A whole arsenal of grotesque sounds rose up inside me, but stopped at my throat-sounds of protest, of outrage, of shock and horror. I stepped into the room and walked over to the side of the bed, like a moth drawn to a summer candle. The room was dark except for a sharp shaft of moonlight that poured through an opening in the drapes. Marjorie’s bed was a king-size four-poster. It was heavy and did not swing open, had to be pushed more. I placed my fingertips against the door and pushed. It was ajar, not enough so that you could see through the opening, but certainly not closed tight. I came into the hallway, stepping gingerly as the ancient floorboards creaked beneath my feet, a sound I hadn’t heard since waking. It was a sound that had awakened me, and it seemed to come from Marjorie’s room.
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