Chapter #10
Spirited Words

There was something painfully ironic about being sent home like a naughty schoolboy. For one thing, Erik never had the privileged of attending school and he touched his mask to remind himself why. And another, he certainly did not feel like a pre-pubescent youth. Despite Antoinette's attempts otherwise, he felt irrevocably old and he wanted nothing more then to go home to a fire, hot tea… and Christine.

His life was becoming quaintly domestic, in its own odd way, and it charmed him immensely. The relationship with Christine was a long way from friendship or even comfortable companionship, but many tensions had lessened since their little understanding in his bedroom. She never initiated conversation beyond minimal inquiries, but neither did she make any effort to avoid him. For now, it worked pleasantly enough and he would make every effort to keep it that way.

"She can't save you, Erik," Antoinette had said. "Only you can do that."

If I could have, he thought dryly, I would have done it a long time ago.

Most of the performers had been enjoying an extended vacation and the Opera house was nearly deserted. A few stagehands remained to make minimal repairs, keeping mostly to themselves and every afternoon Antoinette held rehearsal so her dancers stayed in shape for the next performance. Soon, the backstage area would be clamoring with dancers, performers, and stagehands for the re-release of his opera, but for now the air was still, silent, and completely safe. If he wished, he could walk out in the open like a normal man and did so, forgetting his usual caution that confined him to the shadows.

He was about to disappear behind a rather large stage prop into one of his numerous hidden passages, when the sound of hushed conversation stopped him in his tracks.

"When can I see you again?" a feminine voice questioned.

A man answered her. "I don't know."

Erik ducked behind the stage prop and held his breath. Secretive conversations were common in theatre life and often, their knowledge could be used to an advantage. Such information, properly executed, could yield a generous donation to the Opera and a substantial bonus for himself, but right now, it was merely a barrier on his way home and he had no patience for it.

His position did not offer a clear view of the two but he was fairly sure he knew their voices. The girl had to be one of Antoinette's and the man… well he could not place the owner but he had heard that voice at a patron's banquets. He considered warning Antoinette that she might be robbed of another dancer soon, but dismissed it right away. That woman probably already knew like she knew everything else that was going on within these walls

Damn Antoinette's eyes! He should have let the management toss her out on her pregnant ear all those years ago. What did she know about the two of them, anyway? Allot, if he was honest with himself.

"Can't you try?" the woman persisted.

Her companion sighed, and spoke to her like a father would with an ignorant child. "You already know I cannot, darling. I told you from the beginning how it would be. You're not ill, are you? You look pale."

Erik heard the girl shake her head and her thing voice barely reached his ears. "No, it's just… I can't seem too…I-"

Her words cut off in a sequence of tiny, muffled sobs. He heard a sound, like fabric rubbing against itself and assumed the man had taken the girl into his arms. The girl's sobs were now accompanied by soothing shushing noises from her companion, and Erik assumed the sight must be quite comical.

He wondered, though, what it would be like to give someone comfort.

It appeared comfort was not given in ridiculous words, but in the company of another body. The sheer presences of someone else served as an anchor for that person to hold onto when everything else seemed lost.

Erik had never let himself believe he could be the one to physically console Christine, the desire at times was so strong, and his hands shook with the effort to control himself. His voice gave her joy, triumph, and the remnants of a father's foolish promise. But it was never him that took her in his arms and made the world safe for her.

"Shhh… I know, darling, I know. But we have to be careful now. I don't want anyone suspecting anything. If anyone should find out, I would not be able to see you again."

Bravo, monsieur. He could not think of a more effective statement to silence a mistress. The poor girl was probably far down his ventures wooing the fairer sex. Perhaps he could enlighten the man's wife on her husband's activities, if he had one.

Erik repressed a snort. It was a rare woman who did not know of her husband's infidelity and an even more foolish man who thought himself unsuspected. Better to let this play out by itself and not get caught in the cross fire when it ended badly.

"Is that all I am to you? Your bed buddy?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Then why won't you even look at me?" Erik almost felt sorry for her.

But the interlude was rapidly becoming a tragic opera and Erik's patience was running out. The large, wooden prop Erik had used to hide himself was actually the Elephant from the last production of Hannibal. One of the legs had been badly damaged after too many mounts by the plump Ubaldo Piangi and it leaned heavily on its side.

"If I looked at you, then she would know," the man was practically shouting in a whisper, his voice rising with each word.

The ballerina did not seem to notice. "Then what does it matter? You love me, don't you? So what if she knows?"

The original carpenter had been very skilled and the elephant was surprising light and sturdy, despite the damage. One push and it barely moved. Two pushes and it began to sway.

"Are you daft, girl? Do I even need to tell how it would ruin everything if she even suspe-"

Three pushes and it came crashing down at their feet.

The girl gave out a loud shriek as the elephant slammed onto the hard wooden floor. Erik concealed himself in the shadows as several stage men came to investigate.

"What's going on back there?" someone called.

The girl was about to answer when her companion covered her mouth. Without the elephant blocking his view, he could clearly see who they were. Apparently family resemblance was more then skin deep and he was not in the least bit surprised. If word got out of this little affair, the man would come through with an intact, if not animated reputation. The girl, however, would be out on the streets before the end of the day. If she became pregnant, she might as well drop herself on the doorstep of a local brothel and be done with it. There would be nothing else for her.

It would be so easy, so simple, to see Christine in the girl's place. She was definitely a good girl, her father had raised her well. But he wondered how far morals went when one was offered the glamour of a mistress's pay. If he had not taken notice of her, or if that blasted boy's intentions had been even a little less noble…

He shook his head to clear away such traitorous thoughts. He had found Christine and that was all that mattered.

The man leaned in to his mistress and whispered in her ear. She shook her head aggressively and from his view, Erik could see the color drain from his face. The stagehands were coming closer and the patron looked around for a place to hide. There was no such place. He gave her a parting hug, then made off towards the back stage exit, leaving the ballet rat to face the stagehands. The ballerina eyes followed him until he was safely out of sight.

"Is there anyone there?" Bernard Colville, Joseph Buquet's replacement stared when he realized who it was. The man was a bit of a fool, but he was kind and he stayed well away from the women in the company. Erik had lost track of the inane mistakes the man had already made, but it was willing to overlook it for the sake of some of the younger company members.

"What the bloody hell are you doing back here?" Bernard scratched his head in bewilderment. "Go home, there's nothing that needs doing here."

Another stagehand joined them. "Well, look who's here? Come to ride the big elephant, eh love? I got something just as big you could ride."

The girl ignored this and raised her chin at the other man.

"I came back here to find a costume and the prop fell. Gave me a fright," the girl had not missed a beat. She would have probably made a better actress then she did a dancer, Erik observed.

Bernard walked around the fallen elephant surveying the damage. A broom, pinned under the elephant's weight had been neatly sliced in half. "You're lucky that's all it gave you. Three feet to your left, and you would have been dancing with the angels."

"I'm sorry," she said, though it was clear from her tone that she was not.

"Nothing to it, girl. Just go home to your supper and be careful next time."

"I'll take her home," the other stage man offered and leered at her.

Bernard smacked the young lad on the ears. "You mess with that one, mac, and Giry will eat your hide. Where's the costume you need?"

"Oh?" the foolish girl had already forgotten her lame excuse. "It's not important, I'll get it tomorrow."

"Fine way to waste a man's time. Almost thought you were the ghost." Erik straightened. There was no way they had seen him, still…

"Ghost?" the girl perked up at every ballet rat's favorite subject. "You have seen him? Was Christine with him?"

"Don't go believing everything you hear, little one. Come on, I'll take you home."

Erik took advantage of the situation and pressed the mechanism to the passageway. The door slid open without a sound and slid shut just as quietly, shutting out the world behind him. Erik heaved a sigh of relief.

The passageways, while infinitely confusing to anyone stupid enough to wander in, were actually fairly simple. One only had to find the way down, follow it, and it lead directly to the house on the late, if one was lucky enough to avoid the traps. Complexity in simplicity was one of his favorite tricks and he took great pleasure in utilizing its advantages. He had said so to Christine two days ago and regretted it instantly as thoughts of that foolish Vicomte quickly invaded her mind.

She can't save you, Erik.

But she had certainly saved that boy and his lips tingled faintly with the memory.

That kiss, that damnable kiss! Her touch had scorched his skin like fire, consuming him to his core and he had been helpless against it. He would have done anything to loose himself to it once again. Had she asked, he would have set her free and lived off the memory of her perfect lips molding against his own.

Had she felt it too? That spark? Or was it just wishful thinking on his part? By no means was he guilty of false modesty, but he could have bet his life she had felt that flare of life, when lust and something else combined and ignited like gunpowder. His mind dipped and swirled, spinning rapidly out of control until it left him with only fragments of feeling; wetness of tears from her eyes, or perhaps his own, the rapid pulse of his heartbeat, the light trembling of digits on his neck that were surprisingly strong. And her lips, always her lips, dragging him down into the insanity of lust until he somehow managed to pull away.

Only you can do that.

Did he even want to? This arrangement, whatever one could call it, could not go on forever, he had known that all along. She was still part of a world he had turned is back on and it was only a matter of time before this whole façade collapsed. If she were wise, she would try to make things right with Raoul. The boy obviously loved her and still did if he was only half the fool Erik thought him to be. She had the Girys too, both little Meg's friendship and the fierce protection of Madame. A whole life waited for her above the ground, ripe with possibility for one as talented and beautiful as Christine. But if the price of his soul was a few weeks more of her exclusive company, hell could wait and the Girys too.

The gondola was floating innocently on the waves when he reached the lakeshore. It dipped against his weight when he climbed in and he took a moment to steady himself before he took up the pole and pushed off. There were quicker ways to get home, of course and his mind was still spinning from his talk with Antoinette and the scene backstage, but the repetitive work of pooling the gondola relaxed him. Water dripped from the rocks like clock work and every once in a while he would hear the splash of a wandering rat as it fell into the water. Nadir once told him the underground lake smelled like hell's underarm. He brushed the comment off with a witty retort on Persian manners, but by himself, he could admit there was something to the old policeman's observations.

He sniffed. Decaying stone and moss were very strong, with traces of stale air. He took another sniff; rotting wood and old mortar but there was something else. Something distinct and heavy. He sniffed one last time.

Smoke.

Erik's home was on fire.

At least he thought it was. He had smelled traces of it smoke all the way in the third cellar, and attributed it to the opera's firemen. Smoke miles below the streets of Paris was no accident and the closer the gondola came to his sanctuary, the more he realized it was the source of the smell. He had left Christine inside, all alone.

Smoke was billowing out of the walls as he leapt from the gondola before it hit the shore. The doorway was not hot, but he threw open anyway, and walked right into a wall of smoke.

"Christine!" he called before the smoke could clog his lungs. "Christine! Where are you?"

No answer save the sound of his own coughs. The smoke stung his eyes, making them water and he scrambled frantically through the darkness. Ten odd years of familiarity in his home were no match for blind panic and Erik stumbled through the halls, knocking over items in his path, and feeling frantically for a limp body.

She can't be dead, she won't be dead, please don't lead her be dead, he thought madly.

"Christine, answer me!"

If he could find the source of the fire and extinguish it, it was be easier to look for Christine. But, if the flames were too strong, he would have to find her and hope they had not already burned her to ashes. The smoke was becoming thicker by the second, and it would only be a matter of minutes before there was no air left to breath.

He found a door and felt it with his hands, it was cold. He turned the doorknob and it opened into the library, no Christine. The music room was same as he had left it hours before, but still no sign of Christine. By now, Erik's eyes were burning and every breath filled his lungs with more smoke. Inhaling was pure agony and he could feel his knees weaken under the strain. His clothes clung to his body from his sweat, but it was more due to nerves then insufferable heat.

"Chr-Christine!" He did not know if he had managed to say it out loud or only think it and he felt like he were chocking on his own air.

He had fell onto his knees and crawled along the walls like a blind dog. Every breath ended in a cough and he felt like someone had run sandpaper over his eyes. Nothing mattered anymore. Christine was probably dead and if she was, what was the point? He could only hope he would stay conscious long enough to find Christine's body, lie by it, and die. If there was a heaven, and if he could see it before going to where he truly belonged, perhaps he could hear her gorgeous voice one last time.

"Bloody hell! Damn it all and the rotten horse it rode in on!"

That voice, he knew that voice. It was not quite how he wanted to hear her again. He would take it, though, if that was all he could get.

"Burn up on me, will you? I'll give you to that cat and hope she hacks you out with her fur!"

The voice broke off in a string of colorful curses, and Erik followed it on his hands and knees to the source in the kitchen.

For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. The scene that greeted him in the kitchen looked more like one in those awful erotic novels then real life. Her checks were rosy and the fine skin of her face shone with small tendrils of sweat. Those lips that could bring a man to his knees from sight or sound were puffed up twice their size and the bottom part was seized beneath her teeth in concentrations.

She was beautiful, and she was covered in soot.

Ayesha was perched on a counter top, watching her rival with what could only be described as sadistic amusement. The tiny cat shifted its gaze to the sight of her master on his hands and knees in the doorway and seemed to raise an eyebrow that said all he needed to know about how ridiculous he looked.

Christine was standing in front of the oven with a book in her hand, waiving it frantically to stop a small fire that had started within. The front of her dress and most of her face were blackened and from this distance, Erik could see the red rims around her eyelids. The smoke flew back at her efforts, but it only fueled the fire and more rose with every stroke.

"Fine!" she yelled, and tossed the book away, hitting Erik squarely in the chest. "I'll teach you to burn on me!"

Her hand groped blindly on the countertop until it caught hold of Ayesha's leg and the little lady hissed and swiped at her hand. Christine's cry was more angry then hurt and swung her arm at the cat. The animal stood up and arched her back, apparently just as annoyed as Christine.

"I'll deal with you later," she warned in a tone that made Erik glad she had not found any of his carving knives yet.

The fire, seemingly jealous at the lack of attention, surge up again with an alarming ferocity. Christine resumed her blind grope, before it landed on a prize and she hurled it at the blaze.

"Christine no-" but it was too late. Christine jumped at the sound of his voice and screamed when Erik came barreling into her, and tackled her to the ground, before the wine hit the blaze.

He heard a loud whoosh, followed by immense heat on his back and he could not decide if it hurt worse then Christine kicks right into his gut.

"Get off! Get off!" she cried, squirming like a fish underneath him.

"Don't move!" he hissed and laid his hand on her mouth. She bit him, hard. "Damn it!"

He leapt off her and knocked right into the counter top. Ayesha hissed and moaned behind him and the blaze in the oven continued to burn.

He looked around for a towel, an oven mitt, anything that might protect his hands, but found none. His eyes settled on Christine laying on the ground and watching her fire with a kind of macabre astonishment. She wore one of her finer dresses ones, a lavender gown made of heavy alepine and before he could stop himself, he knelt at her side and tore half the skirt off.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but got no answer.

With the bit of spun alepine in his hands, Erik thrust his hands into the fire and extracted the pan. He felt nothing at first; he could have been holding something as harmless as a basket. Christine's face had gone as white as her undergarments, and she opened and closed her mouth several times before giving up and pointing to his hands.

Her voice croaked. "Your…"

By now, heat had reached his hands and he felt it literally melting off his bones. It had not occurred to him what to do with the pan in the first place, and there was no place in the entire kitchen to get rid of it.

Without thinking, he turned on his heel with the burning pan and ran out the door. Time felt as if it had slowed down as he tore through his home once again. Christine's faint cry behind him, the furious hiss of the fire in his hands, the recurring smack of his feet on the floorboards. Even his breathing, labored and ragged from the smoke, fell into a slow rhythmic groove of indifference as if life-threatening moments had no place outside of life's cycle. But he gave no notice as he ran, the heat melting the fabric of Christine's ruined dress onto his palms.

The lake sat as peaceful as he had left it before and the gondola floated fifteen feet away from the shore. He stopped just short of the waters ledge and hurled the pan into the lake, a distinct rip of his flesh as the pan flew away. A quote began to form in his mind, but he pushed it away as he watched the flames sail through the air with sick interest. The pan erupted in a violent rush of steam and smoke and it sank beneath the water's surface.

"Idle hands," Erik quoted and sank to the floor.

Christine found him sitting near the edge of the lake, watching the steam with no expression on his face. His hand lay open on his lap and she could see the beginnings of blisters growing beneath the abused skin. Somehow this was more alarming then the fire and she sat down beside him.

Christine was by no means a skilled physician nor an adequate healer, but she had seen enough injuries in her days as a clumsy dancer to know some basics of medical care. She tore off the rest of her ruined dress and knelt by the shore as she soaked it in the freezing water.

"Give me your hands," she said and Erik finally looked at her. He searched her face for a moment, and found something that made his frown deepened. But he held his hands out obediently as she washed them with the fresh rag.

"You will need to keep them cool," she instructed. Of course he knew what to do. Still, it felt comforting to say something, and care for him, even if it was unnecessary. She moved back to the waters edge again to soak the rag again.

"What was it?" Her confusion must have shown on her face. "What was that?" he repeated.

He jerked his head towards the lake and Christine followed his gaze to the steam rising above the water. "Oh, that! Well it is, or it was bread."

He blinked. Christine returned to his side and reached out to soak his abused hands again, but he pulled them back out of her reach. "Bread?

"Yes bread. I tried to make it so we could have some for breakfast, but it did not turn out quite as I hoped." She waved her hand, dismissing the whole ordeal. If it were possible, Erik's jaw would have hit the floor.

"You nearly burned my house down trying to make bread?"

"I didn't nearly burn your house down," she said indignantly and raised herself up on her legs. "The whole thing is same as it was, only a bit smelly now."

He blinked again and looked at her like she had called herself a dog. She was beginning to get uncomfortable under his gaze when he doubled over and wheezed.

"My God Erik, are you alright?" It suddenly occurred to her that Erik was not chocking or suffocating, but laughing. Events like these had happened so rarely in the time she had known him, she could scarcely recognize them when they did happen. It was a good, full-bodied event that was normal for most people, but almost entirely foreign to the man sitting in front of her. There was no malice in it, simply the amusement of the whole situation. In between laughs, he coughed and his whole body seemed to shake with the force. Although she felt more embarrassed then she thought she ever had in her lifetime, she could not help but laugh along with him.

"Bread!" he coughed. "I can't believe it."

She wiped a tear from her eye and sat back down next to him. "It's true, God help me, and I could have burned down this whole bloody place."

Erik snorted again, but the laughs and coughs began to die down leaving the sound of lapping water and Erik's light wheezing of breath.

His masked side was to her, and the only expression she saw was the frigid scowl of the mask. Given the circumstances, she could understand why it would not be smiling but it was disappointingly polar to the moment they had shared seconds ago.

He turned to face her. "Christine, have you ever baked anything on your own before?"

The question caught her off guard and she shifted uncomfortably on her seat.

"Well, no," she admitted. "We always ate here and my father never cooked, but Meg has and she told me once all you need is some butter, and flour and a little bit of-"

"Christine," he cut her off, raising his right hand. "I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But please, please do not try anything so complicated when I am not at home."

She frowned. "Well, you weren't here. I didn't know if you would ever come back and I was hungry, so I thought I would give it a try."

"I did come back," he pointed out.

"How the bloody hell was I suppose to know you would? And here I thought you'd pop up again like last time and nearly give me an attack."

Erik felt his temper rise as well. "And how do you think I felt, Christine, coming home to a house filled with smoke? I think I did have an attack when I saw you in front of that oven waving that infernal book at the fire."

At the word 'book,' Christine's eyes lit up.

"Oh no, I forgot!" she disappeared into the house like a shot and Erik swayed on his feet as he stood up to follow her.

She was in the kitchen again, beating the ends of an unsalvageable book. She looked up when he came in and her eyes gleamed with fresh tears.

"I'm sorry Erik," she choked. "So sorry. I didn't mean to… I'm so sorry."

Erik could vaguely make out the title on the cover. Don Juan by Lord Byron.

"I'll buy you a new one, I promise" She held out the book to him and several tears ran down her cheeks.

He took the book from her and his fingers lightly brushed her own. Comfort comes in the physical presents of another body. Could he even be so bold?

Erik shook his head. No, not now, not ever. "Don't worry yourself, my dear, it's alright. There are plenty of books stores in the city to get a new one."

"But, your opera? Isn't this where it came from?"

Erik put the book back down on the kitchen table, his hands still stung and it hurt to hold anything for more then a few moments "Bits and pieces, but nothing important. Besides, I've read it enough times to know the story. But you," he looked her over. "How do you feel?"

"What me?" she touched the back of her knotted head. Several strands of her beautiful mass of curls had actually melted together around her face. "I'm fine."

He cleared his throat. "I … um.. am sorry I tackled you, Christine."

It was Christine's turn to blink and the corner of her mouth twitched, but he would not call it a smile. "Oh, that. Think nothing of it. Payment maybe, for nearly burning down your house. But your hands? Are they all right? Do you think you could play again?"

"Tonight, actually, if you like. Would you care for another music lesson?" Why he had offered so soon, he did not know. He had not even told her it would be staged again.

"A music lesson! Your hands are nearly burnt off!"

"Your dress helped a great deal, Christine. Oh, sorry about that, by the way."

The mention of her dress brought them both the embarrassing realization that Christine was with him in nothing but a torn bodice and dirtied clothing. He had seen her before in the scandalous costumes for the chorus, and the first time he had brought her here in her dressing gown. But there was something more intimate about seeing her undergarments, like he had walked in on her while she was dressing.

Erik cleared his throat and began to cough once again.

"On second thought, maybe we should delay that lesson for a while. Perhaps you should wash up. I'll see what I can throw together in the kitchen."

"Let me, Erik. The least I could do for ruining your kitchen. I'll make something."

"That is exactly why I don't want you in there," he said and she laughed. "Go on, freshen up, I'll be fine."

Sleep was always easy; it was the dreams that were difficult. They came to her soft and warm like a summer breeze, beckoning her into a world where her father still sat by the fire, a violin in hand and a story on his tongue. Sometimes she found Meg and her mother, arguing vehemently in the loving manner that only mother and daughter knew. And once in a while, she would find Raoul laughing in that way that made her feel like everything was right with the world and that she was loved.

It never lasted. The summer breeze would lift and all that was left to her was the cold caress of reality. Her father was dead and Raoul was far away, perhaps just as lost to her. She could not wake up from that, but at least while she was awake she could forget. But lost as a prisoner to her own subconscious, it seized her in a viselike grip and did not release her until the morning hours.

Dinner had been quiet but pleasant. As promised, Erik produced an adequate dinner of cheese and fruit and promised to get more food soon. They ate in silence not out of spite, but finding their food more engaging then their company. After a few moments, she finished and excused herself to go to bed.

"It's been a long day," she explained.

"So it has," he answered and helped her clear their meager meal.

"I… if you're well, that is. I would…" she stopped and grinned at him weakly.

"Yes?" he asked, raising a visible eyebrow.

"I do not think I'm in a position to make requests, but I think I would like that music lesson tomorrow. If you are well enough, that is."

The source of her concern still throbbed rather painfully, but not enough to render him cripple. He spread them for her to see on the table and she winced at the sight of the angry blisters.

"They are still whole, aren't they?" she nodded, not taking her eyes off the site. "I will be more than happy to play for you tomorrow."

She turned to leave, when Erik's voice stopped her.

"Just a moment, Christine," he was struggling to say something. She waited patiently for him to speak, but he seemed to give up and shake his head. "Good night, my dear. Sleep well."

"Good night… Erik." Then quietly, she left the room.

In her dream, she was alone. An unending stretch of water spread out before her and behind, the sandy beaches gave way to a massive forest. She was trapped, but it did not seem to matter. Here she was safe, here nothing could harm her so long as she did not stray too close to one side.

She picked up a rock at her feet and studied it carefully. The gentle caress of the shoreline had smoothed its edges and it was warm under her fingertips like a tiny egg. The sea remained motionless before her and when she hurled the rock towards the horizon, she heard no splash.

She felt him there, just beyond the edges of her consciousness, lingering as if he waited permission to be let in.

"It's alright," she said out loud. "You can come in now."

But nothing changed.

"Hello?"

No answer.

She began to run then along the water's edge. Her hair fell free of its tight knot and flowed down her back like a cloud bouncing along with each step.

"Where are you?" she called and her voice shook with the effort. It seemed important that she find him, somehow she knew he was lost. The water gently lapped near her racing feet, but it did nothing to relieve her strained nerves.

There, far off in front of her, a figure lay still on the sandy beach. She made no effort to hide her approach, but the figure lay motionless on its side, heedless to even the gentle lapping of the water enveloping its body.

She knelt down beside the body in the water and placed an arm his shoulder. He was as cold as the rock and seemingly just as lifeless. Christine turned her attention to the ground and saw several spots of dark red mingling with the seawater. Her mind knew it was blood.

She began to shake him then, with more force then she thought she possessed, but the body lay as still as it had when she found it.

"This isn't funny," she said and shook him harder. With all her strength, she turned him onto his back….

…and screamed.