Shivering violently, Amanda wet her dry lips. She felt the troubled pounding of her heart and it sounded as loud to her ears as the unbridled crash of the thunder. Elizabeth slept unharmed, undisturbed by the storm, the deeply etched lines of her face softened by peaceful slumber. Amanda’s spasms of terror had ended. She watched quietly as Elizabeth’s chest rose and fell with the easy, natural rhythm of deep sleep. It was Amanda’s own breathing that was ragged and broken. Whoever had left the mark on the door, if it had ever been there at all, had not come into the bedroom. Had she really felt the blood on her hand? Was it still there? Amanda tilted the candle down for a better look and in so doing doused the tiny, struggling flame with hot wax. She shuddered. Now she could see nothing at all. And without the candle’s warm circle of light, the darkness suddenly felt like great masses of hands groping at her. With quick, nervous movements Amanda crossed the room and found the basin and pitcher of water she had left for Elizabeth.
