What a weird morning, Twyla thinks as she squeezes water from the sponge, and swabs puddles from the next step. The engagement announcement is nerve-racking but with the sleepwalking, Sky’s fall, the image in the carriage house and the freaky storm, her anguish has multiplied. Was stress the trigger for her sleepwalking? She wonders as she mops to the landing.
When she opens the bedroom door, a damp, marshy chill wafts from the room, and a watery woman wavers over the bed, stroking the dreamcatcher on the wall. The mop and pail slip from Twyla’s hand, clanking to the floor. The woman turns, and a frightened teenage girl emerges through the boggy veil, glowering, opened mouth, emitting a stifling, foul air. The horrific chill and swampy odor intensify, pungent, icier as she inhales oxygen
