She must have thought I was out of my mind and had come to harm her.
She let go of the outer door and fled down the hallway that led into the apartment.
I pushed again. The hook gave way and, unprepared for the sudden yielding, I fell into the vestibule, off balance.
My hand was bleeding from the glass I had broken, and not knowing what else to do,
I put my hand into my pocket to prevent the blood from staining her freshly scrubbed linoleum.
I started in, past the stairs I had seen so often in my nightmares.
I had often been pursued up that long, narrow staircase by demons who grabbed at my legs and pulled me down into the cellar below,
while I tried to scream without voice, strangling on my tongue and gagging in silence.
Like the silent boys at Warren. The people who lived on the second floor—our landlord and landlady, the Meyers—had always been kind to me.
They gave me sweets and let me come to sit in their kitchen and play with their dog.
I wanted to see them, but without being told I knew they were gone and dead and that strangers lived upstairs. That path was now closed to me forever.
At the end of the hallway, the door through which Rose had fled was locked, and for a moment I stood—undecided.
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