I see the shape dancing beneath a tree.
I blink, frown, shield my eyes from the sun, and look again. It's like a smudge on my vision, a blot in my eye. The tree branches hang low, and although the air here is still, the branches move as if disturbed by a breeze. Birds take flight. Several dead leaves fall, or perhaps they're shed by a squirrel hidden away in the tree. It's too far away for me to make out clearly, but the dancing figure I saw has gone. Just branches. Shadows.
As I turn away the whispers return, louder and closer than ever before, and in their alien tongue I hear mockery at my disbelief.
I slam the door and run through the house, seeking the false solace of my room. On the way to the staircase I pass the small second kitchen where Margot kept her concoctions locked up in
