Noah was awake, curled tightly in the far corner of the bed, knees drawn to his chest, hands pressed over his ears as if trying to disappear. His eyes were swollen, his skin marked with angry red patches.
“Noah,” Margaret whispered. “It’s me. Grandma Margaret.”
Relief flooded his face.
“Grandma,” he murmured. “The bed bites.”
Not itches. Not feels strange. Bites.
Margaret stroked his hair and asked him to stay where he was. Then she turned to the pillow. It looked harmless—smooth white silk, perfectly fluffed. She pressed her palm firmly into the center.
Pain exploded instantly.
It felt like dozens of needles piercing her skin. She gasped and pulled back. In the beam of the flashlight, tiny spots of blood bloomed on her hand.
Fear turned to fury.
Margaret switched on the light and stormed into the hallway.
“Mr. Turner!” she shouted. “You need to come now.”
Michael rushed in moments later, Vanessa close behind, feigning shock. Margaret said nothing. She took a pair of sewing scissors and sliced open the pillow.
Metal pins spilled across the bed—dozens of them.
The silence was crushing.