And the sound of a key turning in the lock of Room 314 clicked shut.

We were trapped once more.

“Ethan!” I screamed in the dark.

But the only answer was the steady, slow beep of the heart monitor, ticking away in the silence.

And the wind outside howled against the glass, a relentless winter song that had no end.

The handle of the door began to turn, very slowly, in the darkness.

I reached out in the pitch black, my hand finding the cold metal of Mary’s bedrail.

The door clicked open, and a sharp beam of a flashlight cut through the dark.

“Step back,” a rough voice shouted from the corridor.

It was not the intruder who spoke, but a hospital security guard, followed closely by Ethan.

Ethan’s face was pale under the emergency lights as they flickered back on.

Behind him, two police officers held Carl Brenner by his arms, his wet overcoat smelling of rain and cheap tobacco.

“It’s over, Evelyn,” Ethan said, his voice shaking as he walked over to us.