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Dead things can sound alive when they choose to. Dead things can move around.
At first nothing woke fourteen-year-old Elliott. Tucked up warmly in bed, he failed to notice the mysterious sounds. He didn’t hear the eerie whispered rhymes. Or the sighs. Or the footsteps. Those footsteps came lightly and swiftly towards him – someone or something running incredibly fast up the carpeted stairs of the old house. His visitor, at long last, was on its way back towards the living.
Quietly, wrapped in its own hush, it pressed against the cold of the walls, deeply excited. It swept around lamps. It wrapped its death inside shadows. It rarely came in a straight line. It came in impossible ways. Floors are not only to be walked upon by feet, one in front of another.
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