The dome was shaking. A picture of sunflowers on the wall one of the summer crew had left behind fell to the floor. Its glass face shattered . . . the tiny bits of broken glass blew over the floor like a down of drift. Oh God, not again . . . Butler was laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Her plate of food was untouched. Her IV of fluids was half-drained. Her eyes were glossy black pits. Gwen went over to Zoot, kneeled by her, pulling her to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?” “Eyes,” she said, her body rigid with terror. “Eyes?” “Red eyes. Five red eyes watching me.” Gwen swallowed, feeling her sanity fraying now as it had been for some time. Eyes. A delusion? A hallucination? She had spent too much time around Butler now to believe that. For even in her own dreams she had seen red eyes staring out of pockets of shifting blackness at her. “These eyes watch you?” Zoot nodded. “Ever since I saw the ghost.” “The ghost?” “The ghost came out of Butler . .
