The rift is spinning in the stage like a multicolored pond. That holds her focus for a fraction of a second before the creature shredding the curtains draws her attention.

And then, Murphy is terrified.

It's like an armadillo, if an armadillo's plating was less plating than spikes and its arms and legs so much longer than they should reasonably be. It's wriggling clawed fingers in the belly of an impaled woman and chuckling.

"Oh Jesus Christ," she whispers, and then she's running down the aisle where they appeared and toward the stage, flat out, eyes blazing. "Out of the way! All of you get back now!"

Her bellow barely sounds like her at all.