She fervently hoped so. If only Jack weren’t so evasive about everything. What was he hiding? Was there something he was afraid to tell her? God, she hated this! She wanted to be home in her own little apartment in her own bed with Vicky down the hall in hers.

Gia started back for the bedroom and then stopped. She was wide awake. No use trying to go back to sleep just yet. She pulled the bedroom door closed, then searched through the kitchen for something to drink. The liberal amounts of MSG routinely used in Chinese cooking never failed to make her thirsty. When she came across the box of tea bags she grabbed them. With the kettle on to boil, she spun the television dial looking for something to watch. Nothing but old movies…

The water started to boil. Gia made a cup of tea and sugared it, filled a tall glass with ice, and poured the tea over the ice. There: iced tea. Needed some lemon, but it would do.

As she approached the couch with her drink she caught an odor—something rotten. Just a whiff and it was gone. There was an odd familiarity about it. If she could catch it again she was sure she could identify it. She waited but it didn’t return.

Gia turned her attention to the television. Citizen Kane was on. She hadn’t seen that one in ages. It made her think of Jack… how he’d go on and on about Wells’ use of light and shadow throughout the film. He could be a real pain when you just wanted to sit and watch the movie.

She sat down and sipped her tea.

22

Vicky shot up to a sitting position in bed. “Mommy?” she called softly. She trembled with fear. She was alone. And there was an awful, pukey smell. She glanced at the window. Something was there… outside the window. The screen had been pulled out. That’s what had awakened her.

A hand—or something that looked like a hand but really wasn’t—slipped over the windowsill. Then another. The dark shadow of a head rose into view and two glowing yellow eyes trapped her and pinned her where she sat in mute horror. The thing crawled over the ledge and flowed into the room like a snake.

Vicky opened her mouth to scream out her horror but something moist and hard and stinking jammed against her face, cutting off her voice. It was a hand, but like no hand she had ever imagined. There only seemed to be three fingers—three huge fingers—and the taste of the palm against her lips brought what was left of her Chinese dinner boiling to the back of her throat.

As she fought to get free, she caught a fleeting close-up glimpse of what held her—the smooth, blunt-snouted face, the fangs showing above the scarred lower lip, the glowing yellow eyes. It was every fear of what’s in the closet or what’s in that shadowed corner, every bad dream, every night horror rolled into one.