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Katy Ruskin awoke tangled in covers, bathed in sweat, breathing hard and on the verge of screaming. She’d had another one of the dreams, this one worse than the last. She was in the house again, the house that Henry Spencer had turned into apartments before she was even born, and was running, running, running for her life. Running from some unseen menace, constantly looking over her shoulder, hiding in the shadows, scurrying away from God only knew what.