But Lönnrot, too, has slowed. The white hands and face are all that she can see, bobbing and dancing jack-o’-lantern style in the gathering gloom as they press deeper into the dark, and then the left hand reaches out, smacks hard against a metal surface and presses in. The Inspector lunges but cannot stop the door from closing, hears the fatal clang of a thick bolt sliding into place. She rests her head against the door, feeling tears and mucus on her lips, foam and bile. For an instant she sleeps, or passes out.