Outside are monsters, and the rain is coming down pretty hard. Says Shelley: “What are we going to do to while away the time while the mob gathers?”

“Oh, I suppose we can think of something,” says Holly, draped over the back of the back of the davenport, globe of brandy snifter weighting down her fingers. The lights had gone out in the afternoon, and now, under the murk of the storm, the only light comes from the ruddy nothing of the fireplace. She kisses Shelley’s neck, leaves red grape-stain on the skin.

Glass shatters upstairs. “They’ve climbed the trellis. They must weigh next to nothing; the roses alone bent it nearly double last summer. What do they want?”

“Blood! Blood!” Holly throws the glass into the fireplace; the alcohol tints the flame blue. “Blood and flesh!”

The fire dies down almost to nothing. Lightning crashes outside and they begin to come under the doors, small and black and hairy. Thunder follows afterward and blows them up, big as Juggernaut, to shoulder against the corners of the room. Outside on the lawn flashlights have begun to waver toward the door, modern day torches.