When Lyla pushed open the front door into the entryway, a commotion at the top of the stairs startled her.

A blackbird shot out of the bedroom and sent Imaginary Lyla tumbling down the stairs. Halfway down the staircase, Imaginary Lyla transformed into the corpse of Keenan Ames. Accompanied by the horrific sounds of bones snapping, his arms flailed, his head caromed off the steps and stair railing, splattering the wall and staircase with blood.

Lyla bolted out of the entryway as the contorted body came to rest in a heap at the base of the stairs. A stream of yellowish bile spilled from its gaping mouth and puddled on the floor. The bird sailed down the stairway, rolled its body to the right, and disappeared into the living room.

She lurched into the kitchen then steadied herself against the sink, cradling her face in her hands.

"Go away," she whispered.

Not real. Breathe.

Warily, she peeked over her shoulder. From her vantage point, the entryway appeared empty. She composed herself then slowly crossed the kitchen, cautiously peeking around the corner and glancing up the steps.

The house was ominously quiet. She found no bird, no body, no blood on the wall.

Through the living room doorway, the black TV screen reflected the image of Keenan sitting on a living room chair, his legs crossed casually, the bird standing on the arm of his chair. He gestured to Lyla, waving her into the room.

She bolted out the front door and, without looking back, sprinted down the street. She ran for blocks until her lungs burned, finally coming to rest on a park bench in a small community green space. Her mind raced trying to make sense of what had just happened. Her chest rose and fell with each gulp of air.

He's dead. Lying somewhere in the woods. You're doing this to yourself.

A young mom avoided eye contact as she pushed a stroller past the park bench. Her rosy-cheeked toddler's broad smile drooped when she noticed Lyla on the bench distraught and talking to herself.

Lyla panted, catching her breath.

Get it together. You're on your own now. You need to be strong.

She took deep calming breaths and exhaled slowly. Gradually, her heart rate returned to normal.

"Are you all right?" a gentle voice whispered. An unshaven man wearing a heavy jacket placed his hand on her shoulder.

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, patting her back with his bony hand. When he sat beside her on the bench it was immediately apparent that his personal hygiene was lacking. He reminded her of the pictures in her history book of survivors of Nazi death camps, tortured souls barely clinging to life.

"You look like you're in a bad place," he spoke quietly, his milky gray eyes meeting hers.

She noticed that his jacket and pants were wrinkled and covered with debris. The soiled second-hand jacket hung on him like a boy wearing his father's suit coat.

He continued, "It's a terrible thing when somebody leaves you. All alone. In the cold." A spider crawled out from the sleeve of his jacket onto his hand. "You know want I mean.... Kitten?" His thin lips parted with a ridiculing smile that revealed yellow and brown teeth.

Lyla jumped off the bench, tripped over her feet, and nearly tumbled to the ground. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was gone.

She had never felt so utterly alone and helpless, teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Or maybe she'd been suffering a series of psychotic episodes for days, maybe even weeks. Perhaps the time had come to tell her dad everything, and admit that she'd made a horrible mistake. Maybe then she'd be free of the guilt. Maybe then she could put a stop to the torment by these creatures from hell. But maybe it was too late because Lyla had taken refuge in a claustrophobic dimension of dark secrets from which there was no exit.