The Broken Hours: A Novel Of H. P. Lovecraft - Plot & Excerpts
There was something about the pale wispiness of her hair, a certain sturdy set of the shoulders. Something achingly, impossibly familiar. But I could not think it. I pushed it from my mind. My head pounded. I worked sporadically, slept fitfully. During the night, I woke to the feel of a small hand against my cheek, cold, cold. I left the light in my room burning, and rose in the morning only to cross to the window and look at once down into the empty garden with a feeling of dread. I did not know what I feared to see, what sort of apparition—no, that was not right: I knew exactly what I feared to see. But there was nothing. Only glittering morning, only raindrops hung from bare branches like purses of pure light. I fumbled my feet into my shoes and went sockless down, through the foyer and around the outside of the house to the back garden, wanting proof. Something concrete, tangible, bare footprints in the turned soil, an unlatched door. I found only last summer’s weeds and long grasses, untrampled, beneath limbs so overgrown and diseased they’d been peeled smoothly of bark.
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