I’d shoved her into Kansas and they ran. They flew up the very stairs I was stuck on and ran out, eventually making it through the woods and to safety. I didn’t. I was left behind. Mustering up the strength, I stepped down into my father’s horror room and looked around. It was empty, other than the graffiti and blood on the wall. Blood I’d put there. So much blood. It was like my own little art project. The laughter came again from the room just outside this one, and I gripped my knife tight. It was time for another installation.
