Unearthly Things

by Michelle Gagnon

  My fingers trembled as I tied his sneakers; there were so many ways this could go wrong. “Okay,” I said, helping him into his coat. “We’re going to be really, really quiet, all right? Stay close to me.”

  “Sure, Janie!” He sounded excited, as if this were all a big adventure. Tucking Bertha under his arm, he whispered, “Let’s go!”

  I paused on the threshold, thinking I’d heard something. Holding my breath, I listened; whatever it was had stopped. Nicholas was peering up at me, a question in his eyes. Trying to look like I knew what I was doing, I flashed him a reassuring smile—or the best version I could manage under the circumstances—and motioned for him to follow.

  We tiptoed down the hall as quickly as possible. Nicholas struggled to keep up, but his short legs made it difficult and I was forced to slow down. As we passed my old bedroom he suddenly stopped, tugging urgently on my arm.

  “What?” I hissed.

  “Eliza says to wait,” he explained, staring up at me with enormous blue eyes. “It’s not safe.”

  “Well, it’s not safe here,” I answered. “We have to keep moving.” I dragged him around the corner. The door to the servant’s stairwell was ajar; Eliza must still be marking a path for us. I approached it cautiously: all clear. Still, the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. I said a silent prayer and opened the stairwell door all the way.

  A dark shape lunged at me. Nicholas let out a high-pitched yelp, and his hand slipped from mine. I landed hard, the wind knocked out of me. Shocks of pain radiated from my ribs, making me gasp. Reflexively, I fought back. Using every ounce of my strength, I threw off my attacker and scrambled away, breathing hard.

  Marion.

  She slowly rose to her feet. Her face tilted toward me, pale skin glowing. She’d changed into a long, black silk nightgown; her hair was wild, her eyes full of hate.

  “You’re a naughty child,” she snarled.

  Nicholas was huddled against the far wall, clutching Bertha to his chest.

  Marion turned toward him. “And you,” she hissed. “You’re a very bad boy.”

  He whimpered and started crying. That galvanized me. I could handle one batty society lady, right? Paddling through the surf had given me strong arms and shoulders. Despite my injuries, I still had a size and strength advantage on her.

  “Get out of our way,” I said firmly. She was between us now, blocking the stairwell door. I just had to get Nicholas, then get past her. I gestured for him to take my hand.

  Marion extended her arms to the sides, blocking us. “You’re not going anywhere, Eliza.”

  “You know what?” I said in a low voice. “I’m really sick of your nonsense. C’mon, Nicholas.”

  Hesitantly, he stepped toward my outstretched hand.

  Marion’s eyes blazed. “Evil children!” she hissed. Her hand whipped out, python-like, grabbing him by the throat. Nicholas made a strangled sound as she dragged him toward her.

  Marion clutched him to her chest. His eyes were wide with terror, his tiny hands batted at the arm wrapped around his neck. As I watched, horrified, his face started to turn purple. She’s going to kill him.

  I lunged toward her, but she yanked Nicholas out of reach, hissing at me. She was holding him off the ground, and his legs kicked futilely at thin air. With one movement, she could snap his neck. I couldn’t risk it.

  “Marion, stop,” I begged. “You’re hurting him! For God’s sake, he’s your son!”

  “You’re all bad children,” she muttered. “So bad. You simply won’t behave.”

  Nicholas’s eyes were bulging out, and he was starting to turn blue. “Eliza!” I cried in desperation, not caring if Richard heard us. “Help! Please!”

  Footsteps behind me. I whipped around, expecting to see a bobbing ball, or the echo of a little girl. Instead, Alma was barreling down the hall, looking determined. Without breaking stride, she opened her hand and blew some sort of smoky powder directly into Marion’s face.

  Marion cried out. Her hands went to her eyes. Nicholas dropped to the ground, coughing and gasping. Wheezing, Marion collapsed back against the wall, knocking paintings askew. Her hands groped at her face.

  I grabbed Nicholas and hauled him toward the staircase.

  Before I could get there, my ears popped. The temperature dropped; it was suddenly Arctic in the hallway. I could see my breath; it was so frigid my teeth started chattering.

  Marion fumbled toward us, her eyes swollen shut, her arms outstretched and grasping. I backed up, keeping Nicholas behind me. Alma was babbling in Filipino, waving for us to follow her. But Marion was still in the way.

  Suddenly, it was as if she’d been sucked into her own private tornado, buffeted by winds. She rocked back and forth, swiping at the air, moving like a person possessed. Her hair flew out from her scalp, and her nightgown whipped around her legs. She slammed into the opposite wall, then careened away from us down the hall.

  I heard Alma calling for me, but it sounded like her voice was crossing a great distance. The gale lashed my hair and drove tears from my eyes. Marion opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. She howled silently as an invisible force dragged her backward.

  The attic door swung wide on its hinges.

  Marion scrabbled at the frame frantically. Her hands clutched at air, her feet kicked as she was lifted off the ground. There was a loud sucking noise . . . then she vanished through the doorway.

  The attic door slammed shut, and the bolt turned.

  The wind dissipated. I stared at the door, stunned. “Come!” Alma ordered, holding open the door to the staircase.

  Her voice brought me back to my senses. I grabbed Nicholas by the hand and urged him along. Richard was probably charging toward us already, alerted by all the noise. We had to move fast.

  Alma wasn’t wearing her wig, and her scalp shone like a beacon, leading us down the stairs. Each step sent another jolt through my ribs. I gritted my teeth and tried to take shallow breaths. We reached the first landing; nearly there, just one more flight of stairs. Nicholas was completely silent, probably in shock. I didn’t have time to reassure him, though; the most important thing was to get him out of the house.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Alma pressed her ear to the door, then waved us forward.

  The pantry was dark and still.

  We hurried into the dimly lit kitchen. The outside door was at the far end of the room, just twenty feet away. I picked up the pace, and Alma scuttled after me, towing Nicholas in her wake. I reached the door and turned the deadbolt, then threw it open.

  “Hurry!” I hissed, holding it for them. They stepped into the yard. I was about to follow when suddenly the kitchen flooded with light.

  I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart plummeting.

  Behind me, Richard thundered, “How the hell did you get out?”

  At the sound of his voice, Alma and Nicholas froze. They were only ten feet from the door. Slowly, I turned around. Richard was standing on the other side of the kitchen island. He had a handgun pointed directly at my chest.

  But he hadn’t spotted Alma and Nicholas yet. I could bolt after them, but then he’d see all of us; even drunk, he’d move faster than an old woman and a six-year-old boy. I couldn’t risk him doing something crazy with the gun. There was only one way to save them.

  Drawing a deep breath, I slowly closed the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Alma open her mouth as if to protest. I made a small motion with my head, hoping she’d get the message: Run. Get help. Come back for me.

  I just had to stall Richard until then.

  Slowly, I raised both hands in the hair and said, “The ropes came loose.”

  Richard was swaying and sweating, drunker than I’d ever seen him. His hand wavered, which made the gun shift alarmingly. “Bullshit. I tied those myself. Besides, the doors were locked.”
>
  I shrugged slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might startle him into pulling the trigger. “I dated someone who taught me how to pick locks.” Which was at least partly true.

  A small noise from the yard, followed by the sound of the gate on the side of the house creaking open. Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s out there?”

  “No one,” I said quickly. “Listen, I’ll go back upstairs. You can even tie me up again if you want.”

  Richard ran his free hand through his disheveled hair. His cheeks were bright red, his eyes bloodshot. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he slurred.

  “We can figure this out,” I offered. “I meant what I said upstairs, I’ll give you all the money you need.”

  “They’re going to take the house,” he said, acting as if I hadn’t spoken. “This house! I can’t be the Rochester who loses it.”

  “You don’t have to be,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “Whatever you need, I swear.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You’ll turn on me, just like everyone else. Like your father, and your mother. You’ll betray me, too.”

  I swallowed hard, wondering how long it would take Alma to find help. “I’ll sign the papers.”

  “So what? You’ll tell them what I did,” he said morosely, as if the beating had somehow been my fault. “You’ll say I forced you to sign the contract, and they’ll arrest me.”

  “I won’t. I’ll sign it and go straight to the airport. No one has to know. You’ll have the money, and none of you will have to deal with me, ever again.”

  “You’re lying. You’ll tell them about Eliza, too.”

  “What proof do I have?” I said, desperate to convince him. “You’re right, everyone will just think I’m crazy. You’ve already made sure of that.”

  The gun slowly lowered, until it was pointing at my waist. I held my breath: this was working. “Please, Richard. Get the papers. Let’s end this.”

  Before he could answer, footsteps approached. I gripped the edge of the counter, braced to dive behind it for cover. Were the cops here already? But they’d have to ring the bell or announce themselves or something, wouldn’t they?

  John appeared in the doorway, hair tousled, jacket undone. Taking in the scene, he asked, “What the hell is going on? I thought you took a cab to the airport.”

  He couldn’t see the gun from where he stood. I wanted to scream at him to run for help, but Richard was too unpredictable. “Um, I decided to stay,” I lied.

  John stepped closer and frowned. “What happened to you?” My eyes darted to Richard, and John’s face clouded over. “Jesus, what did you do, Dad?”

  Richard spun on him. John’s eyes widened when he saw the gun. Richard waved it in a circle as he said, “This is none of your damn business. Go to your room.”

  “The hell I will,” John retorted. “Come on, Janie,” he added, beckoning to me. “I’ll get you out of here—”

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Richard snarled. “Not until she signs the damn papers.”

  “Christ, you are crazy.” John snorted. Inwardly, I cursed; he’d showed up at precisely the wrong moment.

  “It’s fine, John,” I said, trying to keep the quaver from my voice. Richard was swinging the gun back and forth between us, like he couldn’t decide where to aim. “Really. I’ll sign the papers, then we can go.”

  “We’re going now,” John said, glaring at his dad. “I messed up, bringing you here tonight. I shouldn’t have trusted him.” He stepped forward, getting in Richard’s face. “If I’d been here that night, Eliza would still be alive. I’m not letting you do that again.”

  Richard’s face darkened. Before I could call out a warning, he lashed out with the gun, knocking John across the temple. John staggered backward, looking startled. His right hand went to his head. Then he growled and sprang forward, shoving his father against the kitchen island.

  For a second I stared at them, mesmerized; then I came to my senses and raced toward the kitchen door. My heart pounded in my chest, all I could think was go, go, go . . .

  The loud crack of a gunshot stopped me.

  I spun around. John was clutching the edge of the kitchen island. He gazed in disbelief at the blood saturating his white T-shirt. I watched, horrified, as he sagged and fell to the floor.

  Richard stared down at the gun dangling from his hand, as if wondering how it got there. He looked dazed, too.

  “Oh my God,” I gasped.

  Richard’s head snapped up. His features twisted into an expression of pure hatred as he spat, “Look what you made me do!”

  “We have to call 911,” I said, rushing toward the phone.

  “Stop!”

  I paused, my hand on the receiver. Richard had the gun pointed at me again. His hand shook as he said, “Put the phone down. You’re not calling anyone.”

  “But he could die!” I protested.

  John was clutching the wound in his side. His mouth opened and closed as if he were trying to form words, but couldn’t. A pool of red slowly spread across the floor, lapping at the toes of Richard’s loafers.

  There was a battle raging across Richard’s sweat-drenched face. Finally, he said, “He was always a disappointment.”

  “You’re a bastard,” John gasped through clenched teeth.

  Richard laughed sharply. “See? He hates me. They all hate me.”

  Where the hell were the police? I stared down at John. His chest rose and fell in accelerating pants, and his eyes were glazing over. He was dying right in front of me. “I’ll tell them it was an accident,” I said, grasping at straws. “You were cleaning your gun, and it went off.”

  “John will never go along with that,” Richard said darkly. “He’ll make them lock me up.”

  “He won’t,” I protested, although he was probably right.

  Richard shook his head hard, as if to clear it. When his eyes locked on mine, they were blazing. “Maybe you shot John, then killed yourself out of guilt.”

  There were sirens in the distance. They were coming! Hopefully they’d bring an ambulance, too. Emboldened, I said, “That won’t work. Alma went to the cops.”

  “Alma what?” Richard said incredulously. “She wouldn’t dare.”

  “She’s my grandmother,” I retorted. “She’ll tell the truth. So just put down the gun. It’s over.”

  “Everyone betrays me,” he said forlornly, as if to himself. “After all I’ve done for this family. No one gives a shit.”

  John had fallen still. Was it already too late? “Please, Richard. Help him.”

  “No.” Crossing the distance between us in two steps, he snarled, “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  Keeping an eye on me, he bent over and grabbed John’s keys from the floor where they lay by his outstretched legs; as he palmed them, his fingers left a bloody smear behind. My heart thumped against my battered rib cage: Should I try to run? Could I make it to the door before he shot me? And where the hell was Eliza? If there ever was a time for ghostly intervention, this was it. I’d done what she wanted and retrieved Nicholas; had she just abandoned me in favor of tormenting Marion in the attic?

  Probably. This was her chance for payback.

  Richard motioned toward the door with the gun. “Move. Now!”

  On shaky legs, I walked out of the kitchen. He propelled me through the house, prodding me in the back with the barrel of the gun whenever I slowed. The sirens were getting closer. Hustling me out the front door, he pushed me toward John’s SUV and growled, “You’re driving.”

  I hesitated—the police were so close.

  “I will shoot you right here,” he hissed, leaning in. “In the head. You think they can save you then?”

  On leaden feet, I approached the SUV. Richard kept the gun trained on me as
he rounded the car, aiming through the windshield until he slid in the passenger side. He tossed the keys in my lap and barked, “Drive!”

  The lump in my throat was making it hard to swallow. “Where are we going?” I asked hoarsely. My eyes scanned the surrounding streets, but there was no sign of a patrol car. Had they even been coming for me?

  Richard’s free hand was shaking. He ran it through his hair over and over, making it stand up in tufts. “Take a right.”

  Obediently, I turned down Jackson Street. The hill descended steeply toward the water. According to the clock on the dash it was nearly 1 a.m., which explained why the streets were so deserted.

  We drove in silence. At the bottom of the hill, Richard ordered, “Left.”

  I drove slowly, constantly checking the rearview mirror for help. With every mile, my panic grew. I was being held hostage by a madman. I toyed with the idea of doing something I’d seen in a movie once, crashing the car into a telephone pole; but with my luck, I’d be the only one injured.

  Richard shook his head. “I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to this. I let my wife kill my youngest daughter. The rest of my children hate me. I’ve lost everything.” He glared at me. “I shot my son. Do you think I’d hesitate to kill a piece of trash like you?”

  “Please,” I said shakily. “There’s still a way—”

  “Just shut up and drive.”

  “I still don’t know where we’re going.”

  “The beach.”

  That was the last place I would’ve expected. “Why?”

  “You’ll see,” he said moodily, settling into his seat. “Keep your mouth shut until we get there. I need to think.”

  It was eerie, retracing the route that I’d driven so many times before with Daniel. At this hour, most of the streetlights were set to blinking red or yellow; it took half as long as normal to traverse the seven-mile stretch of road. As we drew inexorably closer to Ocean Beach, I fumbled through one potential escape plan after another. All of them seemed likely to end with me getting shot.

  “Park there,” Richard ordered. I turned off the Great Highway and into a parking lot bordering the beach. It was completely empty, no bonfires this late on a weeknight.