THE HOLLOW HOUSE Book Four of The Darkest Night Elysia wakes up on a floor. The ceiling sags. Somewhere far above her something drips, and the gap between drops is too long, as though whatever falls has to gather itself first. She calls her daughter's name. The air does not carry it. The air absorbs it. The boards under her have the give of meat. There are children in the walls, and they are not angry with her, which is worse, because they are reaching. And in the nursery, past the record player grinding out its broken lullaby, something rises out of a mattress and keeps rising. Long arms dragging. A head made of cracked porcelain doll faces fused along their jaws, painted eyes blinking out of sequence, one at the front that speaks while the rest echo half a second behind. Her name is Grace. She was made out of what a child gets instead of love, and she has been waiting a long time to ask her question. The fourth of seven.
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