The carpet slid slightly, pulling him a couple of inches away from her. She looked up at him, glaring, her eyes reiterating the command she’d uttered seconds before, overriding whatever sense of duty or obligation he felt to try and convince her to stand down, to stop making demands of their parents, demands that were never going to be met.
Before he could push himself up, he felt pressure against his chest, forcing him back, causing him to slide across the carpet. He reached down to stop the movement, but unable to grab anything, used his hands to steady himself so he didn’t fall. His back hit the door with a thud and the pressure continued to build, painfully pinning him against the wood.
“When I tell you to get out,” she said from across the room, still glaring at him from the same position, “I mean, get out!”
Finding it hard to take a breath, Jake reached up to the handle, just as he heard the wood crack behind him and he sunk another inch backward. The handle was hard to turn with the pressure on the door. He twisted until the mechanism cleared the frame, but the door didn’t pop open into the hallway; it was designed to open in, and was blocked by the jamb.
“I’m leaving,” Jake said, trying to stand. “I’m leaving, OK?”
The pressure suddenly disappeared, and he pulled on the handle, swinging the door into the room. He stepped out into the hall. Before he closed the door, he looked down to see a crack in the door’s wood.
“Dad’s gonna be pissed about that,” he said, looking again at her.
“Couldn’t give a fuck,” she replied.
Her response chilled Jake to the bone. This isn’t her, he thought. My sister doesn’t talk this way.
As he closed the door, the light in the room seemed to disappear, becoming darker as he shut it. He watched the final inch closely, the room beyond almost completely dark; no illumination from the windows, even though it was the middle of the day. No light from the overhead fixture. The room was completely enveloped in black.
He pulled the handle until the door latched, having the feeling that he’d just sealed his sister inside her room with something else, something sinister. She didn’t evict me from her room, he thought. She’s never done that before. I was evicted by whatever else is in there with her.
His instinct to protect his sister was still strong, but he felt confused, unsure what he should do. Was he dealing with his real sister, the one he had known from the moment she was brought home from the hospital? Or was he dealing with something evil and dark that had taken over her room?
Something that had taken over her?
- - -
The next day after dinner, Jake walked into his father’s study to find his dad hovered over the tank, sweeping a net through the water. It appeared that far fewer fish were swimming inside.
“Everything OK, Dad?” Jake asked.
“OK?” his father repeated, turning quickly to look at him. “No, things are not OK!” He turned back to the net, sliding it until he caught something that he lifted from the tank. “Look.”
“Oh, no, the tiger pleco,” Jake said, looking at the five-inch bottom feeder in his father’s net. “We had that one since it was really small.”
“I just can’t figure out what’s happening to them all,” his father replied, dumping the fish into a garbage can that Jake noticed was holding several other casualties. “I’ve treated the water for everything I can think of – fungus, parasites, you name it.”
“What about a water change?”
“I change a little every week. A massive change can kill them just as quickly as whatever is killing them now. I don’t know…fish going belly up comes with the territory, I guess.” He sunk the net back into the water and scooped up another, not bothering to show it to Jake before he dumped it into the can. “Damnit, I think I’m gonna lose the whole tank. Just doesn’t seem right.”
No, it doesn’t, Jake thought, torn between his desire to protect his sister and his sense of honor and honesty with his father. Telling him that Marty’s to blame won’t bring the fish back, but…
He stopped, knowing it was getting out of control. Marty had been sabotaging things around the house for weeks now, somehow imagining that her actions would force Mom and Dad to reverse their decision on her video game. His parents hadn’t connected any of the strange occurrences to Marty; so far, they had just written them off, like his father was doing now with the fish. They can’t imagine their daughter would do things like this, Jake thought. It doesn’t even occur to them. And they may never piece it together, until something really bad happens, something that might hurt someone.
Would Marty go that far?
A month ago Jake would have said no, not a chance. Now, he wasn’t so sure. These weren’t impulsive acts of a pouting child; these were planned, premeditated acts of cruelty, designed to hurt. Devastated, Jake remembered his sister saying. He’ll be devastated. Heartbroken. She wanted her father to feel pain.
“Oh, not the swordtails!” his father moaned, scooping out more fish. He seemed disappointed, but not heartbroken. In fact, he appeared more mystified than anything; confused as to why all his hard work over the past few years had suddenly resulted in a forty-gallon graveyard.
Marty wanted him to be heartbroken, Jake thought. But he’s not. He’s not devastated, not like she thought he’d be. She would be heartbroken if this happened to her, but he’s much more circumspect about it, reacting more maturely. If she wanted him in tears, this isn’t going to cause it.
She’s going to be disappointed. And when she realizes she didn’t go far enough, what then? What will she do next?
Kill the dog? Set the house on fire?
How far would she go?
Poison their mother or father?
Kill them?
Kill me?
“Marty did it,” Jake said. “She killed your fish.”
His father paused. Jake saw the net sink a little into the tank as he turned to look at him. “What did you say?”
“The kittens didn’t crawl off,” Jake said, “and they weren’t moved by their momma. Marty killed them. I found them and buried them. When I asked her why she did it, she told me she intended to kill all the fish, too.”
His father’s brow wrinkled. “Why?”
Jake sighed. “She wants a Sega Genesis. She’s mad that you told her no.” He felt a huge relief that the secret was out, that he wasn’t the only one who knew the truth.
His father’s face began to change, from disbelief to confusion, and from confusion to anger. “If she killed the kittens, why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me or your mother?”
“I was protecting her,” Jake said, offering a slight shrug. “You always said to look out for her.”
“Not cover up crimes!” his father retorted, walking past him out the door and into the house. “Karen! Karen!” he called, trying to find Jake’s mother.
At first Jake didn’t want to follow him, but when he heard his parents discussing the matter in the kitchen, he decided he’d better make an appearance in case they got details wrong, or in case he needed to defend himself before irrevocable judgments and punishment decisions were made.
His mother stopped talking with his father when he walked in. “Is this true?”
“Yes,” he replied, trying his best to signal regret, not wanting to come off as a snitch.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“Dad always said to protect her!” he replied.
“Oh, come on, Jake! You’re smarter than that.” She marched past him to the base of the stairs and called up to Marty, insisting that she come down, then returned to the kitchen, avoiding looking at him, choosing to share concerned glances with his father instead.
“What?” Marty asked, walking into the kitchen.
“Jake tells us you killed my fish,” his father said. “And the kittens.”
Marty turned to look at him, not angry, but as though she could care less. Jake instantly felt like crawling out of the r
oom, embarrassed, but knew he had to stay and face the music.
“Is this true?” his mother asked his sister.
“What if it is?” Marty replied, in a tone that Jake knew would infuriate them.
“Answer the question!” his father demanded.
“Why would Jake fabricate such a thing?” Marty answered. “Jake never lies. He’s perfect.” She turned to him, her voice lowering drastically. “Did you dig them up and show them the little rotten carcasses?”
Jake took a step back, alarmed at the sudden change in his sister’s countenance. Her tone was foreign, her voice too deep. She was using words beyond her age, displaying a corruptness he’d never seen in her before. She was always his cute – if irritating – younger sister, not the little monster currently on display.
He noticed a similar reaction in his parents, his mother raising a hand to her mouth, shocked by her daughter’s language and tone. Her reaction confirmed Jake’s feelings, doubling them, making things seem even worse. His father appeared ready to release his anger, which usually meant the pronunciation of sentence. A grounding was coming. Or worse.
“What’s wrong with you?” his father asked, furious. “All this for some damn video game?”
“You don’t seem to understand,” Marty replied condescendingly, turning to look at him with a defiance Jake had never seen – certainly something he had never tried, and knew would stoke the flames, invite more wrath. “I…deserve…it!” Marty yelled, her pitch rising with each word.
She’s going to throw a tantrum, Jake thought, just like when she was little. She hasn’t done something like this in years, but the signs are all there, just like when she was two.
Somehow my nine-year-old sister has become a full-fledged brat.
Marty turned to face him, as though she heard what he thought. Her face was contorted in anger, twisted in a way he hadn’t seen since she was a toddler, having a meltdown.
Suddenly he was pushed again, a huge, unstoppable force pressing on his chest, making him slide across the floor as though he was skating backwards. Within seconds he hit the wall, and china plates on a shelf above him fell, crashing to the floor and shattering into pieces at his feet. The pressure held him tightly in place, unable to move, pressing him upward until he felt his heels leave the ground, his toes pointing down, still touching, as though he was standing on them. He looked down, recognizing the tourist designs on a couple of the decorative plates that were now in pieces: the stone faces of Mt. Rushmore, El Capitan from Yosemite, the Golden Gate Bridge.
His father was on the move, and Jake looked up to see him reaching for Marty, inches from her arm. She pulled back and ran, disappearing into the dining room. His father followed her, but before he could leave the kitchen, the refrigerator next to the doorway pulled away from the wall, stretching its cord from the outlet. It tipped and fell over, twisting the plug in the socket and sending a large volley of sparks into the room as it shorted out. It landed with a heavy crash, blocking the path to the dining room, its door opening and its contents spreading across the linoleum floor. His mother, shocked at the sudden movement of the heavy appliance, walked backward until she was against the opposite wall, her hand still at her mouth, frightened.
His father stood next to the fridge, milk beginning to pool around his feet. He turned to look at Jake’s mother, then at Jake, as though he was double checking that he hadn’t just imagined what had occurred.
“Paul?” his mother said, reaching out and walking to his father. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” his father replied, turning to her.
Jake felt the pressure against his chest release, and his feet fell flat on the floor. He stumbled over the broken china and toward his parents, where his mother grabbed him. “What happened?” his mother asked.
“She’s done it before,” Jake said. “When she’s mad.”
“You’re saying your sister did that to you?” she asked.
“And that,” Jake replied, pointing to the refrigerator.
- - -
Jake walked into his sister’s room.
Toys had been stored away long ago. The made bed still seemed odd; Marty never made her bed when she was home. His mother had straightened everything up after the second time she was sent away, and it remained in a state of suspended animation.
He hated it. He hated the sterility and order, the fact that his sister wasn’t at home, the changes that had come over the family.
But most of all, he hated this room.
He walked to the bed and sat on it, looking at the walls. Pictures Marty had colored were tacked up, next to a poster of a sloth in a tree, “Hang In There!” emblazoned in an ugly yellow font along its bottom.
Something’s still here, he thought. She’s gone, but it’s still in here. Mom and Dad refuse to believe it, but I know it’s true.
Whatever is in here is why Marty is at Southbrook.
His sister had been taken to Southbrook two days after the incident in the kitchen. The three of them recovered from the shock of the events; Jake had helped his father right the fridge, and while his mother attempted to clean the floor of the spilled food and destroyed china, Jake listened as his father tried to talk to Marty through her bedroom door. His sister screamed obscenities from inside, and when his dad grabbed the door’s handle to open it and confront his daughter, he yelled and pulled back his hand. He claimed to receive some kind of electric shock.
The mood of the house changed dramatically after that. His mother and father spent a lot of time huddled in conversation. Occasionally they’d quiz him about Marty’s behavior, things he’d observed, and Jake answered them as best he could, his guilt over ratting her out now gone. Marty stayed in her room and didn’t come down for meals. His mother began leaving plates of food by the door, which Jake noticed were polished off when no one was looking.
The next night, Jake had been asleep for about an hour when his father shook him gently. “We’re taking your sister to a hospital,” he whispered. “Get dressed quietly and come with us. Quick.”
Five minutes later he was in the back seat of the car, watching as his father carried his sister from the house and through the darkness, placing her into his mother’s arms in the front seat. Marty was completely passed out, and didn’t rouse as the car bumped along the surface streets to a facility a half hour away. Jake sat in the car as a nurse and orderly appeared from the front entrance to the building, and helped take Marty from his mother. He watched as his parents talked with the nurse and the orderly, and disappeared inside with his sister.
When they returned to the car, Jake asked, “What is this place?”
“It’s a special hospital that can help your sister,” his father replied, driving them home.
“You drugged her,” Jake said.
His mother turned to look at him. “I don’t know what’s happening to Marty, but something is very wrong. We were afraid if we didn’t get professional help, something horrible might happen.”
“Something worse than what’s already happened?” Jake asked.
“Yes,” his father confirmed. “You saw what was going on. I don’t need to explain it to you.”
He paused, watching as houses along the dark street went by in the car’s windows. Finally he asked, “How do they treat her? What do they do to her?”
“Therapy,” his mother replied. “She may need medication. They figure all that out.”
“How long will she be there?”
“Enough with the questions!” his father replied. “She’ll be there until she’s cured. We’re all exhausted. Now we just go home and try to get back to normal. We’ll call the hospital and check on her every day.”
“Can we go in? Visit her?”
“Not until they say we can,” his mother answered. “She’s very agitated. The nurse thought it best that they limit her stimuli for a while, and that includes us. We’ll visit her as soon as the staff says she’s better.”
They rode home the
rest of the way in silence.
It was two days later that Marty was back home. The doctors said there was nothing wrong with her, physically or mentally. When they went to visit her, Marty seemed her normal self, happy and playful, wondering when she could leave. Jake saw the confusion and anxiety that her sudden change produced in his parents; they began second guessing themselves, wondering if the steps they’d taken were an overreaction. They checked Marty out of the facility.
Things were fine for a couple of days, but it didn’t take long before Marty changed again, speaking coarsely, slamming doors as she went through the house. Renewing her demands for the video game system she wanted.
One day, Marty wouldn’t come out of her room. They all tried to talk to her through the door, urging her to come out, but she refused. Jake received a nasty burn on his hand when he tried to use the door handle to go inside. His mother began leaving plates of food once again, and the hopeful mood of the house reverted to the dark, somber tone of the previous week.
That night, a man arrived at the house and spent some time talking with his parents in the living room. Jake left his bedroom, trying to overhear the conversation. Eventually they came upstairs, and his parents introduced Dr. Furness to him, who asked him a few questions about Marty’s behavior. He answered them as best he could, then watched as the doctor and his parents moved down the hall to Marty’s room, and tried to communicate with her through the door. The doctor yelped when he touched the door handle, despite having been warned by Jake’s father.
“Did you get the glove?” the doctor asked.
My father produced a shiny black glove, and handed it to the doctor.
Dr. Furness slipped it on; it was thick, and looked like it was made of rubber. He reached for the handle once again, and was able to turn it and push it open before the glove melted away, burning into his hand. He screamed as he pulled it from his arm, dropping it to the ground. Smoke was rising from his fingers as he held them up to examine the damage.
The door was still open, and Jake was curious to know if his sister was OK inside. He ran down the hall until he was standing next to his father, with a clear view into the room.
The Coldwater Haunting Page 17