"She said they like toast,” said Wynne with a smile. "She said make a lot of toast."
"Oh,” said Gregory, completely bewildered. He had a nauseated feeling. Wynne seemed to be losing her mind. He wasn't sure who they were making toast for.
Suddenly, Gregory heard that tiny click, like teeth being tapped together unexpectedly. He looked up and Mike was charging into the kitchen with his fist raised.
"You bitch,” said Mike, scrambling towards Wynne.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ten minutes earlier, Mike had awoken, his stomach churning. He vomited in the small bathroom next to the bed. He woke up angrier than he went to sleep. There was no way to place the exact anger he was feeling. It was like a hot coal in his chest. He could smell the odd yeasty smell of freshly made bread. Quickly, he tromped down the hallway towards the kitchen. He became disoriented and turned down the wrong hallway twice. These hallways seemed longer and longer. It only served to charge his anger with an electric current. His stomach was starting to rumble with hunger. This was Wynne's fault. She did this. Every wrong turn seemed even more her fault. He was certain he had walked at least a mile before he finally found the kitchen.
The door was wide open, and he could see her long, gangly form standing at the sink. The rage hit him like he would hit her. He could feel a smile popping onto his face as he lunged at her.
Wynne was the reason why everything was going wrong. A deep certainty was boiling in his belly. If he killed her, then the house would release him. He was absolutely convinced of this; no other thought came into his mind as he started to charge at her with his fist raised. He took one swing and his fist popped right into thin air. He heard a click. It was loud, like his ears had both popped. He heard her shout in shock, but she was gone. The kitchen was empty.
He turned around slowly, and he couldn't even see the bread bowl. He could still smell the bread, but he couldn't see it. He put his hands out in front of him and started to feel around in the kitchen. "Fucking witchcraft," he whispered.
"Gregory?" He started to turn in a slow circle. But he didn't see the boy. "Hello?" All of the rage that he had been building up towards her dissipated. And fear started to crawl up his skin with icy hands. "Is anyone here? Please? Don't leave me behind. Let me go!" He looked around and he would've been grateful in that moment for even the dumb cat to show up. For he couldn't make any understanding of how Wynne had been standing in front of him, and he had even seen Gregory! He walked past Gregory to hit Wynne. Now they both had vanished.
He could smell that bread rising, but he turned and there was no bowl on the counter. His heart crashed in alarm.
Fear crawled up his spine in an icy grip. What on earth happened? He heard a little tap tap tap in the hallway.
As he listened closer, it wasn't a tap; it was slap, slapping noises. One after another, after another, after another, in a steady rhythm.
His ears suddenly made sense of the noise and he realized it was bare feet slapping on the tile. Tiny bare feet. He stepped slightly forwards, listening for the sound. He could hear it just in front of him, the slaps of bare feet on the tile. The feet, slipping down the hallways.
Panic set in, and he started to chase the sound. "Don't run! Don't leave me alone," Mike shouted. He caught a tiny glimpse of the feet up ahead, turning a corner. "Wait!"
He charged forward, grateful that someone was still in the house with him. He went running down the hallway and peered into the room where he had seen the tiny pale foot slip into. As soon as he stepped into the room, he knew something was different. He had searched all the rooms before and they were all fairly identical, like hotel rooms. Nothing particularly remarkable about any single room. But in this particular room, children's drawings were hung up and pinned to the wall. They had to have at least twenty drawings, all with tiny little stick figures. In the middle of the room, there was a bed with black blankets draped across it. A little blond boy was bent forward over a black notebook, carefully scribbling something inside.
"Hello?" said Mike, wondering desperately how the little boy had gotten in the house without his knowledge. How did all of these drawings get pinned into place since the last time he walked through every room of the house? Surely there wasn't even time to draw all these drawings. Where did this little boy come from?
And then the child looked up and his eye sockets were solid black. "Hello, Mike,” said the little boy.
Mike's heart stopped.
The boy looked up and smiled; his teeth were all jagged and sharpened and a shiny black color.
Mike tried to scream but found his voice stuck in his throat. And he turned and started to run down the hallway.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mike was running full speed ahead towards the front door. As soon as he got to it, he rattled the handle frantically, screaming.
He could hear the slaps of bare feet trotting along behind him. He turned and looked, but he didn't see the little boy. Then he turned and ran even farther. He saw one of the many generic bedrooms on the left. He charged inside, slamming the door quickly. No lock.
He turned and shoved the black mahogany dresser, scooting it slowly. It was incredibly heavy, but finally he got it in front of the door. He was panting, and his arms were covered in sweat. And he could still hear the slap slap of bare feet pacing in front of the door.
"Gregory?" Mike whispered, but then he grew a little bit braver. "Gregory!" he shouted.
There was no reply; he could just hear the tap of bare feet on tile. The child was pacing back and forth, and his black eerie eyes were still haunting him. The second his fist smashed into Wynne's face, she disappeared. Why this? Where did the boy come from?
Mike had an idea. Maybe he had punched her so hard that the ghost came popping out. It was the only thing that made sense to him. After all, how else did the boy get here? How did he have demon eyes? If he punched her, and the ghost came popping out… where did she go? Where did Gregory go?
Mike swallowed hard and closed his eyes tight. His hands went to his forehead as the pain between his eyes grew stronger. Where did they go?
Or… Where did he go?
He was still in the house, but what if… what if he somehow had pushed into a ghost realm? The idea turned his stomach. What if now he was dead? What if he was possessed?
Mike scanned the bedroom. It was identical to the one he stayed the night in. Empty, sterile, and identical. A small bathroom to one side. He was safe in here for now; nobody could get in with the dresser against the wall.
He tried to close his eyes and not imagine those hollow black eyes staring at him.
What the fuck just happened?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gregory stood there in a daze. He had just seen Mike throw his fist through Wynne. He leapt out of the seat to stop the man, but Wynne didn't even seem to get hit. Instead, the click was louder, more audible, and Mike had vanished. Where did he go?
"What just happened?" asked Gregory, though he wasn't particularly hoping that she did know. Because if she knew, then she knew a lot of terrible things.
"No idea." Her hand went up to her nose. "I have a bloody nose." She had tears too.
She sat down at the kitchen table and pinched her nose, trying to hold back weeping.
Gregory had enough of this. So he decided to do something. "I have two books about exorcisms. And I think that we should try St. Peter's method for removing demons. It's not… He's not much of a priest anymore. But he still, he is considered an authority. I gotta go grab the book and see what we need. We're going to do this," he said with a smile to the girl who was dripping blood and tears. "Come on. You make toast, I'll make us a ghost-fighting spell. Between the two of us, we will be fine."
"But what about Mike?” she said hesitantly.
"We will find him too,” said Gregory as he strode out of the room quickly. His hands were shaking, but he didn't want to let her know how afraid he was starting to feel. He didn't want to know how a
fraid he really was. If he could keep it from himself, all the better, because times were not good.
When he got to his backpack, he pulled out the book entitled St. Peter's Guide for Getting Rid of Ghosts. But the other book fell out of his bag.
The other book was entitled Witchcraft and Demons.
Gregory's hand paused when he saw the book and felt an immediate sense of embarrassment. That book was not one he wanted to show Wynne to get a pretty clear idea of the advice it was going to give, having read it cover to cover at least four times. It was not a game plan; it was more like unleashing an atomic bomb to get rid of the splinter.
Witchcraft was the last resort, a final and last resort, only after burning down the house with them inside. He quickly shoved it deeper into his bag. He didn't want anyone to see that book, not right now.
He grabbed St. Peter’s thick, heavy book and carried it back to where Wynne was sitting. Her head was lying on the table when he got back, and she seemed to be asleep. He quietly opened up the tome and flipped through it for the section he was looking for. Finally, he found it. "There are six things we need. Candles, salt, holy water, sage, a silver-backed mirror, and someone who's been possessed." He smiled at her. "Now, I don't know if we have all of this or not," Gregory said, still muttering to himself. He looked up at her again, and her skin was pale. Her cheeks seem thinner, as if they had been stretched. He stared at her, and he wondered if he was going to be able to save her, then he wondered if he was going to be able to save himself.
What happened to Mike?
Just then, the timer on the stove let out a loud ting.
Wynne sat up. "Now I just have to make it." She formed the dough inside the bowl until she had made two small loaves. She popped them into the oven, and they started to fill the air with their delicious scent.
Gregory went over the list again and frowned. "I'm a little concerned… Do you think we have any access to holy water?"
"Did you check Mike's bag?" Wynne said as she gently washed her hands. She wiped down all the counters, and the kitchen seemed to shine with a brightness. There was something comforting about someone baking in times of stress. Gregory felt her heart warmed, even though he was incredibly frightened.
"Good point,” said Gregory.
He walked into the formal dining room where the mirror had been shattered, and Mike's red backpack lay. He carefully started to go through the backpack, and there was a vial of unmarked water. Gregory would have to assume that this vial was holy water. On further examination, he realized he didn't know the difference between sage and… any of these other plants. But with any luck, the mirror would've been made from real silver. He picked up the largest piece he could find.
He wondered for a moment if Mike had read St. Peter's work. That was why he had some of these materials. Or… if he was just a charlatan and grabbed the things that seemed real. The things that people tended to ask for.
There was also a small silver cross. Gregory slid it into his pocket.
Fighting ghosts as a full grown man was just as terrifying as fighting them as a child. He took a deep breath and prepared himself.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mike awoke from a nightmare. The bedding had wrapped itself tightly around his throat, and he woke kicking and crying out. It took him a moment to untangle himself and another moment to stop panicking. The dresser was still shoved tightly in place against the door. He could hear a soft slap slap of bare feet in the hallway. Had the boy been pacing the whole time he slept?
The window would not open. He tried to bludgeon it with the little metal lamp that was on the side table. The window seemed impenetrable and didn't even flinch.
He could hear the slap of feet pausing at his doorway before they resumed. Occasionally, there was a soft whisper. "Will you come and play with me?" And every time the little boy said it, a shudder ran up Mike’s spine. His hair was on end, and fear crawled through his skin.
He tried to think. He couldn't go in the hallway. But the window wasn't an escape. He had already tried to break it, and it wouldn’t budge.
Carefully, he scanned the room for a vent to crawl through, but all of the vents were too small for more than an arm to slide into.
How long until he starved to death? Three days or something? And even then, he could probably eat the blanket.
He had water. Even a toilet, as it was not like there was an emergency situation.
And yet, he knew he was trapped. Or he could move the dresser to go back in the hallway and see what happened if he played with the boy.
He sat quietly on the bed and racked his brain for all of the things that he knew about ghosts. He’d been reading tarot cards, playing with Ouija boards, and holding séances for as long as he could remember. He first became fascinated when he was about ten years old. His mother had given him a Ouija board and said, "You are a man now, but be careful with the afterlife."
It seemed like such an absurd thing for his mother to say to him, but he wished he had taken her advice. Ten was neither a man nor old enough to mess with the afterlife. But still, it was one of his most cherished possessions throughout his childhood. He loved the idea that he might be able to speak to ghosts, even to his dad.
And there was the crux of the matter. That was why his mother told him he was a man at ten years old, and that was why he was fascinated with the afterlife. His father died when he was only nine and a half. In all these years, desperately trying to contact his father, what was his first sign of a ghost? Was it the man that he had been waiting for all these years? No. Not even close. Instead, it was some sort of monstrous little boy with solid black eyes. Instead, he managed to get himself into trouble. And yet…
"Dad? Can you hear me? If you can, knock a few times,” said Mike to the room. It was the same thing he had said about a thousand times to that Ouija board and his room when he was a boy.
Except this time, there was an answer. Knock, knock.
"Want to play with me?" said the boy on the other side of the door. Mike's stomach flipped.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The scent of fresh-baked bread curled through the kitchen. Wynne was carefully slicing it into thin slices. It was difficult to do, the bread easily crushing with her knife. Hot bread was not easy to cut. The inside almost balled up when it touched the knife.
"We should wait a few more minutes to cut it. But I don't want them to wait for their toast," whimpered Wynne. She was terrified, and anxious.
Gregory glanced up at her. Her hands were shaking. "If you need to wait, I'm sure a couple more minutes won't be a problem. I'm almost ready." He gestured at the formal dining room. There he had set up many different items, including salt in a circle. Five candles were arranged like the points of the star, just two inches inside the salt. At the very center of the circle were mirror shards carefully placed together so they resembled a hideous but functional mirror. The crystal ball that Calleo had knocked from the sky was back hanging in place. There was an eerie, somber feeling, as if there'd been a storm, and the outside lingered with fog.
There was a thickness in the air, and although the bread smell was prominent, the taste on his tongue was sour.
The air itself was thick. His lungs seemed heavy as he tried to breathe in and out. He quickly went back to the table, glancing up again through the open door to Wynne. She was still trembling and slicing the bread. When she finally sliced the whole loaf, she placed it carefully in the oven, broiling it for one minute on each side. They were only a few minutes away from having buttered toast.
Gregory still wasn't totally sure what the objective was with the toast, only that the little girl named Pear had told them to make it. And so, Wynne was making it.
He had every intention of saving Wynne. He went back and studied his books one more time. He wasn't totally sure what to do with the holy water yet. It seemed like maybe he was supposed to splash it on… Wynne?
She did seem to be the one possessed. Or, infected. He wasn't
really sure what to call it. She still seemed to have her faculties about her; she still knew how to make bread and hold a conversation. Only her eyes made him feel incredibly queasy. They had started off such a bright brown, and now the left eye was green, the right was yellow. She was odd-eyed.
She said the little girl Pear was also odd-eyed. He flipped back in his copy of St. Peter. At the end of the book, he found the phrase “odd-eyed.” He flipped to the following section.
Animals, particularly cats and dogs, can become odd-eyed. This may seem to be a genetic component, but in actuality, it is a spiritual component. The indication of having an odd eye, one eye not the color of the other, means power.. They can see into the layers of the afterlife. A particularly powerful odd-eyed animal can travel through the layers, in and out with ease. Cats, in particular, are known for this. It is one of the reasons why when they see something no human eye can behold, they run off scared. They are far more aware of the afterlife, of the ghosts, the demons around them than any other animal. An odd-eyed cat is a very powerful thing. Humans, as a note, have never been odd-eyed.
Chapter Thirty
Mike had been waiting patiently for the slap, slap of little feet to go silent. He was heading out there.
He was going to slay that little boy.
And he had a weapon. Well, weapon of sort. He pulled out the crucifix from underneath his shirt. It was large and solid silver. He wished he had a way to sharpen the points on the end so he could drive it into the ghost as needed.
The idea that he'd stab a ghost, even a boy, terrified him. But he had no other plan.
And so he slowly scooted the dresser as quietly as he could, one inch after another until, finally, the door was unblocked.
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