Thomas Kinkade Victorian Autumn

found herself tapping her foot.
And realized that distant shadows were moving.
She ran knew when to give up.
She looked at the glass again. The boy ‑ and she used the term as girls will of young males several years older than them ‑ the boy had played a chord on the guitar or whatever it was, and history had been bent. Or had skipped, or something.
Something besides her didn't want him dead.
It was two o'clock in the morning, and raining.across the floor, the real floor, the one out­side the boundaries of the carpet.The shadows looked more like mathematics wouldbe if it was solid. There were vast curves of . . . something. Pointers like clock hands, but longer than a tree, moved slowly through the air.The Death of Rats climbed on to her shoulder.'I suppose you don't know what's happening?'SQUEAK.Susan nodded. Rats, she supposed, died when they should. They didn't try to cheat, or return from the dead. There were no such things as zombie rats. Rats