The Triumvirate

by Mary SanGiovanni

  Anita stopped short, frowning.

  The oak door had across its front surface what looked like a gaping wound, torn and tender flesh, bloody beneath swollen black and blood-clotted masses of tougher hide. It reminded her a bit of a shotgun wound, if such a wound were to begin festering during the healing process. She crouched down to examine it and was nearly knocked back on her haunches by the putrid smell of rot, a sickish yellow smell, an over-sweet organic smell that triggered sharp gagging in her. She grabbed a dishtowel off the oven door handle and held it to her face, leaning in as close as she could stand.

  Her first thought was that she had just changed Cora, who was mostly potty-trained except for overnight, and there had been no wounds on her. And so far as Anita could tell by quickly examining herself, she wasn’t hurt, either. Bennie? If he had been hurt enough to leave such a mess on the door, how could she not have noticed? And how could he have not gone to the hospital?

  They were natural thoughts, but not particularly practical. They couldn’t explain the gore hanging plainly from the door in front of her. The wound on the cabinet door oozed something phlegmy, with thick black strings in it. Tumorous little growths grew, expanded, collapsed, and grew again somewhere else. And with all the movement, blood pumped in little rivulets, pattering onto her kitchen floor. It was a fresh wound, not the aftermath of an injury to someone in the household. And for the same reason—the movement of the fluids beyond gravity’s necessary drip—ruled out some wild animal having broken in and somehow crashed into the door, or having been injured outside, died there.

  Maybe something had grown on the door and died or spoiled. Maybe she’d spilled something that had taken root or fed whatever had been growing, and—

  That notion sounded ridiculous to Anita. But then, she supposed it was no more far-fetched an explanation than the obvious one staring her in the face—that there was a bloody laceration on her cabinet door, as if the door itself were made of gangrenous flesh and blood instead of wood. And she didn’t care how “custom” Country Custom Cabinets were willing to go—she was sure they didn’t make cabinet doors that oozed and bled.

  She rose slowly, the towel limp in her hand, her gaze fixed on the viscera. She had to call Bennie. She had to—

  She heard a knock from the other side of the cabinet door. Another, and another. Three short, controlled knocks, as if a small hand were entreating entrance into the kitchen from the space beneath the sink. That idea seemed less absurd than grotesque and terrible. She hovered there, half-way between her cell phone on the counter and the cabinet door, unsure what to do, when the three short knocks echoed again.

  Feeling a touch ridiculous herself, she said, “He-hello?” It was not her cop voice. It was a tiny, unobtrusive thing she barely knew. “Hello?” No other response followed beyond the wound spurting a small arc of blood that pattered a few pattering inches away from the door.

  The mother part of her and the cop part of her were in agreement; get Cora, who she still so often thought of as “the baby,” go to the neighbor’s, and call Bennie. But another part of her, a part she hadn’t seen surface in a good five or six years, seemed to have the upper hand. That part brought her down into a crouch again. This time, she used the towel to touch the handle, easing open the cabinet door.

  That part of her had to know.

  Beneath the sink, the gloom formed itself into familiar shapes—the curving pipe, a box of steel wool pads, an unopened package of sponges, a bottle of drain cleaner. No little hand.

  She exhaled a sigh of relief. No little hand. Maybe she hadn’t heard the knocking coming from inside the cabinet at all. Maybe it had been some weird acoustical trick, or—

  She peered around the cabinet door. Acoustical tricks wouldn’t explain the mess on the front of the door.

  But that was gone, too. The faint curdled smell of rot still lingered, but that was dissipating, too. She closed the cabinet and stood up, still staring at the unblemished oak. What the hell had just happened?

  “Hello, Anita.”

  The voices from behind made her jump and she whirled around, but her brain knew even before her eyes took them in what she’d find. She recognized those voices—the mix of tones and strands, the insane energy, the chilling hatred that saturated every word.

  Three Hollowers stood in the doorway of her kitchen.

  The world grew white around the edges and that white threatened to swallow up everything in her view. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands until the pain made the world bright and fresh again. Every fiber of her wanted to scream, needed to scream. She didn’t. Maternal instinct kept her silent. If Cora woke up, a part of her mind reasoned, they would be able to find and hurt her before Anita could get to her and protect her.

  “Get out,” she whispered. It was all she could manage.

  Their laughter filled the room like a poisonous gas. It was everywhere, inside and outside her head. “We’re not going anywhere,” the middle one told her.

  The right one added, “But you are.”

  Chapter 6

  Bennie tried Anita again on the cell. It went to her voice mail for the fourth time. He tried the house line again, and that, too, went to voice mail.

  “Damn it!” He thumbed “End” and dropped the cell into his lap. He hoped it was just that they both were asleep (very unlikely, after his multiple calls) or that Anita was busy settling Cora down (more likely). He looked down at the dashboard clock. Its light green glow printed 8:45 into the darkness. It had been twenty minutes. He didn’t know how fast the Hollowers traveled, but he still had another eight minutes before he hit the driveway.

  He tried the cell again.

  ***

  Anita considered the possibility of getting around them and making it up the stairs to her daughter. Between the three of them, they were blocking access to both the dining room and the living room. If she ducked out the back door and came around the front and up the stairs, she’d lose time. Furthermore, the front door was locked.

  As she considered those things, the Hollower’s words finally sank in.

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “But you are.”

  “No,” she finally answered, more to stall for time than because the import of their suggestion had been fully realized. “No, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You can’t protect her,” the left one told her.

  Anita’s heart beat faster. She forgot that they knew her thoughts.

  “She’s already dead,” the right one said. The faceless head turned toward the baby monitor.

  Anita listened intently, studying the video. There was no movement from the bed, and no sounds.

  Tears immediately sprang to her eyes. “Leave my baby alone.”

  “She stopped breathing,” the left one said. “It happens sometimes with little ones—especially those whose mothers are too busy messing around under the kitchen sink to hear the little choking sounds.”

  “Little ones are so fragile. So...hard to find,” the middle one said. “But we found her. Oh yes. With just enough pressure, those little chests cave in. Those little lungs collapse. So fragile.”

  The baby on the monitor’s little video didn’t move. No sigh, no stir, nothing.

  Rage, fear, and pain so intense that it made her chest ache flung her forward. She screamed then, running to the monitor, shaking it as if she could jar some life loose and back into the baby. She breathed Cora’s name, barely audible, over and over.

  Hoping to make a break in their line, she threw the baby monitor at them and it crackled and vanished into the air between them. She charged them, intent on pushing past them if need be and running up the stairs to Cora. She could save her. She would save her. She crossed the kitchen in two strides.

  And then she, too, crackled in the air between them and disappeared.

  ***

  Bennie reached the driveway, pulled up next to Anita’s car, threw his into “Park,” and bolted for the front door.
His hands were shaking, but he managed to get the keys in the door. He needn’t have bothered; the front door swung open easily.

  Inside, the house was shrouded in shadow and unearthly quiet.

  “Anita?”

  “Up here,” she called. “In the baby’s room.”

  Relief flooded Bennie. He took the stairs two at a time and ran to Cora’s bedroom. He found Anita in the rocking chair next to the bed, her head bowed. She rocked slowly. In her new big-girl bed, Cora cooed in her sleep.

  “You and the baby-girl all right, mami? Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said without picking up her head.

  Bennie went to the bed and looked down. Cora was on her back, her little eyes closed. She shuddered, sighed, rubbed her little nose, and went back to sleep. He put a gentle hand on her to feel her warmth, feel her little chest rising and falling. He stroked her soft, pudgy little arm.

  To Anita he said, “I was worried. I tried to call you a bunch of times on your cell and the house phone but you didn’t answer.”

  “Everything’s fine,” she repeated, but to Bennie, her voice sounded off.

  “Annie?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said again in that same flat, emotionless tone.

  “What happened, Annie? Look at me,” he asked in a soft voice.

  She looked up and had no face.

  “Oh Jesus!” Bennie jumped, scooping up Cora from the bed and backing away from the Anita thing in the chair. Cora stirred and issued a sound of discontent before going back to sleep in his arms.

  “What did you do to Anita? Where is she?” he barked at the thing in the chair.

  “She’s in the closet,” it told him gleefully.

  “She’s under the bed,” a voice came from behind the window curtains.

  “She’s gone to where the monsters live,” a voice from under the bed said.

  “What did you do with her, goddammit?! What did you do?” Real panic rose in his chest, filling his throat. God, oh godohgodohgod....

  “She’s gone,” the thing in the chair told him. “We’ve given her to...pets.”

  “You sons of bitches, if you hurt her—”

  “Todo lo que usted amor será arrebatado,” it cut him off, its voice razor-sharp with hatred.

  He turned with Cora and flew back down the stairs, grabbing Anita’s keys. As quickly as he could, he put Cora in the baby seat, his gaze constantly checking the upstairs windows, the front door, the property around him for signs that they were coming for the baby, too. There was no sign of them. No sign of Anita, either.

  All you love will be taken away.

  He would not let that happen. He would find her.

  Satisfied Cora was secured into that contraption—he had never been good with working the baby seat—he closed her door and slid into the driver’s seat. As he peeled out of the driveway and headed for Erik’s house, he thought he could hear faint strands of laughter following him down the street.

  ***

  Lauren didn’t tell anyone what had happened with Mrs. Saltzman, but she started seeing things around the hospital the very next night. What she saw was worse than the dreams.

  There were about twenty patients on Lauren’s floor. After lights-out, she and another night nurse, Mila Robinowicz, split the rounds. Lauren supposed the dreams were taking their toll; when asked if she was okay, she had told Mila she hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and that her nerves were frazzled. By the other nurse’s expression, Lauren could see that this story didn’t sit well, but Mila was not one to ask questions. Mila was a hard-working, efficient woman, full of form and business-like in manner, but she had a narrow streak of compassion that emerged from time to time. They had a good system, she and Mila; Lauren covered for her when she went on break and vice versa. It was when Mila was on break that Lauren had what she was coming to think of as a mini-nervous breakdown regarding Mrs. Saltzman, and by the time Mila got back, Lauren was too shaken to talk about it.

  She had always found the breathing, the snoring, even the occasional shouts in one’s sleep from the patient rooms soothing in a way, especially when Mila was on break. It reminded her that she wasn’t alone in the big stone building in the woods. It served to remind her that the world was right as it should be, and that all that were in those rooms were sleeping patients. Living, human patients making living, human sleep-sounds. It was when those sounds stopped that next night that she felt her muscles tense and her stomach knot, and a cool sweat break out over her.

  Mila was fifteen minutes or so into her break and the sudden silence on the floor caused Lauren to look up from the book she was reading. She was startled to find every one of the patients’ doors standing wide open.

  It was like the dreams. Oh god, it was just like the dreams.

  She put down the book, rising slowly. After lights-out, the patients’ rooms were kept necessarily locked for their safety and hers. She had a set of keys and so did Mila, and the doors were only unlocked one at a time during their rounds. She had done the last check, and was sure she had locked each of the doors.

  Hadn’t she? Of course she had. And the doors closed on their own hinges automatically, so even if she hadn’t locked them, there was no way she had left them all open.

  She crossed around the desk in the nurses’ station, paused, went back for a letter opener, and moved around front again. She stopped. A letter opener—really, Lauren? she thought to herself. She was a professional. She didn’t need a letter opener to investigate...what, silence? She was being silly. The doors all being open...maybe it was some kind of electrical short. Maybe that accounted for the sudden silence, too.

  Maybe. Right. Maybe the doormen were messing with the electricity.

  She made her way slowly down the hall to 201, aware of how loud her echoing footsteps were as she walked. At the doorway to 201, she peered inside. Mr. Skolnik was sleeping peacefully on his side, snoring a little. Nothing in the room seemed out of the ordinary to her. She eased the door closed and locked it. It was the same situation in 203, with Mr. Fiorelli curled tightly around his pillow. Nothing amiss. She closed the door and locked it.

  Room 205 was already closed and locked—the only one, so far as she could tell. Helen Coley’s old room, still unoccupied. She considered unlocking it, just to check inside, and decided against it. She moved on. In each case, she found all as it should be, and she closed and locked each one. Satisfied, she turned back toward the nurses’ station and stifled a little scream.

  Now, the door to room 205 stood wide open.

  Electrical short, my ass. Something is wrong here. Her heart sped up in her chest. “Shit,” she whispered. She crept down the hall. “Shit. Damn it, Mila, where are you?”

  The clock at the nurses’ station read 2:50 a.m. Mila had another ten minutes.

  Lauren closed her eyes and opened them, bracing herself to look into room 205. She half expected to see some figure, corpse-pale, hollowed-out sockets where the eyes should be, the skin around the mouth blackening with rot. Of course, her mind pointed out with cruel stolidity, if it were the corpse of Mrs. Coley, then the whole of the face, stripped of skin down to raw muscle, would probably be black with rot, crawling with blind, squirming, legless things. Lauren’s stomach lurched, and she pushed that thought out of her head.

  Mrs. Coley would not be in there. Mrs. Coley had been put in a coffin, hermetically sealed in a tomb, and buried six feet under the earth of the local cemetery roughly six miles away. There was no way she would be standing in that room.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned the corner.

  It wasn’t Mrs. Coley standing in the room, but she hadn’t been too far off in expecting a corpse. It was her dead cousin Dustin, still twelve, sitting on what used to be Mrs. Coley’s bed. A part of Lauren wanted to run, but she couldn’t. Her legs felt heavy, detached from her.

  Dustin looked crooked, jarred into the wrong shape. His right shoulder was out of whack and the left side of his ribca
ge gnawed down to the bones. Looking at his face made her queasy. It wasn’t just around his mouth that was decaying, but the whole of the lips rotted off, and most of the bottom jaw was exposed bone. The skin had fallen away on his left wrist, and the cheek and eye socket portion of his skull was crushed on the right side. Over most of his head, what little hair and skin was left slid around with oily ease on his scalp. One of his eyes was missing, but that was not nearly as bad as the other, a ball of clouded white denser than Mrs. Saltzman’s cataracts. Most of his nose was gone, too, and each time he inhaled—he seemed to have kept the habit of breathing, even if only for the sake of habit—the air whistled through the hole in his face.

  Lauren gagged but willed herself not to throw up, not to get woozy. She took several deep breaths and was repulsed to find the air tasted waxy, unwholesome, polluted by the rotting thing on the bed.

  “Lauren, you let me die.”

  “I didn’t,” she choked. “You’re not—”

  “You knew what my dad was doing to me. You could have done something. You could have helped me. Instead, you let me die. Now look at me.”

  “Dustin, I tried! I tried to tell Aunt Maggie what Uncle Mark was doing, but—”

  “You suck!” he shouted, and stuck his tongue out at her. Bugs crawled in and out of the holes in that blackened slab of meat, wriggling underneath its swollen surface. Lauren gagged again.

  “I’m going to make you feel what I felt. I’m going to leave you to die. And ain’t no one going to help you. You’re alone. You’re going to die and all the crazy goddamn animals around you in this place—” he gestured, “they’re all going to find you and eat you. They’re going to pick your bones clean.”

  Lauren felt the blood rush from her face and neck, and again she had to fight to keep the world from going black. “Leave me alone,” she whispered, “whatever the hell you are. Just leave me alone.”