In the hall, I’m moving almost against my will, as if I’m being led. I end up at the front entrance, at the stairwell. I’m so tired from the walk, physically drained, that I rest my head against the wall before I bend down to look at the framed picture there. Near the bottom, I see it—the spot where I’d made that single scratch last night with my hairpin.

But now there are many scratches, at least forty, fifty, too many to count. My heart is thrashing in my chest. I can’t slow it down. My breath, too, is coming in short, fast gulps. The rest of me, my arms, my legs, my eyes, are frozen. I can’t move.

I look down the stairs. Have I ever been there? Should I go down? I don’t want to. I don’t want to see what’s down there. But if I’m going to understand this house and what’s happening to us, then I have to. I have to see for myself.

I’m gripping the banister for dear life, putting both feet on each step as I descend. I hear a thud, which causes me to stop on the last step. I hear it again. It sounds more like a groaning. I follow it, the sound, the feeling, despite my fear. I enter the first room I see, a doorway appearing on my left. It’s hard to see in the blackness. There’s almost no light, and what little there is, I can’t tell the source.

Two steps in, my slipper catches and I almost fall from a bag lying on the floor. I look down and see there are several bags all of similar size. They look like pillowcases. I see now there are many bags piled up around the room. What kind of room is this? A closet? A storage room? I can’t tell what is above me or where I am in proximity to my own room.

I pick up the bag that tripped me. I open it at the top. I can’t see what’s inside. So I reach my hand in hesitantly until I can touch the contents. I slowly remove a handful of soft fibers.

I bring it up to my face. I think I’m holding… hair.

As soon as I recognize what it is, I drop it and wipe my hand on my leg. I’m biting my bottom lip so hard I can taste blood as I open a second bag, dumping its contents onto the floor. It’s filled with what must be nail clippings. I start to cough. I collapse in on myself, falling into the wall.

There are many bags, too many to count. How long have they been there? How long have I been here? They are filled with years’ worth of hair and nail clippings.

I push the bags at my feet aside, leaving the room, and walk toward where the sound is coming from. There’s a single bed at the far end of the room. There’s nothing else in the room. I go toward it. There’s a horizontal shape on the bed that is not moving. When I’m about halfway, whatever is on the bed makes the sound I’ve been hearing: a deep exhale, a sigh.