There is a tiger in my house, stalking through the halls. He is thick and terrible and the color of snow on ice. He smells of spice, hot spice that stings the eyes and burns the back of the throat. He crawled out of my bathtub two nights ago, dripping water all across the small black and white tiles which cover the floor. He has taken up residence in the darker corner of the hallway, below the picture of Katya and Jarek in Bulgaria. At night I can hear him licking his chops, waiting to make a meal of something.
Bez hasn’t seen him, but Juteau said she heard something snuffling around the crack of her bedroom door last night. She thought that she’d been dreaming, but I know that she was not.
The tiger is here for something.
I’m afraid that it might be Juteau.
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