บท 131: Pamela San Francisco — 1910 Transformations

Pamela is flying along cold brick lanes. An owl calls wistfully in the night. Low clouds hang like promises above the bay. She barely feels the bite. Just two tiny pricks in the back of her neck.

When she awakens, she is underground. It is dark, very dark, but she can see. Her pupils are expanding, her insides whirling. She feels herself dissolving, twisting, churning. She tries to breathe, but finds no air. She opens her mouth to scream, but has no sound. She struggles, arms flaying, trying to rise from uncharted depths. And then a new pain grips her. An emptiness, a hunger deep and painful.

Something is held to her gasping mouth. It is warm, and rich, it fills the desolation of her soul with comfort. She laps greedily, solace for mind and body. It isn’t until later, after she sees the waxen husk of an old woman drained and still, that she understands.