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either.
    I’ve got to get out of here, she thought.
    She darted to her closet, swung open the door, and pulled the light chain. Nothing in the closet seemed familiar to her. Were those her clothes hung on the bar, stacked on the shelves, tossed on the floor, piles of socks and underwear, blouses and T-shirts still waiting to be sorted and put away?

    Nothing here is mine, she thought, gripped with panic. Nothing in this house is familiar. Nothing in this house is
right.
    Frantically she pulled off her pajamas, kicking them out of her way, and grabbed a pair of jeans and a green, long-sleeved sweater.
    Where should I go? Where can I go?
    If only Mom and Dad were here.
    But what could
they
do about the blood, the pouring blood?
    Lea started out of her room, pausing at the doorway, looking both ways down the hall, then realized she was barefoot.
    â€œWhere do you think you’re going?” she asked herself out loud. Her voice sounded small and frightened in the vast old house. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
    Glancing up to the top of the ladder, she made sure the trapdoor was in place. Yes.
    Even in her panic, even as she had run from the blood, run from the attic, pulled herself in a frenzy down the ladder, trembling all over, more frightened than she had ever been in her life, more frightened than she had ever dreamed possible, she had remembered to replace the trapdoor.
    To her relief, it remained in place.
    And the house remained quiet.
    But upstairs—what? What was happening in the attic?
    I’ll call the police, she decided.
    Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

    Of course. The police.
    She ran downstairs, still barefoot, the wooden stairs cold beneath her feet She turned on all the lights as she hurried back to the kitchen. After she snatched up the receiver of the kitchen phone, she dialed 911.
    Lea heard static over the phone line, before the ringing. A few seconds later a man’s voice came on the line. “Sergeant Barnett.”
    â€œHello, I—I need help.”
    â€œHow can I help you?” he asked, sounding concerned.
    â€œI—I mean, there’s blood. In my attic,” Lea stammered, staring out the kitchen window into the blackness of the night.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œPlease—come. I have to show you. It’s blood. Pouring down. I’m all alone here.” Lea realized she wasn’t making much sense. But her mind was spinning. The words wouldn’t fit together right.
    She spun away from the window, staring back into the long hallway leading to the front of the house, expecting to see something or someone standing there.
    But the hallway was empty.
    I’m really losing it, she thought.
    â€œPlease—hurry,” she pleaded into the phone.
    â€œI’ll send someone right over,” the sergeant said. “Give me your name and address.”
    Lea’s mind went blank.
    Name and address?
    So this was what panic felt like. This was how itblanked your mind, made you forget everything—everything but your fear.
    I’ve got to get out of here, she thought.
    The doorbell rang.
    Deena!
    Her memory returned. She told the sergeant her name and address.
    The doorbell rang again, longer this time, more insistent.
    â€œLet me just make sure I have it right,” Sergeant Barnett said.
    Lea groaned. “Please—hurry.”
    The doorbell rang and rang again.
    The police sergeant repeated Lea’s address. “We’ll have a car there in five minutes,” he said. “Will you be okay till then?”
    â€œI hope so,” Lea said, hanging up and running through the hallway to the front door. She pulled it open just as Deena rang again.
    â€œLea—you didn’t answer the bell. I was so worried!” Deena’s blond hair was windblown, tossed wildly around her face. Her wool poncho flapped behind her in the gusting wind.
    â€œThanks for coming. Come in. Hurry. It’s so