Yes, that feels right. Monty lies under the sand. All the doors were missing and the sand filled the rooms. Just the open rooms and the dusk and the sand. In the dreams someone, not Monty, calls my name.
Danger threads dark strands among the grains of sand.
In the dim light fear coils like the tendrils of fog, shaping ghosts, stretching out fingers to cup my head. Not Monty's hands. Someone else, someone with nutcracker fingers, hurting me, cracking the bones so the sand can seep in. Hands that sifted the sand over Monty's face until it was covered. I must find the owner of those hands before he finds me.