”“I’ve been blindsided,” Cuthbert said sadly. Looking at her made Susan feel weak with terror, and she felt the panic around her again, like some dark fluid that would happily drown her brain if given half a chance. Her name is Abagail. “Come on, Jake,” says Eddie.
The smell coming off her was reeky and nauseating—the smell of decomposing flesh. It showed a picture of Jesus Christ, eyes sad, hands outstretched, forehead marked from his crown of thorns. She leaned forward and dropped three or four pennies into his shirt pocket. His back made small crackling sounds.
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