I was in one of the infinite, mystical houses that appear in my dreams. The front door had been opened carelessly, and I was afraid that Pudge had escaped. I might have reassured myself by searching the house and finding her, but it seemed too overwhelming a task. When I thought about looking for her outside, I would open the door and see a landscape blasted by hurricane-strength winds and rain that I couldn’t face. It broke my heart to think of my poor tortoiseshell baby out there. It would occur to me that perhaps she had escaped just then, each time I opened the door to look. It was an ironic cycle of indecision and fear.
I don’t know if this was in the same house, but I found a room in which various people, perhaps a large family, stood against a wall, each with his or her head cocked oddly sideways onto a frame projecting from the wall. It was a horrible sight. They appeared to have been murdered, with their bodies on display in this macabre way.
Then I saw one of them move slightly, and that was even more terrible and horrifying than had they remained still and clearly dead.