2

I didn't move.

I couldn't move.

I stared at the ceiling. Listening. Listening to the raspy breathing under my bed.

Okay, Cooper, I told myself. Calm down. It's probably your imagination. Playing tricks on you again.

The breathing grew louder. Raspier.

I covered my ears and shut my eyes tight.

It's nothing. It's nothing. It's nothing.

It's an old house, I thought, still covering my ears. Old houses have to breathe — don't they?

Or, what was it that Mom said? Settling? Yeah, that's what it must be. The house settling.

Or maybe it's the pipes. We had pipes in our apartment in Boston, and they made crazy noises all the time. I'll bet that's what it is — the pipes.

I lowered my hands.

Silence now. No settling. No pipes. No breathing.

I must be losing my mind.

If I told Gary and Todd about this one, they'd really laugh their heads off.

And then the breathing started again. Raspy and wet. Hoarse breathing. Like a sick animal.

I couldn't just lie there. I had to see what it was.

I swung my legs out of bed. I took a deep breath. Then I lowered myself to the floor.

Carefully, I lifted the blanket from the bottom of the bed. Then carefully, carefully, I lowered my head and peeked under the bed.

That's when the hands darted out — and grabbed me. Two strong, cold hands. Slowly tightening their grip around my throat.

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