"You remember it?"

He nodded. A tear fell and he wiped it briskly away.

"Perhaps you do." She sighed softly, patting his thigh. "Perhaps."

"And after that, seeing you week after week in the White Pl—in the sanitarium. Watching you wither away. It was terrifying. There were times I..." Could he admit to it? He pushed on. "...times I wished you would just die so I could be free."

"I understand. You were afraid."

Her gnarled fingers squeezed into the meat of his thigh. The grip was strong, hard enough to paralyze him. He tried to turn but found he couldn't pivot at the waist and his legs wouldn't move. He couldn't turn his head.

"You were a weak boy, Martin. A weak, scared little boy. You've always been weak and scared. That weak, vain little boy grew to a bitter, loveless, unloved man with a Peter Pan complex and a booze addiction. A selfish, boorish beast. Afraid of aging for fear you'll lose the one advantage you have over your prey—those pretty young women who make you feel young, if only for a moment."

Her fingernails pierced the fabric of his jeans and tore into his skin. He felt blood trickle down his thigh but he couldn't tilt his head, couldn't even move his eyes to see if her hand had changed into a monster's claws the way it had in his childhood nightmares where she chased him through dark, winding tunnels.

I was wrong about her. She's not the witch. She's Grandmother Wolf.

"Death is what you truly fear," the old woman said. "It gnaws at you, like rats in the rafters. Like grave worms. But I'll tell you something, Martin. You shouldn't be afraid of dying. Embrace the immortal darkness within you. Taste life. Become the killer they say you are. The killer you know you are."

Her grip released him. He sucked in a gasped breath, only just realizing he hadn't breathed since she'd grabbed him, and turned to confront her. Not caring there were tears in his eyes. Not caring that he was still bleeding.

But Ruby was asleep. Breathing in and out peacefully through her nose. Blood throbbing steadily in her jugular, clearly visible under paper-thin flesh. Arms tucked neatly under the covers.

He stood abruptly, trying to comprehend what just happened. His leg wasn't bleeding. The jeans weren't torn. The injury itself was imagined.

Looking at her, the cold realization struck him that she couldn't have gripped his leg so hard with her weak, bony fingers, let alone forceful enough to paralyze his entire body. She wouldn't have the strength. The exertion would have quickened her breathing. Her pulse. And he would have heard her hands slipping back under the covers.

I'm losing my mind, he thought.

Or maybe it was never there to begin with.

He watched her sleep for a long moment, wondering what was wrong with himself, then he crept out and quietly closed her door.

When he got back downstairs, he saw the Midwives had already let themselves out.