Macey hugged her knees tighter to her. She knew Mama would be calling to her for dinner. If Mama called to her for dinner then they would know she hid in the room. Then they would get her. Poor Mama would still be calling for dinner when Macey was no longer there.
They would know that she knew about them if she did. Then They would come for her. And once They got her, poor, little Macey would have wished she’d kept quiet.


A grey hand, with crinkled, old fingernails – like Mama’s wrapping paper for food – clutched at the opening door. A face peered out. A wrinkled, grey face.