The horrible laughter had died now and he felt wrung out and debilitated. He stared dismally at his hands and contemplated the emptiness, the harrowing finality of Florence's violent demise.
Death, today, was a lost breath. Death was the slim, crawling red-brown rope of frozen blood spinning from Florence Hagan's throat.
Death was the dark silence of Lew's mind.
Death lay profoundly formless in gathering shadow, musing in the sunless forenoon, puddled and stiffening on the cot, gleaming dully on the walls, feeding contentedly on the lost echoes of Lew's unnatural laughter.
Gil Brewer's Wild To Possess.