She had planned a scene something like this while she worked away at the lantern that afternoon.

Now she felt as if she were acting a part in some private theatrical performance.

Jules's cry gave her the cue, and the courage to appear.
As the second blow fell across Jules's smarting shoulders, a low, blood-curdling wail came from the dark depths of the barn.

Joyce had not practised that dismal moan of a banshee to no purpose in her ghost dances at home with Jack.

It rose and fell and quivered and rose again in cadences of horror.