None of us ever told anyone else what happened at Hill House. Sometimes—often—I dream of it, and of Nisa. Not as I’d last seen her, trapped within the nursery, but singing “Hares on the Mountain” in a forest clearing. Three fluid black shapes circle her, their dark forms gradually shimmering into columns of light, figures that rise into the night sky, silver rings bright as stars. Stevie had the same dream, he told me once, and Amanda, too.
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