It started with the light in the hallway leading to the kitchen – no matter how many times Suze replaced the bulb, socket, fuze, it would flicker, sometimes in synch with nearby conversations, and sometimes matching words no one could here.

The whatever spread to other appliances, so breakfast became impractical. Suze stopped taking long showers, worried by the shapes that slipped through the steam. In that soft, dark place just before sleep, she’d hear footsteps in the room and jolt awake.

She worried less when this was written in lipstick on her mirror:


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