As the door closed, the wind picked up, whistling in the dormers. It made an almost childish noise: Oooh, you're in trouble!

Shit.

Oh, shit. Oh God. I'm trapped up here with it.

With what?

Good question. Rabbit-face, for one. Hiding in someone else's relics.

'Relics' is a bad choice of words, hon.

Rabbit-face and the relics. And whatever else has collected up here, forgotten.

You can't clean out the attic without facing what's in it.

This is a terrible place.

Bulb's out. Dead baby dolls. Resurrections. Clocks. All manner of ink and blackness and blood.

I examined the red flakes on my fingernails.

Again?

It's really getting bad. I'm not sure you should put this off.

I can't do anything in the dark, by myself.

You can sort through everything like a responsible person, or you can start demolition.

Well, I've never been a responsible person.

I jumped into the sheet rock.

Emma, dear, you insist on misunderstanding.