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Unformatted text preview: d. Silence. All around him silence, wrapping up his spoken words and making them loud. Making them sharp in the stillness, like a move- ment, like a drop in temperature. Silence. There was absolutely no one about. No one in the dining room. No one visible at the top of the stairs. He could see Aunt Vivian's room LASHER was no longer lighted. No one talking on the phone. Empty. Darkness. And then it penetrated to him. He was alone. No, couldn't be. He walked to the front door and opened it. For one moment, he could not take it in. No one at the black iron gate. No one on the porch. No one across the street. Just the solemn empty silence of the Garden District, deserted as a ruined city beneath the motionless street light, the soft clumps of oak leaves. The house as still and undis- turbed as it had ever been the first time he saw it. "Where are they?" He felt the sudden thrust of panic. "Christ, what's going on?" "Michael Curry?" The man was standing to his left. In the shadows, almost invisible, except for his blond hair. He came forward...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10