My attempts to get this all down are failing. No narrative-pulse, only traces pointing to the locked room of her heart. Null as if to erase even the traces of erasure, to have never existed. What could it mean? Her arms like the well-worn handles of axes dip into the gaps burrowed into the wall, her fingers brushing against twelve indentations for three sets of fingers. She pushes them in patterns but finds nothing, deciding it will take three of her to open the doorway down, down into the sewers, the stormdrains, the caves, the places where Rv. Emersohn waits for her. She steps back from the wall and stares up at the bats circling the parking lot lights, pickup trucks with giant chainsaw madonnas drifting down the frontage street. She went into the building, smashed a mirror, drew summoning calls on each shard, placed one in each indentation, and the bats swarmed at them, pushing into the indentations until the doorway opened and she followed the ladder down, down into the drains. Clouds of blood in the eyes. Mazes of sewage tunnels beneath cornfields leading to a cluster of algae and snails which form symbols to guide subterranean travel. The children lay flat in puddles and ambush feral pigs and lost housedogs. Rust-eaten wires lead down grated runoff chambers to a near-spherical ossuary wherein gravity is temporarily fooled. Images of the skeletal structures of angel-gods are built around oak roots pushing down from the ceiling. False doorways covering coffee-can and tenpenny nail mines. There will be no exit.

the exit is hidden within the exit