The final instance of bloody spots appearing in the house again showed with no warning, a deadly storm with no wind.

For weeks since the bathroom incident, Karen had taken to lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. Sam had consulted the police, detectives, psychics, and even e-mailed a science podcast searching for some sort of reasonable explanation. No one had any idea why one minute everything was normal and the next minute, Sam’s healthy, unwounded wife was covered in blood.

Sam had promised to help and Karen had reminded him over and over. When he couldn’t help, she started lying on the floor.

“You can’t help me,” she spit out one night, the sound of her voice dampened by her angle.

“I’m trying,” he replied.

“You promised,” she said, and when she got up, the spot was there, crimson and urgent. Then it started to spread.

Sam, not knowing what to do, jumped on the couch and watched the blood with no source spread in concentric circles.

Karen looked at the gory spot and laughed.