Delilah was six years old again, and the demon dog was gonna get her.
She raced down the corridor, the sounds of the dog’s nails clicking on the floor behind her.
Getting closer.
She wanted to turn around, to see how close the horror actually was, but she fought off the need, putting the energy into speeding up, finding someplace safe.
She caught the strains of classical music and realized that Lonnie Jorgenson’s room was just up ahead. She pushed herself even faster.
It was just like before, the monster nipping at her heels. She could feel it—the hot breath, the scrape of claws, the nip of teeth as it attempted to grab hold of her.
Delilah was crying now, gasping for air as the music grew louder. The doorway was before her, welcoming her, telling her to get the hell into the room before the dog bit her . . . tore her, slashed and ripped her. She dove through, grabbing the edge of the door and swinging around to slam it closed.
The beast was indeed closer than she had thought. The heavy door swung shut, hitting the dog’s side and pinning it against the doorframe.
Temporarily stunned, it was motionless, gazing at her with lifeless eyes. She found herself staring at its right eye, that strange silvery globe, and thinking about the moon.
Then it started thrashing. Delilah wasn’t all that big of a woman, no more than 120 pounds soaking wet, but she knew how to use that weight. She turned herself around and slammed her back against the door, crushing the animal between it and the doorframe.
How odd that she was the one making all the noise over the strains of Mozart. The dog remained silent, even as its body thrashed and its jaws snapped.
From the corner of her right eye, Delilah caught a hint of movement, and too late it dawned on her that Lonnie’s bed was empty.
And Lonnie Jorgenson was coming toward her.
Lonnie Jorgenson, whose brain was so damaged that she was unable to take care of herself, to speak, and to wash and feed herself.
To walk.
“Lonnie,” Delilah croaked as the woman rushed her, her hands reaching for Delilah’s throat.
Survival was all that Delilah could think about, her own animal instincts kicking in to keep her alive. She reached out, swatting Lonnie’s clutching hands away and grabbing her by the front of her pretty, flowered pajamas. She spun the woman around, slamming her back against the door.
“What is happening?” Delilah screamed in frustration, looking into the slack face of the woman who had grown to be her favorite.
And seeing her eye—her silver-coated right eye.
Delilah had to do something, and quickly. As she struggled with Lonnie, the door was moving, and the dog was coming in. Her muscles burned and were beginning to feel more like rubber. She couldn’t hold out for much longer.
Suddenly her little boy’s face flashed in her mind. He was at home waiting for her, and she had promised him a big-boy bed.
A surge of strength rushed through her. Delilah slammed her forehead into Lonnie’s face, stunning her, then pulled the patient toward her, allowing the door to open and the dog to enter.
The dog’s claws scrabbled for purchase as it lunged into the room, its mouth wide open, ready to bite.
Forcing herself not to think about what she was doing, Delilah pushed Lonnie backward, where she landed hard on the dog’s back. Both collapsed in a heap on the floor.
But they won’t be there long, Delilah thought, already on the move.
She leaped over the thrashing bodies of patient and dog as the two struggled to recover enough to resume their attack upon her.
She was running again—so much like the nightmares she’d had for most of her life, running to get away from the monster that was chasing her. For a brief moment she wondered if maybe it was a dream. Maybe she should just allow herself to be caught, and then she’d finally wake up and everything would be fine.
Thunder roared outside, and she could have sworn that the building shook with the onslaught of the storm.
No, this wasn’t a dream; this was all too horribly real.
She ran, the dog again in pursuit, this time with Lonnie close behind it. Ahead of her, at the other end of the corridor, she could see patients slowly leaving their rooms—patients who had not walked for weeks, months, and even years.
She took a sharp left, back toward the elevators and some administrative offices, and ran full tilt into Mason’s cleaning cart, tipping it over and knocking the wind from her body. For a moment she lay among the rolls of toilet paper and sheets of paper towels strewn across the floor, unable to move—until the dog’s blood-covered snout appeared from around the corner.
She scrambled to her feet, only to lose her balance and pitch forward hard onto her hands and knees. Get up! Get up! she screamed in her mind as hot tears flowed from her eyes.
A closed office door suddenly opened, and she saw somebody standing there. Delilah let out a scream as the figure reached for her.
“Get in here,” the man she recognized as Mr. Deacon, the head of janitorial services, said as he pulled her inside the office and slammed the door shut.
Just as the monster—monsters—reached the other side.