She's been trapped in between worlds for twenty two years, and in that time she's learned to stretch what's left of her senses. She doesn't have touch, smell, or taste anymore, but she can see and hear. She can see her son standing before her, the one she could never quite picture because he'd been a baby when she died.
Sam stands pinned to the wall before her, and she stands in front of him, sensing everything in his life force that she's been denied the privilege of experience with him or saving him from. As they stare at each other, she can't think of anything wise or comforting to say to relieve the way the story of their lives has gone. The thing in her house will make it's move any minute, so she says the only thing she can think of, the only thing she has time for.
I'm sorry . . .
She's sorry she had to leave him too soon. She's sorry for the life he's had to lead because of it, for the pain that won't let him go and clings to his life force like a separate living thing. She's sorry for the nightmares she can sense he suffers from. She's sorry for the loss of the woman he loved, that he's still not safe from true evil. She's sorry for the dreams that she knows have been shattered and can't ever be repaired. Most of all, she's sorry he's back in this house, suffering, and that she's going to have to leave him once more, for good this time, her presence in his life again forged in fire.
She's sorry she won't be able to sense anything else where she's going, but this time, she tells herself . . . this time she won't be pinned to the ceiling, helpless. This time she'll save them all.