Something was crying.

The wail was incessant, red with impotent anger, rattling with wetness and mucus.

What was it? Did some beast suffer on the shore of the lake, cloaked by the mists waxing grey as night closed in?

No. Attempt to ignore it as she might, it could not be denied: the cry came from within the house, in some upper reach of it.

Then came the next question which required investigation: was the cry real? Was something upstairs, trapped in her house, unable to effect an escape? Or if not, what did that mean for her? What could this primal noise hint at; what was its significance to her?

Emilie wandered the corridors of the house, looking for the source of the wailing. Time stretched the pacing of her legs, the carpeted halls taking an age to cross; and time collapsed her vision, whole doors bypassed at the speed of thought. She resorted to not looking, to shake off the disorientation: better to take a long time to cross a room, and feel the floors solid beneath her, than to trust the lies of her eyes. Best to see the doctor as soon as she could, to have such inertia diagnosed and treated.

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Still the wailing thing persisted. A wave of loathing passed over Emilie. Could it not discern the distastefulness of its own sounds, this hateful creature disturbing her peace? Then came a counterwave of guilt; the creature was in pain, the creature needed assistance, the creature was in a state of lack so raw that Emilie's throat stung with tears unshed just hearing it.

Would someone not help it? Surely someone else knew where it was.

Emilie came to a window and stood by it, letting the horror of the sound wash over her.

She could not find its source.

Even if she did, she had the feeling she could be of no help whatsoever to the poor creature.

Outside the window was only the curling fingers of the beckoning mist. Perhaps she could brave that frosted world, walk down to the road, turn toward town, and look for help.

But the mere idea of stepping into that mist terrified her.

It pressed against the glass like a child's hot breath on a cold carriage window; as if, were the glass not there, it would caress her gladly, stealing some unnameable quality from her (the only word Emilie could find in the moment was heart's-warmth).

No. She could not face the mists. Not presently.

That left only the company of the occupants of the dining room, and this unending drone of a voice losing power, rage turning to desperation, turning into softer, weaker mews as the light faded from the sky.

Would not someone help the poor thing?