The grief had a way of getting a hold of you, of seeping into your mind and gripping your soul. Alex clutched the photo in his hands, a cold sweat breaking on his brow. He had felt her presence on more than one occassion--the brush of cool air on a still day, almost like fingers caressing his neck, flickers of shadows in the mirrors, the undeniable feeling that he was not alone--but had dismissed it as guilty paranoia. Now he was trapped inside the house, much as she had been, left to face the horror he had helped create. He stared at the photo of the girl that was once his daughter and stroked it lovingly. He stared into her haunted eyes filled with hurt and hate and wondered how that hate grew so strong that it lived on, even though she did not.