What is this? Where am I? Out there, beyond the door, horrors await. I feel it. A darkness. I can almost see it, curling up from under the door like smoke—a palpable sense of wrongness. I need to go. I need to go, go, GO. But where?

In the quiet, I relive the incident on the Tube.

The sudden stop. Banging my forehead. I feel my head—the lump is still there. Did we crash? Was it that? But then what happened to Bea and the other passengers? And what was that thing? That hideous, birdlike creature thing, crawling through the carriage like a…well, like a hideous birdlike creature thing.

It’s a dream. It isn’t real.

Then I get an idea.

My phone’s still dead, and it won’t charge, so I use the old eighties-style rotary landline Gad installed because he believes all mobile phones are brain-killers. One thing that I’m grateful hasn’t changed.

I pick up the receiver and dial.

MRS. G: Hello? Sophia Gold.

ME: Uh…hi, this is…it’s Ana, Mrs. G.

MRS. G: Ana?

ME: Bea’s friend…from school.

MRS. G: Who is this?

ME: It’s Ana. Look, I know this is crazy, and I know you don’t want her to see me right now, but…is Bea there? I really need to talk to her, Mrs. G. I just…is she there? Tell me she is.

MRS. G: If this is a prank, it’s not funny. I don’t know who you are. This is disgusting.

ME: But, Mrs. G. I—

MRS. G: What sort of person are you? Why do this?

ME: I’m sorry, Mrs. G. It’s just—

MRS. G: I’m not Mrs. G. I’m Sophia Gold. And you are not—

ME: Please…just please put her on the line.

MRS. G: She’s gone. Don’t you understand? She died a year ago.

The line goes dead.

I stare at the receiver in shock. She died a year ago.

No. No, that can’t be. I feel like vomiting. My throat closes. Fear turns, deep in my stomach. And it hits me like a bullet. I’m alone. Truly alone.

With trembling hands, I punch in another number.

LH: Lister Hospital. How may I help?

ME: Uh…this is…it’s Ana Moon.

LH: How may I help you today, Ms. Moon?

ME: I need to speak with my doctor. It’s urgent. Dr. Alice Augur. She’s a psychologist.

LH: Psychologist, you say?

ME: Yeah. You know. Shrink.

LH: And you’re sure it’s the Lister you’re after?

ME: Yeah. The Lister. Chelsea Bridge Road.

LH: OK. It’s just…well, we don’t have a psychology department.

ME: No, you do. Trust me.

LH: I’m sorry. I can assure you, we—

ME: Did you type in her name? Augur. A-U-G-U-R.