You’re walking into hell, the voice warns. “You’re about to die,” I whisper. It isn’t until Maria peers back at me over her shoulder with subtle horror on her face that I realize I said it out loud. “Excuse me?” she asks. “Nothing, sorry,” I say, mortified. She turns back around and unlocks the door, but not without casting another worried glance over her shoulder. Great. Now my therapist is afraid I’m going to murder her. The voice cackles.
