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You sit up, screaming. The straightjacket prevents you from thrashing your arms. Once you've calmed down, you work through the motions of getting the jacket off. A quick glance at the large mirror across the room confirms that you're not a pile of bones. For just a moment, you don't care that medications no longer work or that the nightmares are getting worse; you're just happy to be alive. Even the memory of the officers only finding John's skeleton and not the pile of bones you saw doesn't ruin your mood, but the memory of the nights waking up in front of that accursed house do. Even on a different continent, you still feel the pull of that house and you know that one day you will walk into it but not out.