What did she see? What could she have seen with the door shut? Perhaps it wasn’t what she saw; perhaps it was what she felt. How would the body respond to what could only register as a profound wrongness? Panic, a sudden nausea, a fear so intense… Had she opened the door, what sight would have confronted her? To tell the truth, it’s difficult to look inside. The eye glances away automatically, the way it does from a bright light. Should you try to force the issue, tears dilute your vision. Standing in the doorway, you would have to raise your hand, shield your eyes from the dull whiteness in front of you. Strain your gaze through the narrowest openings your fingers can make, and for the half a second until your head jerks to the side, you see a figure deep within the white, hanging on the edge of a belt with a slightly tilted head. Later you may attempt to reconstruct that form, make sense of your vision. All you will be able to retrieve, however, is a pair of impressions that one of something is coalescing, like smoke filling up a jar. For the next several months and years not only your dreams, but your waking hours will be plagued by what you saw between your fingers. Unable to help yourself, you will reach for the shade, tilt it back, and find… nothing. Yet the sensation won’t pass. Your skin won’t stop bristling at what you can’t see there.
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