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A large painted picture was bolted to the wall above the bed, but it started to rock and I heard the brittle tearing sound of screws working their way free from plaster. The picture must have weighed fifty pounds, but what Caroline wanted, Caroline got. She rocked it free and when it crashed onto the bed it bounced immediately to the floor, and then to the window—which crunched under the weight of the frame.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Caroline, don’t. Look. I’m leaving. I’m leaving. ”

I had the card key in my hand and I was retreating what few inches I could. Nick’s recorder was still on the floor; I reached towards it with the toe of my boot and dragged it to my hand. As I bent to pick it up, something too heavy to be the TV remote clocked me on the head.

Stars like static blurred my vision, but I had the recorder in one hand and the card key was still in the other. I stumbled backwards, into the miniature hall in front of the door—beside the coat closet with the mirrored door.

But Caroline liked the mirrors.

As my eyesight fought to return, I saw the bottom half of a lamp beside me and I knew what she must have thrown. It rose again and I tripped over myself to move away from it.

“Nick!” I called out, not knowing how much he could hear, but wishing to God that he’d open the door. “Nick!”

He replied, but whatever he said, I couldn’t make it out.

I only wanted her to stay. But it was my mistake.

“Who? Jesus H. Christ, Caroline—stop being so goddamned vague!”

Damned, she echoed. All of us, burned up—-just like him. Just like her.

She lifted the lamp base again and, God, it was made of terra cotta or painted plaster—something heavy and hurtful. She cast it forward into me. I was too close for it to bruise, but it knocked the wind out of me and it pushed me into that mirrored closet door.

I went through it, not cleanly. I pitched and fell, and the glass tinkled around me, dusting me with shining powder and pretty slivers that I’d pick out of my clothes for days.

I felt my skin tear with a dozen little carvings, on my arms and on my neck. Through a soft spot on my belly something pierced, and I shrieked. It didn’t hurt as much as it looked like it should, but i

t hurt plenty bad. It went in clean, with a burning puncture like a big needle. When I pulled it out it was as long as my hand, and my hand was bleeding too. It was so horrifying I couldn’t feel it properly; I couldn’t think about it rationally. I could only drop the shard and stupidly shake my hand as if it were on fire.

I reached up to pull myself out of the closet and nearly grabbed more glass at the edge of the closet frame, or what remained of it. I pushed myself out instead, one hand against the back wall.

The door was right there, but the card key was slippery in my hand and Caroline was excited by the blood. She threw more glass and other objects—a soap dish, a complimentary bottle of lotion, and a roll of toilet paper—which weren’t bad at all by comparison.

Back on the floor, on hands and knees that were collecting splinters, I pushed the card key underneath the door. Within a couple of seconds, I heard the whooshing click of the electronic lock. The door opened into the room and caught me on the shoulder, but at least it was open.

And the moment it opened, the wild microcosm of paranormal misery calmed. Completely ceased, even as arms reached inside and dragged me out into the corridor.

Another man and a woman were there with Nick. Both of them were wearing uniforms that implied they worked at the hotel, and both of them gazed down at me as if they couldn’t decide whether to help me out or smack me.

I didn’t care. I was thrilled silly to see them, and I told them so.

Nick didn’t squeal like a little girl, but he looked like he wanted to. I was a mess, and I knew it.

“That room is off limits for a reason,” the man in uniform griped.

Nick ignored him and started barking orders. “Shut the fuck up and call a doctor, or a nurse, or somebody—you’ve got to have somebody on staff here, right? Get somebody, she’s a mess!”

I sat against the wall and tried to wave him quiet. “This isn’t a school, Nick. And don’t—please, whoever you are. Don’t. I’m all right. It looks worse than it is. ”

“Eden, you’re bleeding all over the place. ”

“Not so much, exactly. ” I didn’t even have to check. I knew, because I could feel it. I knew the scrapes were mending, and the cuts both large and small were knitting themselves into smooth skin. But I hugged my sweater close across my stomach and chest. I didn’t want him to see the one really bad wound, the one that was probably still leaking.

Warm wetness was seeping through my shirt and getting sticky. The sweater was black, though. Blood might not show too badly. I crossed my arms across my breasts and put my face down into my hands.

“Get a doctor,” Nick repeated, but I shook my head and protested.

“No. No doctors. I’m all right, it’s just a scratch. Some scratches. Gimme a pack of Band-Aids and some peroxide. I’ll be fine. ”