by L. B. Carter
A rustle whispered into Henley’s ear, and she turned fast enough to send a crick of pain through her neck.
Eyes darting around, she took in a massive kitchen on the edge of which she hovered. In fact, there was no hallway—the entire half of this floor of the house was a kitchen. An empty table with an empty painted bowl sat near the window to her right. Counter-tops and cabinets spanned the side walls, and a huge stove and hood dominated the back wall next to a fridge. A counter, bisected by a deep rusted sink, parallel to the right wall, was giving the illusion of a hallway. Across from it, stairs ascended into darkness. On her left was an opening into the southern half of the floor plan. There was a couch and fireplace and not much else. It all appeared whole beneath the layer of filth—disused rather than abused.
“Excuse me?” That was too breathy for anyone to hear beyond herself. The stillness alluded to vacancy, yet there had been a noise.
With rising tension, Henley wished more of her was programmed to detach from her senses as desired. Tech could not be hampered by fear. Nothing could intimidate Henley’s creations.
On the other hand, her project proved that sometimes a little reluctance to wander into an unknown environment was prudent. Perhaps she should go. No one was home. They’d have to try somewhere else.
She twisted toward the door when the sound again slithered down the stairs—the hushed shifting of fabric.
Clothes? She imagined a ghost, wearing a sheet like kids used to wear for Halloween, hovering at the top of the stairs, waiting for her to come into its lair.
If there was anything illogical in her fears thus far into her adventure beyond BTI’s well-manicured lawns, it was ghosts. She didn’t believe in the supernatural. She was an engineer. Well, an almost-engineer. One who was attempting to reach her family, which would be an impractical task without running transportation. Just how much fuel was left in the car, she was unaware. It might not even get them back down the treacherous driveway.
Attempting to shake off the apprehension raising her arm hair, Henley started up the stairs, again testing to ensure they weren’t too precarious. A few creaked, but they held. A shoe print or two in the grime proved their resilience. They seemed fairly fresh.
“Hello? Sorry to intrude. We need help.”
The top of the stairs gratefully presented no spirits and levelled into a hallway. Two doors, one on either side, stood open. A third and fourth mirrored behind her were closed. A flickering light emanated from the one on her right.
Henley didn’t know if that reassured or petrified her. Her legs felt unsteady yet reluctant to budge.
All right, it was fear.
Clenching and opening a fist with her good hand helped prod her in the direction of the presumably occupied room. She wasn’t weak.
Her feet were quiet as she tip-toed. Holding a breath and raising her fist at chest level, she decided she wanted to take Sirena up on that offer of sparring to learn how to properly use her asset.
Directly ahead of her in the sparsely furnished room was an empty rocking chair, which was, as it should be, still, though in the flickering light it cast long, thin shadows gamboling on the walls and ceiling, distorted by the ninety-degree corner of the room.
Peering around the door frame, she noticed a bedside table next to her, supporting a flickering candle stub and next to that a bed—a lumpy bed.
Daring to step inside the room, she trod a little closer, breath high in her throat, head craning to see from above. Were they sleeping at this time of day?
She was almost beside the bed when Henley noticed the thin, crusted white hair on the pillows and barely withheld her scream. With rising devastation quelling the horror, she followed the hair down to the wrinkled, slack faces of an elderly couple tucked peacefully under a checkerboard quilt. The mouth of the one closest was agape, and her white eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling, covered in a thick, milky film.
They were dead.
Henley clapped a hand over her mouth, tears immediately blurring the morbid scene. Whether from dehydration or something else, the culprit was hidden in their final muteness.
Henley took a step back toward the door, feeling like a heavy shadow was lacing stickily over her skin. She didn’t want to be here. Her misdeeds were numerous over the last day or two, but death was not something she wanted associated with her presence. The scene gutted her, imparting severity on what had almost been her fate at BTI—what might be Bromley’s fate if this discovery proved to be the final obstacle in their journey.
The candle hadn’t burned very long, the wax barely dripping. They must have passed recently. Henley had just missed saving them.
It was a little romantic in the skipping light with the fluid coating her eyes layering the couple’s final resting place in a dream-like filter. They went together—not terrified and alone, leaving the rest of their family behind like Daddy.
The candle’s flame flared.
Henley’s back hit the door frame and she uttered a startled gasp, then blew out a heavy breath, laughing that she had scared herself so thoroughly.
The woman’s head turned slowly toward the sound, eyes still unblinking.
Henley’s terrified scream was still vaulting out of her lungs as she tripped and fell, rolling down the stairs. Scrambling upright, she slammed right into Buster’s chest as he strode through the front door.
“No! Go, go, go,” she blubbered into his chest, trying to shove him back out the door. He was immovable.
“What happened?” he demanded, grasping her shoulders.
“Go,” she pushed again, and more out of his concession than her strength, the two stepped back through the screen onto the porch.
Though the sun was almost down, the spaciousness of the setting and light cascading around the house allowed some of Henley’s panic to dissipate, snatched up by the dry breeze. Buster’s massive frame, which she suddenly realized was holding her close, did not feel as agoraphobia-inducing as the dank interior of the old building that truly held only death and horror.
“What happened?” Reed repeated Buster’s question. Bus had sounded concerned. Reed sounded set, like he was prepared for battle.
Henley sobbed into Buster’s solid chest, trying to find the science behind her hallucination. She did not believe in zombies or…or… reincarnation or whatever had animated that corpse. She was dehydrated. She hadn’t slept much. She had encouraged her imagination. She had been wishing for her dad back, and her mind had conjured a resurrection like the Monkey’s Paw. Every time she attempted to inhale enough air to speak, it fell back out of her in jittery wails. “A… person,” she hiccupped. “Two. Upstairs.”
“Well… that’s what we hoped wasn’t it?” Reed was baffled.
Henley shook her head, unable to gather her frayed wits enough to explain more adequately. “De—Dead. But—”
There was a respectful silence penetrated only by Henley’s heaving sobs.
“Then we can just check around to see if they left any water.”
“No!” Henley’s protest was feeble, but Jen paused, her blurry outline waiting for Henley to extrapolate.
“I’ll go.” Reed’s leap onto the porch was audible before the creak of the screen announced his departure.
She tried to turn, to summon Reed back, but Buster didn’t let go. Henley attempted to get her breathing under control before she hyperventilated. The faint smell of Buster’s sweat permeated her nose. It wasn’t bad. She had assumed with the amount of grease on his scalp, his glands were overactive in other ways. His hygiene was not as neglected as she’d dismissed. Although, she recalled with rue none of them had cleaned up since the T. The odor of his shirt and of him cleared out the lapping tendrils of candle smoke and tomb-like staleness from her nose, encouraging her to shake off the fright she’d given herself.
A few more tears continued to leak out at the renewed emotions for her dad, but she vowed to his memory to ensure Bromley didn’t follow him too soon.
&nbs
p; “Are you okay?” Buster asked, his deep voice so soft it almost emanated directly, rumbling osmotically, from his chest to her cheek.
She nodded against him and straightened away, as she pulled back to run her forearm under her streaming nose, suddenly feeling embarrassed, sniffling back the last lingers of that deathly shadow that had enveloped her, Buster’s hug having replaced it welcomingly.
“Reed!” she called though the door in a vehement stage-whisper. “Don’t.” She paced around. She couldn’t hear anything. Then a startled “Oh!” from inside sent Henley like a jolt to the car door, wrenching it open. “We have to go!” she frantically urged everyone who was still standing bewildered around the house-front. “Now! We’ll have to leave Reed—”
“Now I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing,” Reed drawled, leaning casually against the door frame, a smirk gracing his relaxed face. “Especially when I’m being offered pie.” He stepped back, holding the frame open. “C’mon in. This little lady couldn’t even bite if she wanted to.”
“Wha—?” Henley balked, agog.
“What’s going on?” Nor demanded.
“See for yourself.”
“It’s not dangerous?” Sirena hovered behind Nor, keeping him between her and the porch.
Reed chortled. “If you can’t take a blind and mostly deaf elderly woman, then I have no faith in your boxing coach.” He shook his head. “Suit yourselves. More pie for me.” Then he vanished inside. He was back in a second to gloat, “Told you you should’ve sent me. Unbeatable.” He winked and was gone again.
There was a pause. “What kind of pie?” Jen conceded, intrigued despite Henley’s alarm. “It better not be high in protein.” She also disappeared.
“What did you see?” Buster asked, his focus on Henley. His eyes were open, deep, accepting her opinion readily though he remained aloof on the outside. “Was it an old woman?”
Henley nodded, jerkily. “Y-yes, but—”
Nor ran a hand through his hair, relieved. “Well, we’d better stop Reed from charming any woman. If she’s elderly, her heart might not take it.” He jogged up the steps and through the door, Sirena following.
“But—” Henley gritted out, pausing Sirena at the door.
Her head tilted to the side waiting.
Henley couldn’t very well tell them all that the woman was dead. Clearly that was false. Scientifically.
Merriment and laugher broke out inside the dilapidated structure, and Sirena glanced inside, a contagious smile widening her thin lips. She joined.
Henley reluctantly made eye contact with Buster, who hadn’t moved from where she’d left him in her rush to reach the car, feeling ashamed. She certainly had spooked herself. “I thought she was one of BTI’s models,” she mumbled an excuse, pathetically, in an attempt to validate her overreaction. It wasn’t all that far-fetched. The woman had moved as stilted and stared as unseeingly as the ballerina at Faneuil. Some of the devices Henley worked with seemed more human than she had.
Henley’s hand flexed.
For once, Buster’s detached nature was appreciated. He exuded no contempt or scorn for the mistake though Reed’s reaction was gleefully coaxing mortification to overpower lingering disquietude in Henley.
“Let’s go in.” Buster persuaded, waiting for her to make the first move. “Facing your fears is the fastest way to rid yourself of them.”
The next spider Henley saw was likely to disprove that hypothesis. Hiding her humiliation, Henley stomped into the huge kitchen in front of Buster. She had to reinstate her female pride—she certainly hadn’t made Jen proud by dissolving into an emotional mess.
∆∆∆
“My little Lindy will be here soon with the keys,” the hunched-over old woman promised again from her seat at the end of the table by the wall.
If the woman were an android, the camera feed would be useless. Her milky eyes stared vaguely in Henley’s direction since Henley hadn’t moved farther into the room than the patch of light at the base of the stairs.
The square on the floor had faded into the pale silver of moonlight. It was another metallic color with which Henley felt comfort. The second advantage to remaining standing at that location was that the door was only two steps away.
“No rush, Mrs. Juarez. I’ll just have another piece of pie.” Reed helped himself. “It’s as sweet as you are to offer it.”
Nor groaned. “There he goes, laying it on.”
“Does that usually work for you?” Jen scoffed.
“Well.” Reed shoveled a bite into his mouth, speaking around the pastry. “She did offer me pie in addition to promising a vehicle, unlike Horror-movie Henley over there, so I think I’ve made clear my superiority.” He swallowed. “What were you saying about women being better than men?”
“A woman made the pie, and a woman is bringing us transportation when yours failed.” Jen swiped the fork from him and stole a massive bite, clacking her teeth together, grinning cruelly through berry-red teeth. It looked like she was bleeding again.
“She gave it to me, willingly. If you’re jealous, you could give me—”
“I just love sinking my teeth through these berries’ flesh.” Jen licked the juice from her lip enticingly.
Reed’s jaw muscle clenched as she reestablished her hint about chomping.
“We can’t wait too long,” Buster hounded.
Nor shot him a look while Mrs. Juarez repeated her prediction.
“Won’t be long, mi niña. She knows not to stay out after dark.” She dissolved into a fit of hacking coughs, pulling a ragged handkerchief from her sleeve and hunching under her shawl until only the balding crown of her head was visible.
“Are you ill?” Nor asked unnecessarily, once she had recovered and leaned back in her chair with Reed’s assistance.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged, and he flashed a triumphant grin at Jen, who retaliated by swapping his plate with her empty one and taking another vengeful bite.
“It’s nothing,” Mrs. Juarez answered Nor, waving the gnarled knuckles wrapped around the scrap. “I just picked it up from—” She gestured toward the stairs with another lung-rattling hack. “Poor soul. He’s getting on in years, mi tio.”
Her uncle? He had to be ancient. Henley accepted that news as further sound reasoning for her wrongful assumption. It was surprising he’d lasted this long. Undoubtedly, he would be the corpse Henley thought he was soon if he was worse off than the frail shell of a woman in front of them. She had clearly lost considerable weight with the way her baggy clothes hung on her skeletal frame and the skin of her cheeks drooped off her skull.
Sirena hummed in sympathy, broken fingernails scratching into the wood of the table. When Nor placed a hand over hers, she yanked hers out from underneath as though he were a live wire, breathed out slowly, and then placed her hand back on his.
“Sirena recently lost her Grandpa,” Nor explained gravely.
“Was he also sick?” The woman’s lilting speech and lengthy pauses made it sound almost like poetry.
“No, it was very sudden. Natural disaster.” Nor’s hand patted Sirena’s, and she swallowed, her green hair falling around her face. It was a benefit that Mrs. Juarez couldn’t see her bizarre guests, welcoming them in without concern.
“That storm last week?” Jen said interestedly. “Was it the storm surge, or did it—”
“I’m trying to get back to my family,” Henley voiced and blushed when everyone turned to her, even Mrs. Juarez, listening for more.
Sirena gave a grateful little smile.
Henley shifted on her feet. Buster’s mouth had puckered. That was supposed to be a secret. Life was uncertain and fragile. Secrets shouldn’t be held into the grave. “I need—”
A startled peep announced the arrival of “little Lindy” behind Henley, coming in the door without so much as a creak.
Turning, Henley found Lindy was quite little indeed. But when she stepped into that sliver of moonlight, letting the screen
door slap lopsided against the frame behind her, the sharp lines creasing her cheeks by her mouth and the lustrous grey strands sporadically streaking her long dark hair belied an age greater than Henley had anticipated.
“Who are you?” she demanded, thick brows lowering over incredibly long lashes. Her voice was a little raspy and grating. “Mama?” If Mrs. Juarez was her mother, it was clear life in the Midwest was incredibly aging. Lindy might not be as old as she appeared.
The arthritic arm jutted out, and Lindy darted over, dropping to a crouch beside her mama. “What are you doing out of bed?” she scolded. “You need to rest.” Her censuring look transferred to the troupe of miscellaneous young adults sitting around her kitchen table. Since the candle had been relocated to the center of the bowl, the shadows of her brows darkened her eye sockets like an unfinished ’bot, so the intended glare was lost yet simultaneously all the more effective.
“Si, si. I was. Until I gave this poor child a fright.” She couldn’t know which, so her gesture waved over all of them. “They’d like to borrow our truck, niña.”
Lindy’s mouth pulled down on either side, accentuating her cheek creases into dark canyons. “I see. And who are they to go around demanding others’ hard-earned possessions?”
“We’re—” Reed began with a smarmy smile, leaning forward over the empty plate, drawing Lindy’s attention.
“And they ate Tio’s birthday pie?” Lindy’s mouth dropped into an O-shape, and she rose slowly to a stand, staring in distress at the half-eaten confection and the culprits sat guiltily around its remains like vultures. “That you made with the last of our berries and flour?”
Reed’s mouth snapped audibly shut, and he slumped.
“They are guests,” Mrs. Juarez justified, too generous for her own good. “I couldn’t not offer them some nourishment while they waited. These are hard times.”
“Yes, they are,” Lindy snapped. “Guests. It seems to me they are intruders.”