by Abe Moss
She worried about her daughter finding out somehow. She thought of many excuses, should she ask to go down to the basement, or if she asked why the basement door was locked at all. Most of them were silly or vague, but it wasn’t really any of her business anyway, was it?
And then the day began to drag.
She paced the house, rearranging this and that. Pretty soon she felt exhausted. She left the front door unlocked and headed up to her bedroom to lay down for a while. Just to close her eyes for a bit.
That’s always the plan.
She awoke to the sound of piano music.
She got out of bed, checked herself in the mirror. She looked terrible. She headed downstairs. When she entered the front room, she saw Lara at the piano, just her back, head bent. Catherine, not wanting to startle her, went into the kitchen and opened a drawer and shut it loudly enough to be heard. The music stopped. A moment later Lara entered the kitchen.
“Did I wake you up?”
“You did, and thank you. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Lara came to the counter and rested her elbows.
“I saw you went grocery shopping.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t need to get so much. I’m sure your fridge hasn’t been half that full in years.”
“I just wanted you to have some options, that’s all.”
Chewing the inside of her cheek, Lara tried to smile.
“How did it go? Did you pack everything you needed?”
“I left some things, but not a lot. I really didn’t have much.”
“Will you need to make a second trip?”
Lara’s eyes grew big—guilty.
“I hope not…”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. It’s done. I don’t need to go back.”
Catherine pulled things out of the fridge and cupboards to make herself a small sandwich. She asked Lara if she was hungry, to which she answered yes. So she made two.
“You still play beautifully, by the way,” Catherine said, handing Lara her sandwich on a small plate. “Do you still practice?”
“No, not really. I haven’t had a piano to practice on since I moved out.”
They moved into the front room, brightly lit by the sunlight through the windows. They sat together on one of the sofas and ate their sandwiches.
“I know you probably won’t be staying too long,” Catherine said. “But if you ever want to practice, or stop by for anything else, of course…”
“I know.”
Lara nibbled her sandwich, staring outside almost dreamily. They ate quietly together. Catherine watched her daughter intently as she ate. Lara likely noticed, she knew, and pretended not to. Catherine was glad. She never got to see her like this. Lara turned her head and stared at the piano for a while. Catherine watched her eyes move over it, and then above it. They lingered there.
“Do you have other pictures?” Lara asked.
“Pictures?”
“Of Joy.”
“Oh.” Catherine cleared her throat. “I do, in my photo album upstairs. I keep it in my room.”
“Is that the only one you have framed?”
“It is.”
Lara set her empty plate on the coffee table, stood from the sofa, and went to the piano. She lifted one of the pictures from it to study closer.
“How old was she in this one?”
“Eight.”
She studied it a bit longer. “So this wasn’t much earlier before—”
“No,” Catherine interrupted. “Just a few months.”
Lara looked her mother up and down, and Catherine wanted to smile so much for her then, to show her the conversation wasn’t hurting her as much as it was. The most she could do was grimace awkwardly.
“It’s only been a year,” Lara said quietly to herself, observing the picture again. “Not long at all.” She looked at Catherine once more, then back to the picture, and finally set it down on the piano again. “I’m sorry if I’m making you feel weird talking about it.”
“Don’t be. She’s your sister, too, after all.” Catherine took one last bite of her sandwich, which she hadn’t even eaten half of yet, and then set it on the coffee table. “Maybe I should be more comfortable talking about it by now.”
“I’ve just talked about it a lot,” Lara said.
“You have? With who?”
“We have counselors on campus.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe you should think about seeing someone.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it would have helped some time ago.”
“It’s only been a year.” Lara looked away. “I still think about it plenty. I know you must even more.”
Lara moved in front of the window, bent over the sofa there to peer outside. Catherine watched her from behind. Finally she stood up and took both of their plates in her hands.
“I’m going to put these away. If you brought any dirty laundry over, you should bring it all down and I’ll start a load.”
Lara turned and their eyes met. Catherine smiled, and quickly turned into the kitchen before she saw too much.
✽ ✽ ✽
It was nearing time for bed yet again. Lara was in the guest room—her old bedroom—folding her fresh laundry. Catherine stepped inside and stood watching until she noticed. She perked up when she did, gave that same obligatory almost-smile.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” Catherine went to her bed, carrying a large photo album in both hands. “I thought I’d let you look through this if you wanted. It’s almost all my pictures, everybody. Quite a few of Joy, too. And if you see anything with duplicates, you’re welcome to take them, and anything else I can print or scan and send them to you.”
“Oh, wow. Thanks.”
“Yeah…”
She set the thick album down on the end of the bed.
“Do you need anything else before I go to bed?”
Lara thought on it for a hot second. “Nope, I think I’m good.”
“All right. Sleep well, then.”
Catherine turned to leave and made it to the bedroom door before Lara stopped her.
“Mom…”
“Yeah?”
Lara, on her knees by her laundry basket, lap full of undergarments, gazed up at her mother with sorry eyes.
“Thank you for letting me invade like this. It won’t be for too long.”
“Oh, it’s nothing! Invade…” Catherine wanted to have a moment then, to open her arms to her daughter and tell her to come to her, to let her love her. But again, it was her own need calling out. Not Lara’s. “You’ll always have a place here. You don’t even need to ask, let alone thank me.”
Lara stared uncomfortably down between her legs. She pinched an article of clothing in her hands and started folding.
“Still… thank you.”
Catherine smiled. “Goodnight.”
She closed her daughter’s door but remained there in the hall, thinking.
What would her daughter think? she wondered. What would she think of the young man, not much older than herself, sleeping on the cold basement floor below them? Would she understand? Would she support it? Would she look at her mother with disgust and wonder how she could do such a thing? Would she fail to recognize her, then? Would she question her mother’s mental health? Would she report her? Turn against her? Would she leave her mother to the consequences, and sever their ties forever? Would she think her mother a bad person?
Would she be wrong if she did?
Chapter Five
Tricks of the Dark
He slowed to catch his breath. The country air was sweet, humid on his sweating face. He rested, bent with his hands on his knees, the jar of fire hot against his leg. He looked over his shoulder impulsively—pointlessly. He was sure he’d lost her. Anyone would probably wonder why he’d run from a little girl, and he knew no one would understand the answer. Not even he did, fully.
She didn’t b
elong in this place, he thought. Very likely, she wasn’t even real. The darkness was at it again, as he’d been warned. She was a memory, a figment, plucked from his mind against his will to be weaponized against him. Her face, lit with warmth in his fire’s light, caused a cold quaking within him, the fault lines in his guts trembling apart. What was worse, in the darkness he couldn’t erase her. Eyes open or closed, he saw her there, scorched on the black like a moon in the sky. An afterimage.
He straightened, breathing only a little harder than normal. He prodded the stub of his severed finger against the palm of his other hand to feel its pain, and then examined it with his light. It was clotted—nasty looking, but healing. That was, if wounds really healed in this place. It would probably turn him sick with infection and kill him if the darkness willed it so.
Looking around one last time, ears perked for anything uninvited, he set off on the dirt road again, heading in a direction he knew would only lead to something worse than before.
✽ ✽ ✽
There was a tiny house next to the road. Lewis stumbled upon it after discovering a mailbox at the edge of its property. He walked the path from the road to the house, waved the lantern slowly to uncover the ground on either side. The yard was overgrown with the same grass as everywhere else. Wood planks were left scattered in a pile. He came to the front door. It had been white once upon a time, he guessed. But now it was scuffed and yellow, as though it’d endured sun damage without any sun. Before trying the knob, he followed the face of the house until he found a window. The glass, smoky and stained, was still intact. When he lifted his fire, it was so dirty there was no reflection. Beneath the window was a flowerbox filled with dirt and nothing else. Surely, he thought, the windows would be broken by now, or some other kind of damage done. Aside from a general lack of maintenance, he saw no signs of tampering or trespassing. Could that be a sign of an inhabitant?
He returned to the front door and gently knocked. Not a peep from inside. Not a stir. He tried the door and it opened. Pushing the lantern through the gap ahead, he moved carefully inside, and the door soundlessly swept wide for him.
“Hello?”
The wooden floorboards felt close to splitting under his feet. He stepped deliberately to avoid splinters or anything else lying in wait. There was a brown sofa in the corner of the room, with a shade-less lamp on a small table beside it. Holding his light up to the sofa, he saw it might not have really been brown. There could have been many colors beneath the thick layering of dust. And the lamp’s missing shade was on the floor in the opposite corner, split down the side.
Aside from the front door, he found one other. Opening it revealed a coat closet. It was mostly empty, save for a broom and what looked like a rolled-up rug. He was about to turn away when something—a bead of light on its surface—grabbed his attention. He leaned into the closet to examine it.
A pair of black leather work boots. He lifted them up with one hand, held the light to get a closer look. They appeared perfectly usable. Worn and lightly layered with dust. The shoelaces were done up neatly. He examined the soles and found them deeply treaded. Almost like they’d never been used before.
What were they doing in this house? he wondered. A house like this must have been picked over time and time again. He was surprised there was even a broom left. Who would leave boots like these? Unless…
As if in answer to his revelation, something moved inside one of the boots. Its weight shifted in his hand. His heart begun to thud. He started to lower them, to set them down, when something touched his fingers hooked inside the openings and he gasped. The boots dropped. They hit the floor, fell over on their sides, and something long and black wormed out onto the floor. Lewis screamed.
He only gathered a glimpse of the snake before the wild swinging of his lantern set it free into the shadows and he fled for the door. He nearly tripped over himself as he emerged outside. He pulled the door shut behind him. He backed away, down the dirt path toward the road, eyes set on its yellowed surface as it faded into the dark the farther he went. He felt his throbbing chest under an open palm, breathed deeply, coaxing his heart to slow itself.
He turned to the road and stopped.
Nothing good would come to him, he decided. Not that easily. Anything that seemed too good to be true, it probably was. That’d been an earthly concept, too, he thought. This place was worse. There wouldn’t be any ‘probably’ about it. No chances could be taken. No risks. He’d had one break so far—the fire in his hand and the meager clothes on his back—and they’d come at a price…
It was a trade. The old man’s misery for some fire and cloth.
He wanted nothing to do with the boots now. Even if he could get inside and take them, maneuvering around the snake in the dark, he couldn’t trust them. Something else would come of it. It was a trap, another trade of some kind, and the snake wouldn’t be the end of it, he was sure.
So, barefooted, he followed the road as he had before, left the house as though he had never found it.
He was learning.
✽ ✽ ✽
There was rushing water nearby. It faded into earshot so gradually it was difficult to tell at first, but the closer he got the louder it became until there was no question.
A river.
He stayed on the road, curious where it would lead him. By the sound of it, he guessed the river was full and fast. He could smell it, like wet tree bark. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips. Wherever the water came from, however clean it might be, he knew he couldn’t…
Eventually the dry dirt was replaced by something harder and colder. Smooth. The river was loud as ever. He walked tenuously on the cold brick, followed it up a mild incline. His arm brushed a short barrier next to him. He placed his hand on it, felt along it until he reached the top of the hump of what he now realized was a bridge. The river surged beneath him. A fine mist reached his face. He decided to pause there for a while. He set his lantern next to him on the wall of the bridge, then leaned over it and took a deep breath.
He wondered if the darkness sensed his comfort, and how long it would take to interrupt it. Did it even work that way? Perhaps he was giving the darkness too much credit. Perhaps he’d taken the old man’s words too literally. He was an old man after all, and most if not all the old men Lewis had ever met were prone to speaking of things fantastically, making them out to be much more profound than they really are.
There was a noise, a flutter in the air. He flinched from it. A creature, gray and feathered, perched on the wall of the bridge, made visible only by his jar lantern. It was a bird, though not like any he’d seen before. It was tall and plump, its head the same width as its body like a bean, black eyes glinting in the firelight. It bowed its head to examine the lantern, touched the glass with its long beak, curved like a sickle. It focused its attention on him, curious, then turned to the jar once more. It pecked the glass and the jar wobbled.
“Hey,” Lewis cautioned, and took a step toward the bird.
It straightened, swiveled its head, eyes bright and penetrating. Lewis paused. For all he knew, this bird wasn’t like any bird he’d known. It could be venomous, or hiding a freakish appendage somewhere he couldn’t see, something that could disembowel him in a single swipe. Actually, its talons were likely long enough—abnormally so. Surely it wasn’t your ordinary bird…
It croaked, a guttural sound, familiar—could it be the same, he wondered, following him?—and before Lewis could react it took to the air with his jar held firmly in its talons by the wire handle.
“Hey!”
He chased it several steps, using the wall of the bridge to guide him in the dark, and watched as his fire grew smaller and smaller into the sky. He reached the other end of the bridge and departed from the path, into the grass. There was a slope to his left, the river raging frosty and wet at the bottom somewhere. He continued hollering at the bird, which only continued flying farther away, his dangling fire almost nothing but a stipple of star
light.
A dip in the slope sent him sliding. He fell onto his side, rolled once, twice, down next to the river’s shore. He sat up, bruised and muddy. He searched the sky and saw no sign of his fire anywhere.
“Shit…”
Hey lay still for a while listening to the river, eyes open.
It was only a matter of time now, he thought. The world would move in on him, smell him, his fear potent like week-old sweat. He was lost again, as aimless as he could be. The misery would come looking, come out starving from the forest, from the sky, from… from…
“Huh? Oh… oh, Jesus Christ!”
He picked himself up off the muddy bank as something moved toward him from out of the water, slithered whisperingly onto the mud and grass where his feet lay. He pulled at the grass, carried himself up the slope, blind as death. The creature below burped, its breath a warm hiss. Lewis nearly managed to stand, got one foot under him, when a webbed hand pulled it back, brought him flat on his chest. Another hand, dripping and elastic, slapped him on his thigh. He kicked. His bare foot glanced off something rubbery. He kicked again, forced it away. He dug his hands into the soft ground and heaved himself forward. He got up on his knees. Then, a second time, just as he moved to stand, the webbed pads took hold of him and brought him down once more.
As it pulled him down, pulled him under its hovering body, hot and fleshy and writhing, he thought vaguely to himself: This will happen every time.
Thunder erupted overhead. Brief and deafening. In the instant it sounded, the ground was lit very dim around them, a flash, and Lewis saw the pale blue snarling flesh suspended over his face explode into a bloody pulp. An echo trailed the gunshot, and a silence nearly as loud as the gunshot itself soon followed. The creature’s corpse collapsed and Lewis shoved it off beside him, panting.
He rolled over onto his stomach and peered up the slope.