He walked up the stairs to the upper level of the house berating himself for feeling nervous. For surely there was no trouble ahead of him. That moment had passed. There was no hollering. And though the daylight had faded and left the staircase and the hallways dusk-dark, there was no sense of the ominous. Still, recollection wouldn’t let him dismiss his initial reaction, and it kept peppering his thoughts with vivid flashes of angry eyes, sharpened stakes, and his own red blood being smeared onto cheerful wallpaper.
The warm, sharp solidity of his cross poked into his palm and he realized that yet again he couldn’t recall grabbing it. He could hear his blood bumping steadily in his ears. His lips were growing dry as his breath rushed past them—in, out, in and out—and when he tried to lick them, his tongue rasped like sandpaper over rough wood.