After weeks of uncertainty, weeks of scratches, and creaks, of storms and voices echoing against the taunting darkness, after weeks and weeks and weeks of wanting to hide, and thinking himself insane, and greeting each day with bloodshot eyes… after all of this, and more which Laurie could not begin to comprehend or categorize, Amy stood before him.

There could be no doubt that it was Amy, though it was not Amy as she had been on the day of her death; her face was not half so gaunt and twisted, her body had filled out, and the cuts and bruises she had inflicted upon herself during her madness were gone. And there could be no doubt that it was Amy, though she was so changed from the woman he had married as to be another thing entirely; Her skin, though smooth and unblemished, held the dread pallor of disease, and there was a hateful gleam in those once familiar blue eyes. Her lips were red, and her dress was stained with blood.

The thing that was Amy stepped forward and then stilled, ready to advance upon him. Something fell to the forest floor with a dull metallic thud.

Jo. He'd almost forgotten about Jo. She'd dropped her knife. He moved out so he was just in front of her, for some instinct told him that they might need to fight and that he ought to be the one to begin it if it came to that, if he could find it within himself to do anything at all.

Amy's face twisted into a snarl, such as she'd never worn in life, not even when she'd lain in bed, writhing, cursing him, Jo, and her illness in equal measure. Her lips curled back to reveal a pair of pointed teeth, similar to those of a dog or a wolf. Amy looked straight at him, as if she meant for him, wanted him to see.

"Amy, don't…" Jo's voice quick and low, neither pleading nor commanding, only terribly desperate. Amy's expression flickered, and she looked from Laurie to Jo and back again, as if recognizing them for the first time.

"Don't," Amy repeated. She shook her head, as if dazed. Her voice was hallow, and the hatred in her face had been replaced with emptiness. It was like gazing upon a doll of Amy, or the most perfectly wrought sculpture ever made. She came towards them again, and then stopped abruptly, less than a foot away from Laurie. Jo gasped behind him, but for some reason she didn't run. She started to pull him backwards by his shirt, only to let her hand drop an instant later. Amy smelled of blood and rancid flesh.

"Don't." Amy said again, her voice tinged with just enough hesitance to make it human and almost familiar. Laurie knew that if she chose that moment to attack, he would not be able to make a move against her; she did not, but she stood absolutely still, more still than any living creature could have stood, for she did not appear even to be breathing. Laurie did not look away, and though the specter before his eyes was brighter and more solid than any ghost he'd ever read about, the scene around him appeared to waver.

Then the air filled with a thick blinding fog that took Amy with it as it dispersed. The woods were empty, save for Jo, who stood unmoving beside him.

Somebody screamed in the distance.

They needed to get away. Laurie grabbed Jo by the wrist, not caring if he pulled her arm out of its socket, or what rocks and bushes might do to her bare feet as they ran. They reached the expanse between their two houses in a breathless rush, faster than Laurie could ever remember having run before.

"Come to my house," Jo whispered. Laurie was surprised that she could speak at all, from the look on her face. They went inside, and he watched as she fumbled at the lock on her door, almost as if she'd forgotten how it worked. He batted her hand away, twisted the lock shut, and set about pushing a chair or two against the door for good measure. Jo moved about the room, shutting every curtain, and lighting a gas lamp, which she put on the table in front of the couch, before sinking down upon it. She did not say a word, but looked sickly pale, the terror of what they had just seen wrought clear upon her face.

If Jo had assumed any other attitude, Laurie did not know what he would have done. If she had seemed well, if she'd spoken to him, or tried to rationalize what they had just seen, Laurie was quite sure that he would have screamed and screamed. The room was so quiet that Laurie could not but be quiet himself, though something very like tears stung his eyes, and his stomach refused to settle. He sat next to Jo. All he could think was that he needed to fix an image in his mind of Amy, the true Amy, before every good memory he had of her could be overshadowed by the fiend he had just seen.

During their courting Laurie had discovered that Amy had still possessed, among her many formidable charms, the very same smile he had known her to have as a young girl. It had been something artless that lay hidden most of the time, beneath the perfect mask of grace and poise she chose to show the world. Half the fun of it was that even he had had trouble finding it more often than not; he could have spent days or even years devising ever more creative methods of bringing about that smile…he'd been prepared to spend a lifetime doing just that. It was Amy's smile that he tried concentrate on, but he simply couldn't do it without coming back to the thought of fangs and bloody lips.

Laurie gulped back the sourness that rose in his throat and pulled Jo close to him, as close as he possibly could. She was warm, and still, and not half so soft as any other woman he'd ever held, sharper than he'd remembered her, under the light fabric of her nightgown. He concentrated on her, because she was the only thing he had to keep the image of Amy at bay, to remind him that he was not yet dead, and that morning might still come. Jo kept her eyes fixed on the flickering flame of the lamp, while Laurie kept his eyes fixed on her, and wondered if the shadows in the room could reach down into him and suck out his soul.

"You saw her." Laurie said in Jo's ear, when at last the silence and his thoughts became too oppressive to bear.

"I saw her. I think I shan't be able to close my eyes again without seeing her. Only…" She shuddered and closed her mouth tightly.

Laurie waited.

"Teddy, there has to be more to it than what we saw! I don't believe… well, it had to have been something, but…"

Laurie waited for her to go on, waited and waited, only to have her whisper "I don't know," in a voice that chilled his blood. He was thinking that he wanted to look at her neck again, when the steps creaked, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Mrs. March held onto the railing, peering over the staircase at the two of them. Laurie gave a short laugh, and then stifled it when she met his eyes. Apparently relief was not the proper response to being discovered in the March home at some ungodly hour of the morning, but even the way that Mrs. March was looking at them did not seem so bad in light of the fact that she was a living person. She was proof that the life they had lived before wandering in the woods that night still existed.

He didn't remember to let go of Jo until he felt her pulling away from him. She rose and met her mother at as soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. March looked Jo up and down once, and any anger on her face was at once replaced with concern.

"What's happened?" She asked. She looked only briefly up at him over Jo's shoulder, giving all of her attention to her daughter.

"Neither of us are hurt," Jo said. Laurie could not believe that Mrs. March could find anything in Jo's manner reassuring. "Laurie's just…he's over there."

"I can see that." Mrs. March took hold of Jo's arms, and looked again at Laurie, searching him. He doubted he looked much better than Jo did, but he stood, and tried to ready himself for any explanations they must give. The problem was thinking of what he could possibly say, how he could say it, whether or not he would be able to make himself say anything sensible at all.

"I can explain…" Laurie started, only to have Jo speak over him.

"I heard something outside, so I went to look," she said, glancing back at Laurie, and then at the barricaded door. If the situation had been reversed, and his grandfather had been the one to find them, he would have asked one hundred questions by now, and demanded just as many explanations. Mrs. March regarded Jo quietly, then pushed her hair back to inspect her neck as Laurie had done earlier. She touched her hand to Jo's forehead and cheeks, checking for fever as if Jo was not invincible, as if she could be taken from the world every bit as easily as Beth and Amy had been; Laurie felt a pang of terror at the thought, even as Marmee's face settled with relief.

"I'm not ill," Jo continued. "I shouldn't have gone out. It was a terrible idea. I daresay I…" Jo seemed to shudder, "I ought to put my imagination to better use than frightening myself and everybody else in the process."

Good God, did she truly believe that was what had happened? Normally when Jo tried to lie she looked down at the ground, and made it so obvious that it was a good thing that she nearly never attempted it. She was looking at Marmee now, though Laurie could only see the back of her.

"I think you had better sit down," Mrs. March said mildly, steering Jo back towards the couch, "And tell me everything that went on this evening, from the beginning. Laurie, you stay here as well. I suspect you have something to say as to what you're doing here?"

He would tell her anything if it meant he did not have to go back outside before the sun rose. Given a few minutes, he hoped he could even come up with an explanation that didn't involve ghosts and hellfire.

"I saw Jo through the window going into the woods. I thought…" That she was sleepwalking like Amy --Amy, who was dead, but wandered about at night in a bloody dress. Laurie brushed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"He was afraid for me," even Jo sounded feeble. "And I suppose my being afraid myself didn't help him any. If there were ghosts, they'd be out in droves. Maybe I thought -- only for a second mind you -- that I saw something, but only for a second. Maybe even less than that. It's dark at night, so there's even less to see in those woods at night than there is during the day. "

Laurie forced himself to look up. Jo's hands were clenched tightly against her knees, and she slouched forward slightly. The worry had not faded from Marmee's features in the least, and he knew he needed to think of something comforting to add this safe, fictional world that Jo was spinning with far less expertise than even her earliest writings had shown.

"It will be morning soon," was the best that he could come up with. It wasn't enough.

Mrs. March looked more tired than Laurie had ever seen her. He hadn't stopped much to consider the toll that their present circumstances might be taking on Marmee, but he knew at once that it was the only thing Jo was thinking of currently.

"You're exhausted," Mrs March said finally, turning to him. "You should go back to your grandfather's house now, Laurie, and get some rest."

It wasn't a suggestion, and worse, Jo didn't argue, or insist on watching through the window to make sure he made it. He sat for longer than he should have, waiting for some response from her, and feeling her mother's eyes upon him. When he rose to leave, Jo didn't even look up.

He stood in front of the doorway, has hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, and at first he could do nothing but stare at the barricade he'd made, feeling for the moment that it would truly be an insurmountable task to cross it. Apparently the strangeness of this was not lost on Marmee, who came up behind him just as he was reaching down to lift the first chair clear of the door.

"On second thought," She said, scrutinizing him and the doorway in turn, "Laurie, I think you had better sleep on our couch tonight, and we'll sort this out in the morning."

The tightness had returned to his throat so that he couldn't speak, and the motherly hand that Mrs. March placed on his shoulder only made it worse. He was relieved that she did not ask any questions of him, though she sighed in the manner of one who was overwhelmed before guiding him back to his seat.

There was no birdsong to be heard outside. The hour of dawn had not yet come, though it would soon. The sound of Mrs. March opening and closing cabinets to gather spare bedding was almost as good. He was left alone with Jo long enough to exchange a glance with her, but not long enough to read the expression on her face. Then he was handed a blanket and pillow, and she was led up to bed.

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