She's in a room with no exits. Where she once had a window, a pieced together mural of giant eye stared in. There's a doorknob, but the doors been swallowed by wards so scribbled together incomprehensibly, incapable of working. Her floor is littered with the metal spines of notebooks, empty rolls of tape, and broken pens. Her ceiling is bare, only because she couldn't reach it.

The far wall, once housing a small collection of notes and schedules, now contained the project that had consumed her waking moments. A tall body, a blank face, and twisting limbs that stretched across all four walls, reaching for her bed. One day they were going to reach her, progressing in length inch by inch. One day they were going to eat her up.

Mabel sits in the middle of her bed, arms locked around her knees, eyes black and empty. He was going to eat her up.