... She opened the door and I shuddered for on her face was the darkness that had been alone with me.
“Oh,” came her voice, reed-like and stripped. “Oh, he is dead.”
I looked my amazed question: knew I was looking it.
—Your father? Not your father?
“You never saw Philip LaMotte.”
“Never.”
“You will never see him. Nor I, again.”
From within her eyes the shadow came to me and awoke my skin once more to the familiar horror.
“He is dead.”
I was silent.