Bags hang in shadows. On the walls of the long hall. In the late afternoon. The orange light. One of them is whispering. There’s something inside it. It moves with an unnatural rhythm. An agitation that sends it to and fro against and away from the wall. Something is in there. It is trying to escape. Or worse. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong. This isn’t a bag at all. This hallway isn’t even a hallway. That light is a kind of deadly sound and the shadows. The shadows are speaking something. Something ancient and indecipherable. Something so malign that matter itself struggles to recoil from the incantation. One of them. One of the bags. An agitation. It is whispering in the hall. Something is wrong.