The knock and the van window. Might a swell have come from out a
space pitch black parked up on the side of a country road and in a
metal box being pommeled by a storm that had left half the country under water.
My wife and I practically jumped out of our skins at the rat tat
tat and the driver's side window. I could see nothing except rivulets of water
pouring down the window, and the sudden idea of some one leering at us
on the other side made me deeply uncomfortable. I hesitated for a moment before
I wound the window down. Couldn't help but think of hook handed men and
lonely couples stuck in the middle of nowhere. But when I heard the muffled
sound of some one trying to talk to us, I swallowed the worst of
my nerves and pressed the button to wind the window down. Wouldn't stay here.
The old man shoved his whole head through the window so he could be
heard over the storm. I couldn't help but cringe backwards, and I was
reminded of being in a safari with the window down the way the wild beast
come pushing in looking for food. Thankfully, my wife Leslie managed to stammer
out a reply before any awkward silence could fester. Ah, pardon, can't
stay here, he repeated, This lane will be underwater by midnight. Oh,
I replied, Damn. I was feeling fairly deflated by this point.
I hadn't pulled up in the middle of nowhere to sleep in a van because
it was my first choice. We'd arrived here only after spending a good six
hours trying hotel after hotel, only to find they were either under water or
booked to the gills with people escaping the floods. Do you know anywhere we
could go, they asked, We just need somewhere to park up. The
old man grimaced and shook his head. Not around my land. Sorry,
ain't falling for that again. He looked in the back as he said this,
as if the gauge who we were might have been the bong or my
friends Ryan and Meg lying stoned in a sleeping bag with something back there,
amused him. He let out a nasty little snort laugh, No way,
and Elvin squatters again. Best bet would be the weeping ram, he added.
So what hotel about half hour up the road? What was it called,
Leslie asked the weeping ram. She immediately began typing on a phone with
the old man gestured with his hand for her to stop. Won't find it
online, love, he said, Look, you go straight and take the
third right. Leslie, diligent as ever, took meticulous notes as he spoke.
But I had to fight not to roll my eyes. Something about the
old man had rubbed me the wrong way, and once he left, I
said as much. Half tempted to just stay here, I said, as
I played with the keys in the ignition. He probably just wants us out
the area, unhappy with the undesirables lurking so close to his land. Yeah,
but if it floods, we're in real trouble. Ryan appeared out the
back, red eyed and tired, but clearly having paid more attention than I
thought. Please don't sink my van. It is literally my only possession in
life. He's right, Leslie added, we can't risk getting caught in the
flood. What's this place meant to be like? Then, I asked,
don't know, Leslie shrugged. I can't fight anything about it online. Quaint
as hell, Ryan said, with an easy going nod of the head.
Old world offline vibes like some ancient B and B or something. But he
creepy is what it is, I replied, nothing about it online. Leslie,
still scrolling, shook her head. But oh, we don't end up
starring in the West Country chainsaw massacre, I grumbled. Nobody laughed, so
with a bit of a grimace, I turned the keys and began to pull
the vent out of the banking i'd parked on. Leslie smiled and gave my
leg a reassurance squeeze before feeding me the first of many directions to come.
At least we know it as vacancies, I said, as I robbed the
van to a stop on an empty gravel lot. Is that a thatch roof,
Leslie cried, while ignoring me. Oh my god, it is made
cood and round face, making a brief appearance by the front seats. Let's
get in there and take a lock. She quickly disappeared back into the rear
of the van, where her and Ryan set about gathering their things. Oh,
come on, Mark, it is quaint, Leslie said. I couldn't
help, but grimace. This funny looking pub we'd been sent to by some
stranger was in the middle of nowhere, situated in a small valley between two
stony hills, with a view overlooking an overgrown field below. The land might
once have been used for farming, if only for grazing animals, but now
he looked desolate and dingy. Rain lashed thorns and thistles and spiky thickets of
grass were just about the only thing we'd seen in our head lights on the
way up. And sure, the weeping ram was somewhat quaint, with its
expansive fat roof and a hand painted sign of a pained looking sheep that swung
fitfully in the wind, its lump and white plaster facade adding to the medieval
rustic vibe. But I got the feeling the place was going to be full
of cobwebs and spiders and dust and miserable old locals with no sense of humor.
And where the hell were we? The stormy night had eaten the road
behind us, erasing all sense of time and place as we drove down a
muddy gravel lane, until out of nowhere, the turning the old man had
warned us about appeared and led us to the pub, With the rest of
the country running in circles because of the storm, I couldn't shake the feeling
we'd crawled into a forgotten corner of the world, one best left alone.
Did people really come here to get drunk or stay for the night? Did
people drive here to come to work, or to eat or cook or serve
drinks. It wasn't just out of place with the Internet age, deemed out
of place with civilization itself. My suspicions were confirmed. Once inside. There
was barely enough room for the four of us to cram into the small,
poorly lit corridor, so Ryan peeked ahead and found the main drinking hall after
the right passing through. Our feet scuffed an ancient stone floor, and I
noted the horse hair plaster on the walls that likely predated the First World War.
It reeked of mildew and damp, and yet the air seemed dry and
musty at the same time. There were only four tables and two booths for
drinkers, and a dark hardwood bar that some potato faced man likely served booze
from, But for now it was all deserted, no patrons, no bartender.
The only sign of life was the faint flicker of light from the candlelight
sconces oh my god, this is crazy, Megan cried, grabbing Lezi's arm
to draw attention to the light fittings. Look at that. Leslie agreed enthusiastically,
but I tuned it out as I walked up to the bar and ran
a finger across its greasy grain. It was dusty as hell, like it
had gone unused for years. Behind the counter were a few rats for spirits,
a couple taps, and a single door that led into some unlit space.
Could have been a kitchen or a storeroom. Had no way of knowing,
but I stared into the darkness and felt an uncomfortable sensation gather in my
stomach. It looked like something was moving back there. But why would someone
be lurking in the dark? Do you think the owner's back there. I
didn't hear leslie approach, so I couldn't hide my fear when she spoke,
jumping like some spooped child. She made no mention of my overreaction, not
even a chuckle, and for some reason, that bothered me more than if
she teased me about it. Let's see, I said, and went behind
the bar and into the darkness. Using my torch as a light, I
scanned the room, seeing a dusty old kitchen with pots and pans that hadn't
been used for years. Left to right, and left again. I looked
carefully for some sign of life. I was sure had seen some one moving
around. I stepped deeper into the kitchen, and when my light caught the
leering grin of an old woman, it took all my resolve not to cry
out without meaning too. I dropped my phone and went to pick it up,
while stammering out the best greeting I could given the circumstance. Excuse me,
I cried, unable to shake the image of the strange looking face I
just glimpsed in a dark room. Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude her
anything. It's just we were directed here by the words stopped dead in my
mouth. When I stood up and brought the light up, there she was
again, that old woman, eerie grin and wide eyes, pallid white skin,
hands held together in front of her like an elderly headmistress supervising some exam.
And she hadn't moved since I'd last laid the torch on her, not
an inch, not a millimeter. Even there was no motion to her,
no breath, no reaction, not even the constant, darting micro movements of
the human eye that are barely perceptible but always always there somewhere. My mind
told me this must be a manakin, not a person. Too uncanny,
not right, And yet it couldn't be. She was so lifelike. I
couldn't help but take a few steps towards her, noticing faint, downy hair
along her cheeks, liver spots by a hairline, and a thousand other details
that I refused to believe with the product of some crazy artists working with wax.
But her eyes did not even dilate when the torch glinted directly off their
glassy surface. No human could stand in darkness and have a torch beamed into
their eyeballs and not even flinch. It just wasn't possible. Oh my god,
I muttered, before realizing I had to show the others this incredible find.
Slowly I backed out of the room, not yet willing to turn my
back on that creepy thing, and found the others admiring the old wood burning
fireplace in the corner of the room. Any look back there, Leslie asked
when she saw me. Geez, guys, I cried, breathlessly, You
won't believe. I was interrupted by the urgent cry of a brittle, feminine
voice. Oh no, just look at you, poor things. The old
woman appeared behind us, as if out of nowhere, and my stomach hit
the floor. With a warm smile and gentle, grandmotherly tone, she swept
past me and towards my friends, where she immediately began cooing over them.
Oh, you're drenched, Look at you. How on earth did you make
it up here in this weather? You must be freezing and hungry too.
The others reacted normally as anyone might when greeted by a friendly old landlady,
but I stood rooted to the spot, not sure if what I was seeing
was even real. Her clothes were identical to the thing in that room,
as was her hair and face. Everything was the same, except for that
deeply unsettling expression that, ever so slightly two white grin that had terrified me
just seconds before in the dark was gone, replaced with a surprised but welcoming
smile. While everyone was busy being fawned over, I quickly backtracked into the
kitchen and shone my light at the corner. It was empty, Mark,
Leslie called, and I went back into the lounge. Mark, come on,
this is Bernadette. She's going to show us to our rooms. We're
not strictly open for business, the woman said, with what seemed to me
to be not quite sincere concerned, but I cannot possibly turn anyone away in
weather like this. She smiled at Leslie and then at me, and for
the briefest of moments, hidden in the fractions of a second where Leslie wasn't
looking, the old woman winked at me. Leslie asked what was wrong,
and I wasn't sure how to answer right there, and then sat on her
bed, where it was warm and safe, just the two of us.
There wasn't much, if anything wrong at all, and felt all too easy
to ignore the strangeness I just experienced. So that's what I did. I
shrugged it off, told Leslie everything was okay, and settled into bed beside
her, but not before lock our door. After that, I crawled under
the covers, pulled my wife close, and shut my eyes. Sleep came
surprisingly quickly, although there were a few flashing images of that deathly white face
haunting me in my dreams. I couldn't say what woke me. I came
to with the faint impression of a loud noise just outside the room, suddenly
aware of a cold breeze on my right side, where Leslie should have been.
Now she was gone, the covers thrown back in the bed beside me.
Empty this oriented, I pulled myself upright and immediately went stumbling to the
door, looking for her. Arms wrapped around my bare chest to stay warm.
I poked my head out into the corridor and saw nothing except darkness.
Again, that's subtle, almost subconscious idea of movement in the inky black Leslie.
I called out and waited, straining to hear something, anything over the
roaring of the rain against the pub's ancient walls. Something might have moved around
in response, but I wasn't sure. It was like listening for voices and
white noise. The brain can play tricks on you. Nervous and wishing that
I could just crawl into bed and pretend that nothing was wrong, I went
back into the room and got dressed and turned the lights on. When I
returned to the corridor, with the help of my room light, I could
now see the doors of the other guest rooms stretching down the hallway before fading
into darkness, and there at the very threshold of the light was someone's phone,
the screen broken and the edges dented. I picked it up and could
tell from the astrological stickers on the back it belonged to Meg. The door
to her and Ryan's room was empty, and looking inside I saw that the
bed was ruffled and unmade, and Ryan's phone was still plugged into a power
bank near the mattress. But where were they and why was there only one
of his trainers lying upside down halfway between the bed and the door. It
was like he'd been trying to pull his shoes on when something interrupted him.
What the hell? I muttered quietly as I pouned my torch across the room.
God, I wanted this little nightmare to be over with. Ever since
I'd seen that terrifying old woman standing in the corner of the kitchen, frozen
in place like some lifelike wax dummy, I felt as if I walked right
into the twilight zone. But I didn't know how to go about it.
All I could think of was to go back out into the corridor and try
crying out for Leslie. Let's let's come on, where are you? This
time, there was a definite sound and muffled but clearly audible thump that came
from one of the doors off further down the hallway. It sounded like it
had come near the stairs, and that made sense. If the others were
off moving around, they weren't going to stick around in the empty guest portion
of the house, just empty doors and creaking floorboards. No, they probably
go downstairs to find the old woman. I paused at the top of the
stairwell and waited, listening for some confirmation that the others were safe and sound.
I hoped I might hear them laughing and chatting, maybe sharing a drink.
Guys. Another thump, this time it definitely came from below. Quietly
tiptoeing like some scared child, I slunk down the hardwood stairs, pressing my
feet to the edges of each step, where I knew the wood would be
strongest and least likely to make noise. Down one floor and down another.
The sound of something moving deep within the building drew me on further into what
felt like a nightmare. But I couldn't just turn back. A part of
me remained convinced that any second reality in common sense would reassert themselves, that
everything would snap back into place where it was meant to be. I'd find
the others laughing and enjoying a drink. Maybe the girls had gone off for
a chat and Ryan followed, and now I would do the same. Maybe
there'd been a medical emergency. Meg might have fallen and the others were attending
to her. Anything might explain why I had woken up on that floor alone,
crying out, only for no one to reply. A lifetime of experience
had taught me that childish fears went away when you shone a light at them.
But then again, I had never experienced anything like that woman standing in
the darkness on the ground floor. Just as the tight spiral staircase opened out
into another hallway, I'd spotted a gentle amber glow. It came from an
open doorway some way down the corridor. I was drawn to the first sign
of life I had seen since waking up. Then prushed the door open,
hoping to find my friends gathered around a fire. Instead, I found something
out of a surreal nightmare. Dogs, cats, foxes, rabbits. Forty
maybe fifty animals lined the walls and shelves, stiff cotton stuffed faces and glassy
eyes glaring at me from every knok and cranny of a cramped, humid room.
Of course, in the country, it isn't uncommon to come across something
like this. We'd stayed in a hotel in Scotland just a few weeks before,
with an enormous deerhead mounted over the bed. But this room wasn't some
big, showy affectation. It felt private, like someone actually came to that
place and sat on a single empty chair looking for comfort. And no one
would have ever been proud of bagging these animals. No majestic deer or threatening
bears. Instead, these animals were all of the sad and small variety.
There was a dalmatian in one corner, its head slightly misshapen, a weasel
missing two legs on a cabinet, a badger with no head, and enough
rabbits to make a warren, all of them riddled with mixedmatosis that left them
ugly and deformed. This was not some grand display of nature's majesty. It
was, at best the showcase of an amateur taxidermist who scavenged Britain's motorways for
his subjects. So where was the amateur taxidermist? And where were my friends?
Hello? I had to force the lone word out of my mouth again.
I was looking for that sense of reality and normality. I wanted to
dispel the childish fear that was gripping me tighter and tighter with each passing second.
Sure things were weird, but so something moved. My heart seized as
my eyes darted left and right, desperately trying to make sense of what my
mind insisted could not have actually happened. The room was well lit, but
so full of dusty fur and old furniture it was impossible to say. Too
many shadow lined shelves, too much space to keep track of. Was I
sure anything had moved at all? I took a step further into the room
and tried to make sense of it all. If I had seen something move
where my gut told me the movement had come from the corner with the Dalmatian.
I took a closer look at it and grimaced. I love dogs,
love them dearly, but I didn't love that one for a start. It
was dead. Whoever had set out to remake it might have had good intentions,
but come on, you can't stuffed fido full of sawdust, and call
it anything other than a pile of dog shaped sawdust draping the poor animal's skin
over. It does nothing for me except make my skin crawl. And that
goes for good taxidermy, the kind you might find on display in some eccentric's
house. But this dalmatian was all out of shape. Its abdomen bulged I
regularly, its eyes pointed in different directions, and its glossy open mouth didn't
bear the welcoming smile of a friendly canine, but instead the slack, open,
shawed expression of some malicious idiot. Thump, the sound that I'd been
following returned, this time closer than ever before. It sounded like it had
just been outside the hallway. I went and checked, staying close to the
doorway, but there was at least sufficient light. Seemed to be nothing,
But when I turned back to the room full of animals, I felt a
terrible, overwhelming sensation of wrongness. The dalmatian was gone. In the dark.
Something brushed against my leg and I heard the telltale click clack of a
dog's claws on hardwood floor, Spinning on the spot. I tried to follow
it, but caught only the faintest hint of a white and black animal fading
into the darkness of the corridor. My torch illuminated only three steps of the
basement stairs. Looking up from the very bottom was the dalmatian, with its
strange lump and head. The rest of it remained in shadow. He waited
patiently. It did not bark or pant like any normal dog. It stared
expectantly, and so far I had followed it only out of some naive hope
that it might lead me to my friends. But as time has gone on,
as the evening has taken on, more and more of that surreal,
almost dreamlike quality that made me feel helpless and trapped. I could not escape
the feeling the dog was leading me deeper into the nightmare and not out of
it. This was not helped by the fact that as I'd followed it onwards
into the strange hotel, passing old rooms full of rotting knick knacks and cobweb
covered doors, the strange thumping noise had grown louder and louder, like the
pealing of a bell. There were times that it occurred to me to turn
and leave, to get into the van and just go. Maybe I would
have if I'd been in a more normal state of mind, but I like
to think I would never abandon my wife or my friends. I may have
been afraid, but I wasn't a coward. Leslie. Again, I hoped
that you would suddenly appear, the lights would come on, the ever present
dread would be pushed back, But there was nothing. I stood at the
threshold of the basement stairs and knew sooner or later I'd have to follow the
dog down in the darkness. Some one groaned, and it made me realize
I could wait no more. A woman was down there, and I was
certain it was Leslie who'd made it. As if on cue, the dog
disappeared like it knew I was going to follow now no matter what. Heart
racing, I descended and found myself in a crowded, dusty basement full of
old rubbish and soggy boxes. The roof leaked in a half dozen places,
and with a storm in full effect, the ground had flooded by about six
inches, so that my feet were completely submerged in filthy looking water. Somewhere
in the basement, I could still hear the dog's paws cut through the water
in a lazy sloshing canter. I was looking around the basement with my phone
as a torch, trying to see where it was leading me, when something
caught my eye, A stony, cylindrical structure in one far corner. It
was an old well, common enough in a house of the era, but
in an unusual touch, it had been sealed shot with a heavy wooden lid.
Something about that enormous slab of black and timber seemed odd to me.
It wasn't merely a safety feature. It looked like the sort of thing you'd
seal a tomb with. Behind me came another splash. This was different to
the quiet patter of the dog. It was like something or someone dropping into
the water. I turned towards the sound and saw Bernadette. Her face twisted
into another hideous grin, eyes wide and excited. I let out a cry
and stumbled backwards, but by the time I managed to get back unto my
feet, the old woman was gone. Close to panic, I swept my
light around me and found her. She had moved and was close to my
back, but she was frozen again, unreactive, like another piece of taxidermy.
I wanted to run away. At the sight of her standing so close.
But somehow I just knew if I took my torch away again, she'd
disappear, and I might not have time to find her before her bony fingers
found me in the dark. Instead, I stayed in one place, then
slowly backed away mark The sound of Leslie's voice hit me like a freight train.
I gasped, turning distinctively towards her and then back again to find that
Bernadette had already disappeared. Aware that she might be anywhere, I focused on
my wife, finding myself overcome with emotion, both good and bad. As
my eyes took in the strange state of her. She looked pale, disoriented,
and afraid. She stood there in a T shirt and underwear, freezing
cold, looking almost sick. But at least she was there. At least
she was right in front of me. At last, some elements of this
nightmare was giving way. Jeez, babes, what happened, I said,
as I wrapped my arms around her. I don't know. She mewed like
a sick child. I had these nightmares, and I woke up here.
I think I was sleep walking. I dreamt I was a little boy speaking
to something in a well. I had a sister, I had a dog.
The voice in the well wanted me to God. It made me do
such strange things. I couldn't help but look at the well in the corner.
Her eyes followed mine and she grimaced. I don't like this place?
Can we go? God? It feels so weird? Here am I still
dreaming? She walked forward and practically fell into my arms. With one arm
wrapped around her, I held her upright and led her towards the stairs.
Part of me wanted to ask about Meg and Ryan, but I knew it
was more important to get her somewhere safe. We'd climbed just a few stairs
when I heard the sudden sound of someone garling towards us at a sprint,
their feet splashing in the water with stomach churning speed. I turned just in
time to see the old woman, face still twisted, coming out of the
dark. Instinctively, I pushed Leslie ahead of me, but Bernadette was more
interested in me. With an icy, hard grip, she grabbed my ankle
and yanked me down. My head hit one of the steps, and for
a brief moment, everything went a little warbly. The next thing I was
aware of was water rising to my ears in the sight of the basement steps
receding away. Something was pulling me deeper into the dark. I tried to
struggle, but a hard, rubbery hand refused the let go of my ankle.
I kicked hard with the other leg, hitting Bernadette in the small of
her back. To my disgust, my foot hit something like densely packed hay,
or maybe even wood. It certainly was a flesh. Slowly, Bernadette
turned to face me, her head pivoting like an owl's while her body kept
facing the other way. My brother will look after you, she said.
He has a gift for putting people back together after they've fallen apart, always
had, even as a little boy. You don't realize just how hurt you
are. None of you do. That's okay, My brother is good at
putting things back together. Still facing me, eyes wide and manic, she
pulled me towards what I slowly realized was the well in the far corner of
the basement. He scrapes away the scars and wounds, and replaces the broken
bones and within muzzles with fresh, clean, perfumed sawdust. Puts you back
together. One bit at a time. Did you know how hurt you were?
Did you see the cuts and scars across your faces and hands? I
did. She stopped at the well. With one arm and Freak's strength,
she effortlessly lifted the wooden slab, and so did he. Even in the
dark, he could see the bleeding inside and out, full of it,
full of blood. You're all so full of blood. You needed help,
just like me. The smell that came out of that pit was nauseating,
and realizing what was about to happen, I started to kick and punch,
grabbing at any part of the old woman I could, while trying my best
to hurt her. But all that came away beneath my nails was papery skin
and moldy sawdust that smelled of rotten meat. Bernadette climbed up to the lip
of the well and swung me over the darkness. I couldn't help but look
down into the inky abyss, where I caught sight of what looked like an
oil leak on asphalt, a dark, murky collection of metallic colors, some
of which I couldn't possibly describe in words. Slowly, something strange bobbed up
from the foul fluid, A hand gnarled and fowl began to break the surface
and reached towards me. Just as I felt like my sanity was going to
shatter into a thousand pieces, I was thrown sideways into the water. There
was a grunt and a struggle, and I looked up to see Leslie,
her eyes clear for the first time since I found her repeatedly hitting the old
woman with a bit of wood. She was furious and unrelenting as she whacked
Bernadette over and over. She had saved me, and for a moment I
fell in love with her all over again. But the romance didn't last long
before my senses returned and I realized I couldn't just lie there. Desperate to
help, I pulled myself to my feet and rushed over just in time as
well. Leslie went for one final swing, and Bernadette caught the plank of
wood with an unflinching hand. Slowly she tightened a grip and the wood began
to splinter. But with all the attention of my wife, she failed to
notice me charging towards her. With a good shove, I pushed her over
the edge of the well and into the darkness below, we heard the thick
sibi PLoP, and when we looked over we saw her struggling in the filth
below. Two eyes fixed us in the dark from a soot covered face,
and I knew we couldn't waste another second. I grabbed Leslie's elbow and ran,
Let's get the hell out of here, I cried, as we scampered
up the steps behind us. Burn a deck led out a blood curdling howl.
A few hours later, and the sun was beginning to rise. We
had pulled up the van on the side of the road to take a moment
to ourselves and go over the strange events of the night before. The storm
starting to fade by now had made a terrible mess of the roads, and
it had taken us an infuriating few hours just to find another main road,
as so many other country lanes were blocked by fallen trees and branches. But
now, with traffic passing us by and electric lights visible in the distance,
we had finally found ourselves on the trail of civilization. Jeez, I said,
as the engine died in silence settled over us. Both did that really
happen? Leslie simply shook her head. It was a dream, right,
the whole thing. I remember, God, I remember sleeping and someone coming
to me, and I was definitely awake from my part of it, I
replied, I woke up in the middle of the night and you were missing,
and I went locking. None of that was in my head. It
felt so real and all kinds of wrong, but it wasn't proud up to
my mind. It's hard for me to separate things when I look back.
One moment, I'm a little boy scraping squirrels off the side of the road.
The next, I'm me in the basement. That terrible old woman stroke
in my cheeks. I put my arm around her and pulled her close.
Where are the others, she asked, after a few moments. I don't
know, I replied, or shaking my head. God Mark, we need
to find them, even if we just call the police and tell them where.
We need to do something. Do you have your phone, i asked,
I'll call them. No, do you I lost it in the basement.
I turned in my seat to look in the back or I hoped I
might find a spare phone or a laptop, something I could use to get
help. Would a frozen place when I saw Meg and Ryan's sleeping bag,
it wasn't empty. Meg and Ryan, frozen with waxy skin and glassy eyes,
lay side by side in the back of the van, holding hands posed
like a Daver's on mannequins in some strange display. Dead, I figured,
surely dead. They had to be taken first by Bernadette, hollowed out by
whatever lay in the well, and added to the collection. But that was
before I saw the gentle murmuring of Meg's bluish li lips, and the way
her eyes looked at me as I leaned over my seat to try and hear
what strange words she was whispering. It wasn't until I was so close I
could feel her icy breath and smell the strange chemicals that soaked her, that
I realized what she was muttering in feverish terror. It hurts, it hurts,
it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.