I suspect the person Elizabeth really wanted to show the photo to was the child’s father. At dinner, I found myself wanting to see the faceless boy again, and I kept checking the doorway in hopes that he might walk through and reveal himself. I needed to know who he was. If only I had the right talisman, the right ritual to summon him. But I waited in vain.

I wonder if the house dreams.

Its regurgitations of memory seem accurate, as far as I can tell; and if they are accurate memories, then they are unlikely to be dreams.

But what if the house dreamed? Would the memories distort the same way our dreams sometimes twist reality? Would it begin showing surreal images of things that never were and never would be? And what monsters might be lurking in the shadows of these dreams?

Is the faceless boy a dream?

I wonder, because my dreams are always so strange.

In this one, I am as pregnant as my sister; my belly protrudes unnaturally from my angular frame, and from within that aching globe of flesh press tiny hands, pushing up, pushing free. I am lying down and watching mesmerized as two little hands appear, distending the flesh. At first I am intrigued by the sight, but then two more hands appear, and two more, until myriad tiny hands are pressing up from the inside of my belly and fear grips me as I wonder what is inside of me, and I begin to shout please get it out, please get it out, but there is only a dark figure lurking in the corner of the room—and I call out to this figure but he does not move, merely watches as the tiny hands burst through flesh and reach their bloodied fists into the open air and one by one climb out and away, trailing umbilical cords, and the figure steps closer holding a knife and the figure is Julian—

No, of course it isn’t. I wake, feeling foolish, pressing both hands against my stomach.

After the nightmare, I cannot get back to sleep. My brain feels wired, keyed up with electricity. Lying in bed makes my stomach churn, so I get up and tread quietly into the dark hallway, the floor sighing disconsolately beneath my footfalls. I make it only a few steps into the hall when I feel suddenly that I am not alone.

A creature creeps low against the floor toward me.

It crawls with long narrow limbs like a spider, its elbows protruding into the air. Instead of crawling strictly on its knees, it keeps picking them up to use its feet, pushing itself forward by extending its legs out behind and repeating. All I can see are pale limbs and black hair hiding a face that is turned down to the floor, a face I know I would not be able to see even if it were lifted in my direction, and I beg inwardly, Please don’t look up, please don’t lift your head, please don’t fix me with your black eyes trapped in an indistinguishable face. I wanted him to appear again, but not here, not in the middle of the night. What seems fine in the daylight becomes infinitely more grotesque when encountered at midnight upon opening one’s bedroom door.