“Jennifer, what’s the matter? Open the door, Jennifer!”

I was shouting. She tried to crawl out of bed, but before she could get herself together, the entire bed had begun to rise with her on it. Then with a thunderous crash, it shattered on the floor. Her hand fell against something coarse and wet. It felt like hair! No, a face! She grasped the object and brought it up to her eyes, and she froze in terror!

Her body trembled, and tears rolled down her cheeks as she held Henry Kagan’s decapitated head by its blood-soaked hair, his gruesome face with the nose bone collapsed and the cheekbones caved in. His mouth was open, the lower lip stretched below his lower teeth, so the gum showed. He seemed to be laughing at her, a spine-chilling laughter, as his bulging eyes and rotted flesh began to decompose and turn to maggots in her hand.

Jennifer dropped the skull and cried out in terror, feeling as though she were in a nightmare where her legs had become lead and would not allow her to run from this tomb of death. Her heart was pounding as she scrambled out of the wreckage and stumbled to her feet. Suddenly, William Hurdle’s diary flew pass her head and smashed loudly against the door. Grasping the latch, Jennifer flung the door open, and the turmoil subsided. Sally and I hurried in then stopped in wonder, as Jennifer threw herself into my arms.