She sat down on the soft leather sofa.  It was pastel pink. 

Gently, she opened the book.  As she did so, she heard a cackling noise from upstairs.  She got up, put the book down onto the sofa and then walked towards the stairs, looking up towards the source of the noise.

But nothing was there.  She turned around and walked back but now there was a mirror in front of the fire.  She carefully, gingerly, stepped forward, still hearing cackling noises behind her.  She stopped.

She looked into the mirror.  But it was not her that she was looking at: it was something else.

It was the ceiling of her house but it seemed cavernous and vast.  As she watched the ceiling, she saw a huge hand seem to pick the mirror up like a feather.  The image tilted so she could see – herself, reading.   The larger version of her scanned her eyes back and forth as though she could not see that she was standing there.

“Oh my goodness!  She’s reading me!  I’M IN THE BOOK!”

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