There's a dead thing at the end of the hall.

You heard me.

It’s bent and pitiful and not as fresh as it used to be.

I don’t go to that side of the house anymore. Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever did. The dead thing has always been there. That’s its domain, I’ve decided. The rest of the house is plenty for me.

But I still pass that hall every day. Most times I keep my eyes forward and pretend there’s nothing there.

Some nights I stand at the end of the hall — my end — and stare for hours until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I can see the contours of its limbs and the glint of hate in his eyes.

And then I go to bed.