Steve Shell

And she found herself on the floor, her heels beating against the floorboards until finally...

She let loose a scream.

And then all at once, the pain stopped.

There was only blessed darkness in her head and the reassuring clarity of purpose.

the native tongue of the inner dark filled with blood, entrancing her with its chaotic intricacies, and she took a moment to revel in it before she began to collect herself.

She pushed herself back up into a seated position, one hand held gingerly against her aching head, the other reaching to swipe at a trickle of blood that seeped from her nose.

It wasn't long before she heard a hesitant tap at the cabin door.

Crane and Churchman roused from their exile to the car by her scream, no doubt.

They were typically the most obedient of servants and would not otherwise have disturbed her, but the sound of potential trouble was enough to motivate them to stretch protocol a little bit.

Polly decided she would allow it just this once.

Caught her breath and called for them to enter.

She waved off their questions but allowed Mr. Crane to help her to her feet.

Then she retired to the lavatory for a moment of privacy.

She washed her hands, splashed water on her face, and smoothed her hair.

She straightened her suit and, feeling more herself, rejoined the hollow men in the front room.

Now that Polly had the knowledge she would need to control their unusual weapon, it was time to have a look at it.

Churchman fetched a hammer from the toolbox in the trunk of the Cadillac and pried the nails from one side of the crate.

He and Crane carefully lowered that side of the box, and Polly knelt on the ground again, peering into the darkness within.

"'Come on,' Polly called into the shadows of the crate.

And slowly, in response to her coaxing, a toe-headed infant toddled out of the box.