Jane was lucky she was sitting on the bed; if she had been standing, she might have bolted for the door in sheer panic. The sight of Ricardo's hand, twisted and woody like tree branches, filled her with a fear she hadn't felt before. She desperately hoped it was just a prosthetic from the theatre, but it looked far too real. In a whisper, she asked, "How is that possible?"
This wasn't normal. Something like this didn't exist except for story books.
Ricardo seemed somewhat relieved that Jane wasn't screaming. She had always approached everything with a composed demeanour. "The scarecrow has always been with us. With the boy."
"The boy?" Jane frowned, her heartbeat quickening.
