Michael Malone - Weebly

he had sent it. Now the kitchen, the quietness, that had
been safe a moment ago were suddenly scary.
Someone might have gotten into the house already. If
she looked up at the screen door, would she see his
face there, watching her? Could she hear him breathe?
Forcing herself to look, she latched the screen. Forcing
herself to move slowly, she walked through the house.
It was changed, and was ominous. Finally she reached
the front door, locked it behind her, and ran.
In the backyard next door, the letter held behind
her balled up in her fist, Polly asked Mrs. Strummer if
Joy were still in her bedroom. She was. Joy had a
yellow ruffled room arranged according to the
instructions in a magazine. Little dolls in foreign
costumes stood in rows on white shelves. Large dolls
sat in a yellow rocker. Enormous stuffed animals sat on
the floor. So did a record player. A young breathless
male voice seemed to be singing from the bottom of a
warm vat of syrup, "Make Mine You." Joy was in bed;
she hung up the phone when her friend entered. Polly
looked around the room and slowly let out her breath.
Everything was the way it always was. There were the