The smell hit her like a wave.
As Olivia gasped and jerked back, she also saw that the space dropped off without warning, into a yawning hole below. She stood back for several minutes, catching her breath. She leaned forward again, squinting through the close, fetid darkness.
Stairs.
It was a secret staircase hidden inside the wall.
But what could be in there that smells like that?
A vivid image flashed back to her— the blood in the nursery, the bits of flesh and skin — maybe it was a rat t Jesse had said, maybe it was some animal —
It was possible, Olivia supposed, that a rat could have crept down here, even nested down here, had died and was now in the process of rotting away . . .
Her skin crawled, and she quickly pressed the panel back into place. The room had a feeling about it that unnerved her, and she didn't want to be in here one more second. She went back outside and continued along the gallery, and when she saw Helen's dress hanging over the railing just outside the next door, she knew she had found the girl's room at last.
It took several minutes for her eyes to adjust. All the shutters had been closed, and the room lay sweltering in heavy darkness. Olivia took a cautious step, then
Richie Tankeisley Cusick
paused on the threshold. Furniture made formless shapes, crouching against the walls.
"Helen," she whispered, "are you in here?"
She caught herself, feeling foolish. Of course Helen couldn't answer . . . especially if the girl was sick or hurt. . . she'd have to go inside and see on her own.
She could barely make out a bed in one corner of the room. The shadows seemed to gather there and hover, as if they were used to hiding Helen, used to protecting her. Olivia ventured in several more feet and stopped again. She could see the slight contour of the covers, the quiet shape of someone sleeping beneath them, and she let out a sigh of relief. If Helen was sleeping, she wouldn't frighten her. She'd just tiptoe over and satisfy herself that Helen was really all right.
She moved noiselessly to the side of the bed. The covers were drawn up over Helen's head, and Olivia wondered how the girl could stand the unbearable heat. She must really be sick . . . that's why I haven't seen her today . . . it had nothing to do with last night after all . . .
She leaned down close to the girl and stared at the covers, waiting to see the rise and fall of Helen's breathing, listening for the soft flow of Helen's breath.
The covers didn't move.
The room was deathly still.
Alarmed now, Olivia bent even nearer, resting her cheek lightly against the covers, against Helen's back. She couldn't feel anything at all, and as she shook the girl gently, she moved her face even tighter against her, waiting for some show of surprise, some sign of life.
"Helen—wake up! It's Olivia!"
Heat pressed down on her mercilessly, yet Olivia
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felt cold. She grabbed Helen's shoulders and shook her again, and when the girl still failed to respond, she pulled on her, slowly working her over onto her back.
She saw the limp shifting of Helen's body as it rolled beneath the blankets into her arms . . .
She saw the covers start to slide away from Helen's face . . .
And as the eyes stared up at her and Olivia began to scream, she felt the fingers curl slowly around her hand.
"Surprise." Skyler smiled.
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raced back the way she had come and flung herself through the first door she came to.
She hadn't realized it was Skyler's room.
And now she could hear them—both of them— talking in low voices, walking together outside, getting closer and closer. Oh God — Helen — Helen, where are you —/ killed him —/ know I killed him — the shears — the blood — the gash in his stomach —
In a haze of fear and confusion she crouched down behind the chair, knowing it was useless to try and hide. She knew Skyler knew where she was—she knew he would take his time and then he would find her.
The voices paused outside on the gallery, just beyond the open door. Olivia looked desperately around the room.
Without even stopping to think she ran for the corner and pried the panel off the wall.
The space was low and cramped. As Olivia pressed the board back into place, darkness swallowed her whole, and she cowered there, afraid to move. Stale, rancid air washed over her in a wave. She couldn't see a thing. She moved one foot, feeling hesitantly in front of her, then almost fell as the floor disappeared. For one heart-stopping second her foot dangled over nothingness, and then she lowered it slowly and felt a shallow step.
Sweat ran over her face as she eased herself down— down—between the crumbling walls of Devereaux House. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud and rapid in the stagnant air, and it felt like the house's heartbeat—the heartbeat of the walls as they breathed and squeezed and closed in around her. She wondered where the staircase would lead her, and if
Skyler would be waiting for her when she got there— and she thought of Helen and she tried not to cry, because every instinct told her now that something horrible had happened to the girl. . .
She shifted positions, trying to find just a brief respite from the fetid air. The smell was getting worse the farther down she went, and she dreaded getting closer to the source. How far have I come — how far do I still have to go? She slowed down . . . stopped. The odor was close now . . . sickeningly close . . . she could feel it as well as smell it.
She put out her hands, steadying herself against the wall. She couldn't go back up and return to Skyler's room. She had no choice but to keep going and try to get away.
"Surprise . . . you'll just have to try harder next time
And you're punishing me again, aren't you, Mama, for being bad, only this time I wasn't so bad, I didn't hurt him at all, he touched me and I told him not to and now he's going to touch me again, and I know it, I know it —
You let him look at you, Olivia, you let him look at you and see how pretty you are and see what he can't ever have —
No, don't touch me — don't touch me —
"One of these times you're mine. And you know it—"
"Stop," Olivia moaned. "Skyler . . ."
Ground hard beneath — Skyler hard above — lips — touch burning — blood pouring — cry of pain pleasure passion hating yearning —
Olivia felt her foot come down on something in the dark.
It was lying on the step, hidden there, and when her
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bare skin touched it, it moved a little, awkward and slow and sluggish . . .
She recoiled in terror, flattening herself against the wall, her hands clenched together at her throat.
It's a rat —/ knew it — trapped down here in the bowels of the house — trapped down here to die and to rot for all eternity —
She tried to step around it, but it was still there.
She tried to step over it, but it blocked her way.
And it was so still, lying there on the steps in the dark, stretching on and on and on across the steps in the dark, and as Olivia slid slowly down the wall and held out her hand to move it, she felt the sticky skin and the matted hair and the nose and the mouth with no breath coming out, and the wide-open eyes and the slick, gluey mess around the neck—
Her scream filled the stairway.
It shattered the silence and echoed through the dark.
And then it shuddered deep into the veins of the old, old house, rousing secrets and sadness and shame.
bone, and the sound the blood had made spurting out and how it had tasted squirting into her mouth and how it had felt running down her cold, naked body. And still she thought she'd been dreaming—only dreaming—until the sun came up and Mama was sprawled on her back with only a deep wide gash where her neck should have been, red blood curdled there between her chest and her staring eyes—staring like Skyler had stared—staring and not beli
eving what Olivia had done . . . why'd you do it Olivia, why'd you do it my pretty pretty girl now I can't save you now I can't ever keep anyone from touching you ever ever again —
Olivia lifted her head into the black, foul air, and she thought.
Maybe I killed Helen.
Maybe I only dreamed I killed Skyler and I killed Helen instead . . .
But of course that was ridiculous, she told herself, Helen was my friend, I loved Helen in a way . . .
Sadness and fear and horror welled up inside her, and she felt like she was going to be sick.
She had to get out of here.
She had to get out of here, away from the darkness and the house and from Helen's body sprawled in the staircase, and as Olivia finally managed to clamber over it, she forgot to be careful, and she slipped and slid the rest of the way down.
It seemed to take forever.
At long last her foot touched something solid and level, and she ran hard into a wall. Frantically she ran her hands up and down the barricade in front of her—along each side of her. // has to be here somewhere — it has to be here — it can't be another
Richie Tankeisley Cusick
cruel joke — a stairway that doesn 't lead anywhere and I'll have to go back the way I came,, back to Helen and back to Skyler and back to God knows what —
She didn't care now who heard her.
She started beating on the wall with her fists, pounding and searching, and without warning one of the boards moved beneath her hands, and a glimmer of light showed through.
Olivia pushed, and then she pulled, and finally she worked her fingers in beneath the crack and heard the wall give a reluctant groan as it slid sideways.
She fell out, sobbing.
She seemed to be in another small space, another sort of hidden closet, and this time she shoved with all her strength and watched in amazement as doors swung open into a quiet, shadowy room.
Her room . . .
She was in her armoire.
In one split second memories flooded back to her— the shadowy movements in her room, Helen in her closet, the feeling of being watched, the wound on her thigh —
She hadn't imagined it, then.
Someone had been here. It had been real.
Skyler . . .
Olivia stood and stared at her doorway, at the fading light of late afternoon. She half expected to see Skyler standing there, the garden shears hanging from his stomach, a sly grin on his face. It's impossible — it's impossible —/ know I killed him —/ know it —
She knew he was hiding from her somewhere, waiting for her somewhere, playing with her, enjoying every lazy minute of his game—
She hurried to the door and hung back in the niche,
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her heart hammering frantically, her breath rasping in her throat. Mathilde would be with him, Mathilde who had even more reason to hate her now, and they would watch her and they would follow her and they would silently surround her when she least expected it—
Helen — oh my God, Helen — what happened — who did this to you —
Olivia closed her eyes and turned her head, resting one cheek against the scabrous wall. Helen had pushed her underneath the cabin last night, Helen had tried to hide her last night, and now Helen was dead. Olivia fought to keep her thoughts in check, to think rationally. What should she do? Try to get back to town—get help? But how? She had no transportation, she didn't even know the way. She had no belongings, no personal identification of any kind. And even if she could get to town, even if she could find someone who would listen to her, what could she tell them?
I found a dead girl in a hidden stairwell . . .
But Helen would be gone by then. She knew as sure as anything that somehow Helen would be gone if she tried to bring someone back here.
Skyler tried to rape me and I killed him but he's still alive —
Skyler would take off his shirt and shrug his shoulders and smile in slow amusement.
I'll sound crazy, I'll sound insane . . .
She had no evidence. She had nothing concrete to go on—only visions and dreams, images and feelings, fears and unanswered questions. She could only imagine how she would look to someone in town, with her bare feet and her ragged clothes and her cuts and her bruises— and people stay away from here, people are
afraid of this place, the cab driver said so, why would anyone listen to me and come back here with me to investigate?
The cab driver . . .
Olivia wasn't sure that she had really heard him that night along the bayou.
Olivia wasn't sure of anything anymore.
She crept fearfully along the gallery and down the sxairs. She pressed back against the wall of the veranda and strained her ears through the seeping twilight. Just because nothing's moving, just because I can't hear a single sound doesn 't mean he isn Y out there — doesn 't mean Skyler isn 9 t out there somewhere waiting to crawl out and catch me as I try to go by . . .
She ran as quickly and as noiselessly as she could, beyond the outbuildings, through the woods and fields, until she reached the bayou. She found one of the boats at the dock, but the other was missing, and she stood there for several minutes, trying to decide what to do. Suppose Skyler or Mathilde had already taken the other boat, had already gone over to the other side, suppose they were waiting for her there . . .
And she wondered what she could possibly be thinking of, going back to the church, going back to Jesse, after seeing him with Skyler in the cabin last night, after hearing him with Skyler in the cabin last night. . .
But he was trying to protect me ... / remember that . . . he told Skyler not to hurt me . . . not to let Mathilde hurt me . . . and it was Jesse who saved me from Skyler today in the cemetery, it was Jesse . . .
As she rowed across the water, she felt eyes watching behind every cloud of moss. She could see the other boat now, wedged against the opposite shore, so she floated farther downstream and tied up in a thick
patch of marsh grass. She hurried along the path through the dead, dead trees, ready to hide at the slightest sound or movement. When she finally entered the church, it seemed to be deserted.
The altar shimmered as beautifully as before, only now many of the candles had melted away, leaving only pools of colored wax. The church was damp and cool, quiet creaks of old wood settling, wind whispering between the cracks. Olivia stood silently in the center aisle and let her eyes wander slowly over the corners, along the sides, into the alcoves and niches and shadows, searching for Jesse.
The only presence she felt was her own.
She ventured in farther and hesitated beside the candles. It was so peaceful here. In a strange way she felt protected and safe, despite the fears she had brought with her from the house. It seemed almost irreverent to call out to him and disturb the stillness. She remembered him mentioning that his room was in the back, so she looked until she found a passage that led off behind the altar, and she followed it.
She found the room with no trouble at all—just a tiny space for sleeping, nothing more. Beyond that a short hallway led to a rear door that was standing partly open, and she crept up to it, suddenly aware of voices.
Standing behind the door, she peered cautiously around its edge and into a small, moss-drenched clearing. To her surprise she could see Jesse sitting on a tree stump and Yoly bending over him, buttoning his shirt in place. He seemed weak, as if he couldn't quite hold himself up, and his face was ashen. Yoly put something into a basket and knelt down in front of him, her voice measured and clear.
"You know what's happenin', don't you. You know what this means."
"I. . ." Jesse drew a deep breath, shuddering, as if the effort were painful for him. "I suspect what it means."
"She's dyin', Jesse. It could happen today or tomorrow or a month from now, but there ain't no way around it—Miss Rose is dyin' sure. And the house .. . it's goin' with her."
"I've thought it for a long time. When I couldn't
make the walls hold together anymore ... when I couldn't put the bricks back into place anymore . .."
"And when I couldn't keep the dust away." Yoly shook her head. "We gots to face facts, child. None of us knew— ever knew—what it would mean, that awful night. It was somethin' we found out gradually . .. through all the years and years since. And now we's findin' out somethin' else."
She reached out and took hold of his shoulders.
"We's findin' out how it ends."
A breeze sighed, fluttering long gray ribbons of moss.
Jesse's hair ruffled around his face, and Yoly gently brushed it back with her fingers.
"Does it hurt much?" she asked worriedly.
His head moved just a little. "It comes and goes. It's . . . bearable." He looked up then and managed a faint smile. "I'm glad, you know," he mumbled. "Finally. I'm . . . tired."
Yoly gazed into his eyes. She shook her head and stood back up. She stood over him a long while, then she picked up her basket and turned toward the church when Jesse's voice stopped her.
"Don't tell Skyler," he said softly. "He'll be so scared."
Yoly glanced back at him. He held her eyes with a stare that was almost pleading. Yoly nodded and walked away.
Olivia just had time to hide before Yoly came in the door. She ducked into the tiny room and pressed back into one corner, but Yoly continued on through the church and out the other door without stopping. Olivia waited several more minutes before finally stepping out into the open.
Jesse's head lifted at once. He watched as she moved toward him, and he seemed to draw himself up with a supreme effort.
"Olivia," he said haltingly, "you. . . you shouldn't—"
"Be here. Yes, I remember." She crossed the last few feet and looked down at him, trying to keep her voice under control. "But I needed to see you. I needed to talk to you. Something's—"
She broke off abruptly, biting her lip. Her hands clenched at her sides, and she slid them behind her back so he wouldn't see. She began again, carefully, carefully, because there were things she shouldn't have overheard, things she shouldn't have seen, because he had been in that cabin last night—
"Something's happened to Helen," she finished.
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