Page 110 of The Unknown

“A chill. Only worse.” Her teeth are chattering now, and she looks around the parlor, troubled. “Whatisthat?”

“I don’t feel anything,” Ronan says.

I do, but it’s not a chill. Instead, I get the same creeping sensation that greeted Molly’s nightly visits when I was five. A feeling that someone else is there. It gets worse as the glass moves on, slipping to theAin front of Violet.

Then theIin front of Ronan.

And theSin front of me.

By the time it comes to a stop at Violet’s right elbow, my body rumbles with fear as forceful as the thunder doing the same thing outside.

This isn’t supposed to be happening.

Yet the glass starts up again, quickly spelling out the same name a second time.

DAISY

I glance at Ronan to see if he’s behind it. Not likely, judging from his slack-jawed bewilderment as the glass repeats the name a third time. When I look to Violet next, I see that her eyes are shut. Not halfway. Not in tiny, peeking slits. Honest-to-Godclosed. Even as the glass spells out the name a fourth time.

DAISY

“Wait,” Violet says, her eyes snapping open. “Stop.”

She raises a trembling hand, which quickly drops, slapping against the table. The rest of her body soon follows, slumping forward until her forehead hits the table’s edge. It stays there, lolling back and forth as she says, “I…don’t…feel good.”

Violet’s head slips off the table, her body doubling over so much that I can no longer see her face. Just the slump of her shoulders and the top of her head. I hear her moan, then belch, then unleash a splatter of vomit onto the floor.

“Violet?” I’m by her side in an instant, shaking her shoulders, trying to rouse her from her stupor.

“Is she okay?” Ronan says dumbly. Of course she’s not.

But then Violet’s head rises with a jerk. Like she’s being tugged by invisible strings. A marionette. I jump back, startled, staring at the trickle of brown slime oozing down her chin as her head makes an owl-like swivel.

“The parlor,” she says, looking around with wonder. “How did I get in here?”

Her voice has changed. It’s higher, girlish, with an unidentifiable lilt.

“You walked here,” I say.

Violet blinks at me, uncertainty causing her to bite her bottom lip. “Hello,” she says. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Of course we have,” I say, my voice tight. What the hell is she doing?

Ronan watches us, keeping his fingers on the glass in the same shocked way a driver still grips the steering wheel after a crash. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Violet is—”

She looks up at me and says, “Who’s Violet?”

“You,” I say. “You are.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

I start to wobble. Like I’m Jell-O. Like there’s not a bone or muscleor organ in my body except my brain, which now echoes with a single thought.

No. Please no.

“But it’s close,” Violet continues. “My name is actually—”