And crawling was an inaccurate description. It was more like slithering. She wasn’t utilizing her hands or feet to propel her body forward. She was wriggling across the carpet in an eerily slow, smooth, sinuous motion, like a boa constrictor on the prowl.

I really must be dreaming.

Halfway across the room, she raised her head. He heard a wet, squishy sound . . . and saw the shape of what appeared to be a grotesquely long, ropy tongue protruding from her mouth.

All right, now I know I’m dreaming.

She drew the tongue back into her mouth with a motion like someone sucking in a strand of pasta. She slithered to the doorway, and away into the hall.

He realized he was clenching his teeth. He relaxed his jaws, exhaled a big gasp of air.

He waited for a minute, to see whether she would return. When nothing happened, he got out of bed.

His erection was so rigid it felt like a pole.

He tiptoed to the door and looked out in the hallway. No one was out there. He rubbed his eyes.

What the hell did I just see? What happened?

He retreated into the bedroom, closed the door. And locked it.

28

Monica awoke early as usual, but didn’t dress in her workout clothes. It was clear to her, upon waking, that was she much was too stiff to attempt an exercise routine of any kind. She slipped on a pair of house shoes, wrapped herself in her robe, and went downstairs, taking each step slowly and carefully.

Her joints crackled with each step. She felt like a very old woman in deteriorating physical condition.

She needed to see her doctor. She could ascribe her chronic fatigue to grief, but the joint pain and stiffness was another matter altogether.

As she reached the bottom of the staircase, she heard Grace moving dishes in the kitchen, and she smelled the aroma of something baking, mingled with the spicy fragrance of Grace’s cigarettes.

Doesn’t she ever sleep? Monica wondered. It was a quarter to six in the morning. Monica had been looking forward to, perhaps jealously, a little time to herself. It seemed that the only time she had any solitude these days was when she was asleep.

“Good morning, dear,” Grace said, sounding as cheerful as if she’d been wide awake for hours. She smiled brightly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Morning,” Monica said. “Yeah, sleep was fine. I feel bad only when I get up.”

Grace took a draw on her cigarette, ground it out in her ashtray, and came to Monica. She wore a red nightgown that billowed around her slim figure, an apron knotted around her waist. Her hair was in a short, curly style, the strands thick and dark. Monica assumed she had colored her hair. Grace’s complexion was vibrant, too, her skin glowing as if lightly coated in oil.