With a jab, she punctured the night air in Scott’s direction. A harsh crackle roared in the distance followed by several flashes of light. The drapes by the open window flailed about like two sails in the wind, beating against the mad rush of angry air. The ghostlike figure leaned over his bed. Her eyes glowed like two hot charcoals. Her skin, a washed-out mixture of ashen and gray, seemed to hang from her bones. Her breath smelled of rotting garbage, and the wraps of her turban appeared mummy-like. Scott’s heart zoomed as his mind raced to find answers. All he managed to say was, “Madame Theo?” “Silence!” She poked his side with her bony finger. Scott jumped backward, rubbing the spot she had pierced. It burned as if her finger had been dipped in acid. “What in the world — ” “He’s mine . . . all mine.” “Who . . . who is?” Scott asked, still dazed by the encounter. “Philip.” Madame Theo circled the bed, running, floating, flying. With each revolution, she poked Scott again and again, shouting, “Philip .
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