth Anne’s arms were slick with blood and gore, and Amy could barely get a grip. She wiped her palms on her jeans and tried again, pulling harder, guiding Ruth Anne’s head and shoulders through the opening. “It’s going to be okay,” Amy reassured her. “You’ll be home on the couch watching Real Housewives in no time. No more Creepy Crawlies.”

Amy felt something wrong with Ruth Anne’s fingertips. They were hard like calluses but the nails were missing and all the surrounding flesh was raw. In gouging out a hole, Ruth Anne had worked her fingers to the bone, literally. Each digit ended in a bloody white tip.

“Amy!” Ruth Anne screamed.

Something had her. She was being yanked backward, back into the hole. Amy grabbed her by the shoulders, but whatever was pulling from inside the wall was too strong.

“Hold on,” Amy said.

“I don’t want to see them!” Ruth Anne gibbered.

“I won’t let you go!” Amy said.

She braced her feet against the wall and leaned back, but Ruth Anne was slipping from her grip, sinking back into the hole, sinking into darkness.

“Help me!”

Amy dove through the hole headfirst.

Behind the wall was a cramped passage framed by drywall and metal ductwork. It was too low to crawl on all fours; Amy inched forward on her belly, using her feet to propel herself.

Ruth Anne was sliding backward, her bloodied hands slapping at the aluminum ducts and failing to find purchase. Amy lunged forward, grabbing her wrists with both hands. The flashlight rolled away, strobing through the passage.

“I got you,” she said. “I won’t let go, I swear.”

Ruth Anne just shook her head. Suddenly her voice was calm, as if she’d experienced a rush of clarity about her fate. “You’re not strong enough.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not. There’s one of you and too many of them. But I want you to know something, sweetheart. This is not your fault.”