Waiting for Charlotte Rose
His palms were sweaty. That was what she noticed. They left a trail of thin residue over the taught swell of her stomach as she turned away from him in the bed, hoping to ease the ache in her lower back against his own abdomen. “She’s on the move again…” he murmured and splayed his fingers to better feel. “She’s a wriggler,” she responded, and arched her back the better to get some respite from the gnawing sensation of dulled, aching pain. “She’s constantly on the move – just like her daddy.”
For one hideous moment, she thought it was a gift. The mirror stood at least six feet high and had been lent against her front door, its width wide enough that her front porch felt dwarfed in comparison. It was, she supposed, a work of art – if one had questionable taste that leaned towards wooden representations of goblins cavorting throughout the heavyset oak frame. She paused, keys in hand, and realised after a moment of unmitigated horror that it was more than likely just another of Sienna’s antiques, brought home from work – for whatever ungodly reason – and currently awaiting transportation to – hopefully – somewhere far, far away. Lord knew the house was already filled with enough accumulated debris from her housemate’s chosen vocation of antiquities dealer that one more would most likely go unnoticed. But there was something unsettling about the mirror, something that didn’t sit right with her. Perhaps it was the face of the women who’d been Peer Gynt-ed into the below, the look of abject terror. Perhaps it was the leering faces of the goblins and imps as they clutched, and dragged, and pulled… whatever the reason was, Keira knew she didn’t want it in her house for any longer than it had to be.