both flashlights and stuffed them into his coat pockets. His heart still pounded and he shoved the door shut as best he could, walking backwards and eying it a few more seconds until he sat down.
“Please say it isn’t there! Please!” she yelled into her knees, raising both hands to clutch at her hair.
James whipped his head around to the door again, then slowly turned back to Lenora. “Uh, nothing is there that I can see. What did you see?”
“I don’t know, I just…felt…I kept thinking about her…and I just felt her, I…” she took several deep breaths. “I just didn’t expect to get her. To feel her like that.”
“Get who?” he asked, puzzled. “What did you see?” He tried not to look behind him again and his neck tingled.
“Her!” Lenora’s voice was muffled behind her hands. “I’m not sure what I saw. I felt her more than I saw her. The woman.” She uncovered her face a little. “The fireplace, that painting…I feel just as empty, just as used up, hungry, hungry…as she does.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“You…feel like that?” James asked, alarmed.
Lenora nodded as she choked out more sobs.
“But why?” he whispered.
She ran her hands through her hair and took a deep, shaky breath. “My father,” she whispered, “I’ve been…watching him die…for a year now.”
James sucked in his breath and looked away. He licked his lips and breathed out slowly. “I…I’m sorry. Really,” he man-aged to say.
“My father trained me to sculpt. I never feel more alive than when I’m creating something in clay. When I, when I used to make things.” Lenora covered her eyes. “My dad has always feared this house and I didn't know why," she said in