Each time she had tried, she kept seeing the terror on Sinclair’s face as she begged for help. And those screams . . . they had echoed in her mind. They were so maddening she had spent most of the night with her hands over her ears. Not that it had helped; they were inside her brain, so essentially, she had only been holding them in, not keeping them out. When the sun finally decided to make an appearance, she threw on her clothes, grabbed her journal, and went to the kitchen to start the coffeepot. Her mother would be thankful for the jolt of caffeine when she woke. The whole time she waited for the last bit of percolation, her mind kept wondering to the back of the house, remembering the statue and wondering if it really was there. Of course it was. One of the things that always made her nightmares feel so real was their uncanny knack to use very real details about her surroundings instead of some make-believe world of places she had never been and probably never existed.
