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Billy sipped the last of his coffee from the mug and shut down his laptop. 1,000 words wasn__ great but it also wasn__ as bad as no words at all. It hadn__ exactly been a great couple of years and the royalties from his first few books were only going to hold out so much longer. Even if he didn__ have anything else to worry about there was always Sara to consider. Sara with her big blue eyes so like her mother__. He sat for a moment longer thinking about his daughter and all they__ been through since Wendy had passed. Then he picked up his mug with a long sigh and carried it to the kitchen to rinse it in the sink. When he came back into his little living room and the quiet of 1 AM he wasn__ surprised to find her there over to the side of the bookshelf hovering close to the floor just beyond the couch. Wendy. Her eyes were cold and intense in death, angry and spiteful in a way he__ never seen them when she was alive. What once had been beautiful was now a horror and a threat, one that he__ known far too well in the years since she__ died. He and Sara both. He stood where he was looking at her as she glared up at him. Part of her smaller vantage point was caused by kneeling next to the shelf but he knew from the many times she__ walked or run through a room that death had also reduced her, made her no higher than 4 or 4 and half feet when she__ been 6 in life. She was like a child trapped there on the cusp between youth and coming adulthood. Crushed and broken down into a husk, an entity with no more love for them than a snake. Familiar tears stung his eyes but he blinked them away letting his anger and frustration rise in place of his grief.__uck you! What right do you have to be here? Why won__ you let Sara and I be? We loved you! We still love you!__he doesn__ respond, she never does. It__ as if she used up all of her words before she died and now all that__ left is the pain and the anger of her death. The empty lack of true life in her eyes leaves him cold. He doesn__ say anything else to her. It__ all a waste and he knows it. She frightens him as much as she makes him angry. Spite lives in every corner of her body and he__ reached his limit on how long he can see this perversion, this nightmare of what once meant so much to him.He walks past the bookshelf and through the doorway there. He and Sara__ rooms are up above. With an effort he resists the urge to look back down the hall to see if she__ followed. He refuses to treat his wife like a boogeyman no matter how much she has come to fit that mold. He can feel her eyes burning into him from somewhere back at the edge of the living room. The sensation leaves a cold trail of fear up his back as he walks the last four feet to the stairs and then up. He can hear her feet rush across the floor behind him and the rustle of fabric as she darts up the stairs after him. His pulse and his feet speed up as she grows closer but he__ never as fast as she is. Soon she slips up the steps under his foot shoving him aside as she crawls on her hands and feet through his legs and up the last few stairs above. As she passes through his legs, her presence never more clear than when it__ shoving right against him, he smells the clean and medicinal smells of the operating room and the cloying stench of blood. For a moment he__ back in that room with her, listening to her grunt and keen as she works so hard at pushing Sara into the world and then he__ back looking up at her as she slowly considers the landing and where to go from there. His voice is a whisper, one that pleads. __endy?