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Earlier it had been icy cold. |
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To her surprise, the liquid seemed to be less cloudy. More was revealed, She picked it up, and when she could control the unexplained tremor in her hands, began to rotate it. She tried to calculate the size of the object within. It was a mass, something with no particular shape, rusty-colored, wrinkled, yet bunched. It appeared to be undulating as if it had a lifenot a life, but a purpose. |
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It frightened her, and she set it down. |
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Now she was certain that it was moving by itself. She stood staring at it, terrified and transfixed. |
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A glass container no more than eight inches high and no more than that figure in circumference, containing a clump of something that defied her limited descriptive powers, had seduced her into a trance that made it all but impossible to move. |
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The monotonous rain continued, etching the splotchy windows with bizarre patterns that created monsters in her mind. |
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The movement from within the jar had become repetitive, a staccato beat, primitive, flexing, enticing. She could actually see it now. |
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Flora Saint Quentin's trembling hands again reached out for the container. Grasped in her two hands, it seared the flesh and the stench assailed her. Her hands recoiled and |
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