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years of bacteria-laden spider threads. Yuck.
    Hic took my elbow and urged me toward the makeshift bed. The cot held a defeated feather pillow down to its last tuft, a tangle of wrinkled sheets, and a nasty bedspread bearing the Thornhill crest.
    “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll switch off the lights. The cost of electricity being what it is, there’s a flashlight under the cot. The little girls’ room is in that direction.” He pointed as he trudged back to the door, leaving me with my mouth hanging open and my heart galloping.
    Waving my hand frantically, I yelled, “Keep the lights on.” It was time for a hole-check.
    I held the spread up. It smelled of old attic, rotten wood, and mildew. Nothing too bad so far. Then I spotted it, a hole near the corner, frayed threads crisscrossed over it.
    “Not staying!” I yelled to Hic. “Hold…”
    The lights went out. I was alone in the dark in a vast empty ballroom with a scary fabric hole. Clutching my bag I bent and fumbled for the flashlight. I clicked the switch. It did nothing. I clicked again. Still nothing. I stepped away from the cot and the holey blanket.
    I dug my cell phone out of my purse and tried Hic’s number. It went straight to voicemail. That darn bugger. I thought of calling nine-one-one but I didn’t think a cop would show up to subdue a hole in a blanket. They might cart me off for mental observation. I’d have to survive on my own.
    Holding my phone as a light, I kicked the holey blanket to the floor and using the tip of the toe of my shoe, pushed the disturbing thing into the shadows.
    I wrapped my trench coat around me, pulled up the collar, and used my purse for a pillow. The thought of a zillion tiny spiders threading their way from the chandelier to my face fueled my imagination. And what if that damn thing fell? I’d be crushed and spidered. I got up, pushed the cot with my foot ’til I moved it out of the chandelier’s kill zone.
    The moon tried to shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows nearly opaque with grime. It provided enough light for me to see that I did not want to close my eyes. No telling what was camped out in the dark corners. I lay down, my ears cocked for the sound of serial killers, Avon ladies bearing order forms, and sex maniacs. Speaking of sex, I wondered what Roger was doing. Did he miss me as much as I missed him? I shivered in the cold.
    Clump. Thump. Clump. Thump.
    What was that?
    My neck cracked as I popped to an upright position. I swung my legs to the floor and jumped to my feet, nearly tipping the cot over. A faint cone of pinkish light surrounded me and a cherub-like woman in an old-fashioned housedress with her hair pulled up in a loose gray bun appeared before me. Was I in the final scene of the Andy Griffith Show?
    “Sorry, love. I didn’t realize how late it was.” The Aunt Bee lady pulled a blanket from behind her back. “You must be chilled to the marrow. Here’s a clean coverlet without any holes.”
    Who was she and how did she know about my holey phobia?
    “I’m Wendy Darlin,” I said.
    “Oh, I know that, love.” She chuckled as she placed the blanket on the cot. The cone of light grew weaker. “I’m Mrs. MacGuffin and I have a message for you.”
    I stopped breathing. My mouth turned to ash.
    “You will find your home though it will not be where you left it.”
    The light went out.
    “Mrs. MacGuffin?”
    She was gone.
    I passed the light from my cell phone over the blanket and pronounced it hole-less. Feeling as if I were a balloon with the air slowly leaking out of me, I slipped into a deep dreamless sleep.

Chapter Seven
    Sixteen hours of murder, obstetrical humiliation, and holey terror with not even a Wet-Nap. Toppling from the cot, using the dim morning light, I made my way down the corridor to the ladies room. A battalion of commando roaches stood their ground daring me to enter.
    Fuhgeddaboudit. I tugged my suitcase and bag into the lobby.
    Hic motioned to a taxi idling