There were no whiskers or hairs or spider legs or creatures near the toilet or the sink or the counter or the towel rack. The door was closed and locked.

He still felt dirty, still wanted to take a shower, but he was shaking and afraid, and he quickly shut off the water, pulled his pants back on, and, grabbing the rest of his clothes, ran back down the hall to his room.

He sat on his bed, breathing heavily.

What would happen in the middle of the night if he had to take a leak?

He’d hang his dick out the window and piss in the open air.

There was no way in hell he was going back into that bathroom.

He closed his eyes, saw again those twitching hairs, and shivered. He longed for the benign manifestations he’d seen before, for ghosts or burnt toast.

But he changed his mind about that.

Ghosts did come.

Later.

And he longed for the benign manifestation of hairs in the bathtub.

THREE

Daniel

Billingsly looked different in the morning. Better, healthier, as though he were suddenly well again after a long illness.

He himself looked like hell.

He’d had a bad night.

Daniel had been almost asleep when the doll had come to visit. He was tired from driving and from stress, and he’d lain down on the bed, intending only to close his eyes and rest for a moment before attempting to find an escape route out of this loony bin, but when he felt himself drifting off, he figured he might as well pack it in for the night and wait for morning, when he’d have a clear mind and refreshed body and his chances would be better. He took off his clothes, crawled under the covers, closed his eyes.

And heard something scuttling in the corner.

He jerked up in bed, eyes wide open, heart pounding. He recognized that sound, and he glanced immediately toward the corner of the room from which the noise had come, but it was too dark for him to see anything.

He flipped on the nightstand lamp, then rushed over to the door and turned on the overhead light.

There it was, between a wastepaper basket and his toy chest.

The doll.