And the butcher knife. In her hand. Gleaming.

“Do you mind if we just, uh, call it a day. I’m really uh . . .”

“Oh! Is this not a good time then?” The smile begins to falter, sliding off her lips.

“Well, it’s just . . . it’s just—”

“Oh, it’s fine, dear. I know when I’m not wanted. Quite fine.” And this passive-aggressive turn now made menacing by the butcher knife, still in hand.

I want to shout, “Hand over the butcher knife!” but, of course, I can’t. Or I don’t.

“You know . . . little girls like you all alone in a house like this. It’s not right. I mean, think! Anything could happen to you.”

Butcher knife still in hand.

When the hell is she going to put it down?

“Deary, you simply can’t be here by yourself. It’s not safe.” She comes closer now. Seeming almost to glide.

“Excuse me, I . . .” And now I’m light-headed, not knowing what to do. Suddenly she’s transformed, and seems so menacing. So close. Still holding the gleaming knife.

“I’m afraid for you, my darling! I’m afraid for you, here, in this place! You don’t know what could happen! What has occurred!”

And now she’s suddenly short of breath, panicked, mania in her eyes, still holding the knife.

“Please, you just need to sit down. Perhaps some water . . .” And I turn toward the refrigerator, but just as I turn, I see her out of the corner of my eye. . . .

She lunges!

She lunges toward me with the knife.

It splits the air, gleaming, an arc down, right where my back was just a split second ago!

“Jesus!” I hurl myself to the other side of the room, but now she is . . . she is something else . . . a decrepit, deranged thing, heading toward me, throwing herself toward me.

And I fucking run.

I fling myself into the hallway and up the stairs, not knowing what I am doing until I do it.

“No, no! There is method to my madness! You will see! Let me show you!”

Looking back in glances, I see with horror that she is now not the sweet old lady from somewhere posh in England, but a haggard, kind of shriveled shrew following me, spouting maniacally about the house.

“It’s this house! Don’t you see?! The house does it to everyone! It will do it to you! That’s why, this is why! You must be gone before it’s too late!”

And again, she catapults herself toward me, swinging the knife in the motion of a sickle, and I’m not even touching the ground now, just hurling myself forward, just seeming to fly upward and away, thinking, think, Daffodil, thinking what can I do, how can I make this stop. She is mad! She is truly mad!

And the thought in a thunderclap . . . who the hell is this lady . . . who is she? The professor never introduced her. She said she was a friend. That was her report. She could have come from anywhere, from the town, from the street, some homeless woman from Philadelphia, possibly wandered in from the city . . . and I’m breathless, I’m panicking. . . .