"They're hanging men and women for the wearing of the green," she snarled. Spittle flew from her lips like a rabid dog. Eyes wild. Feral.

He thought, I won't be bad no more, Ma, I swear, please stop—

And suddenly it clicked. She was having an episode. Like she did when he was little. Before they took her away.

Whatever it was, she was still dangerous. And much stronger than she looked. She thrashed against his hands. The wound on his palm tore open as she bore down on him, hard enough he thought her ribs might crack.

Her bony fingers with brittle nails like fragile talons swiped at him, her snarling lips nearing his face, stained dentures clacking. A low, guttural growl rising from her sallow chest—

"Ma!" he cried, the purest childhood terror gripping his heart.

She vanished. He held nothing but chill night air. Heart pounding. Hand still hurting. He blinked, peering into the dark. Looking for any sign of her. But Ruby had never been there.

He must have dreamed the whole thing. Hallucinated it. Something.

He sighed, but the fear didn't go away so easily. He could still feel her crepe-paper flesh on his hands. Blood had seeped through the bandage. Must have happened while he was sleeping. Must have caused the nightmare.

Or whatever it was, he thought.

One thing he knew for sure, Ruby was stronger than she looked. He suspected it when she left the bath last night. Dancing down the hall to her room, singing that strange song. The wet footprints on the steps meant she'd crept down the stairs while the three of them had been talking in the kitchen, without using the stair lift. She'd gotten in and out of the tub on her own, yet she claimed to need his help moments later. Even allowed herself a rare moment of vulnerability, standing naked in front of him. And she still needed the walker and a stair lift just to get around.

Was she faking it? Was her weakness a way of exerting power over Norma? How could he find out for sure? Pull away her walker while she stood? Challenge her to a fucking arm wrestle?

He let out a dry chuckle. Yeah, that's a great idea, Martin. Abuse an old woman in her home. Good way to get yourself locked up. Local Writer Attacks Mother. Breaking news, story at eleven. Bet I get a visit the very next morning from my best friend and yours, the Witch Hunter himself, Mr. James Barclay.

He'd have to keep an eye on her. Not that he was afraid of her, not like he'd been when he was a kid. The nightmare—that was clearly what it was, just a nightmare, an undigested bit of beef, the ghosts have done it all in one night—likely had a more Jungian meaning than literal. Still, he would need to be more careful dealing with her from now on.

She was old but she was just as formidable as he remembered. Sharp as—claws—nails. She might not be able to physically harm him but she could do worse damage with a swift jab to the psyche, an uppercut to the ego. She could cut him down to the size of a weeping child.