The creepy old house smells like three-month-old kitty litter and rotting dumpster food.
The night is cold, and the air in the run-down house even colder. Rachel takes another step down the hall
...
[+]
to jump through our chaste window,
carry us over the midnight snow
under a far moon?
Dare we—at this stage in the old game—dare
to feel the galloping charge
of hot breath, rough hair?
Outside our window the dreamwolf passes,
hungry, unconcerned with us.