#11 The Table (Part II)
Threaded into the cloth of the comforter spread out on my bed were splinters of wood. They'd been evenly spaced, perfectly held in by their fat needle bodies. Near perfectly shaped bodies. I set my bags down and extracted one from the comforter. No, not splinters. Tooth picks. Hundreds of them the same color as the shattered wood at the bottom of Thorn's table.
I padded back to the hallway. Something was wrong with the table, something beyond the four impressions marring the surface. For a moment I hesitated, hardly daring to touch the table.