She almost went into the room.
Almost.
A sound arrested her movement before it began.
It was a dull thud, coming from a bit further down the hall. The sound of something solid hitting something solid. Not metal-on-metal. More like wood-on-wood, though that wasn't it, either.
She looked over, her body following the sound without conscious thought. She didn't feel bad about it, didn't feel bad about looking away from her son's sudden obsession with religious symbology. People are hardwired to look to the unknown, because sometimes that is the only thing that stops them from going mad. Even if knowing means only that you comprehend the manner of your demise, that is better to most people than the greater pains of ignorance. The infinite terror of our imagination allowed to ravage the dark halls of our mind.
Thud.
The sound repeated.
This time Alyssa pinpointed it. There was a small accent table next to the wall, about ten feet away. All dark wood and beautiful hardware.
The door to the front compartment had opened. Just a crack, but she worried suddenly that it would open further, that whatever was inside would spill out. That it would be fragile, of inestimable value.
And that it would break.
That's just what we need. Being on the hook for replacing the Holy Grail or whatever they have stashed in there.
She moved to the table and tried to push the door closed. Gingerly at first, then more firmly. The door wouldn't stay closed, and she could feel something behind it. Whatever had caused the thuds had wedged behind the door, forcing it partially open. Maybe something had fallen off a shelf inside the table, then fallen against the door.
Waiting to fall the rest of the way out and break.
Still, she kept pushing. Not wanting to open someone else's private things. Not wanting to intrude.
And, at last, giving up and intruding. But she looked up and down the length of the hall as she did so, as though worried that Blake or Mal or even Ruthie might come out and see her.
The door was barely open when a book fell out. She caught it, and it almost dragged her hands the rest of the way to the floor. Heavy. Wider than it was tall, and she could see that the individual pages were strangely thick, each one warped and yellowed.
The cover was blank. Just a black expanse of leather.
She opened the accent table's door the rest of the way. Nothing else was inside, just a short shelf (as she had expected).
She lifted the book to return it to its place.
Then stopped.
Another battle. Privacy locked with curiosity in a fight to the death.
There was no fooling herself this time. She couldn't rationalize what she wanted to do. It wasn't about saving someone's property, wasn't about saving herself and the family from possible liability.
She just wanted to see. To know.
Human beings are wired like that. The need to know.
She lifted the book. Put it on the shelf. Closed the door.
Then opened the door and took out the book and opened the cover.
Her hand went over her mouth. She turned the pages. She stifled a gasp that she knew would turn into a moan that she knew would become a scream.
She didn't stop turning the pages. People have to know.
The book was a photo album.
She had heard of pictures like these, but had never seen one. And she had certainly never seen – and never heard of – a grouping of them like this.
Page after page. Leaf after leaf.
They were memorial portraits. Old photos – she guessed they were from the late nineteenth century, maybe before – that featured the newly dead.
Some of the subjects lolled to the side. Others sat strangely upright, braced by an unseen harness or perhaps nailed to wooden frames. Their faces had also been posed: rictus grins and staring eyes. Cheeks that, even in sepia tones that had darkened with passing years, Alyssa could tell had been rouged.
All of the pictures featured children.
They all sat or lay or reclined on a high-backed chair. Alyssa felt something under her fingers and realized she was tracing one of the photos. It was a little girl, maybe two or three, in a long lace dress. She lay to the side, propped on one of the chair's arms. Eyes closed and hands under her cheeks as though she were asleep.
But something about her position. About the angle her body was in. She was not asleep. She couldn't be.
Alyssa ran her fingers around the girl, following the outline of the chair. It was strange, and strangely distinctive. The legs were filigreed, intricately carved in reliefs that could be made out even in the pictures.
The legs ended suddenly as a black cloth took over. The cloth draped over the top of the chair in a strange, lumpy shape: disturbing in its own right.
Alyssa felt as though she was in a trance, and with that realization came the ability to pull herself out of it. She jerked back to herself, and her fingers jerked away from the photograph of the dead girl.
She slammed the book shut. Pushed it back toward the table.
And something fell out of the book.
It was an envelope. Just as old and yellow as the pages in the book. Unmarked, the flap unsealed and hanging loose.
She put the book down. Opened the envelope, nearly hypnotized.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. It felt strange under her fingers. Nothing like the paper she knew, so crisp and flat. This was parchment paper. Thicker, somehow managing to feel both tougher and more fragile. Yellow with age.
The paper had was folded around something. A square sheet of something that was made of something different than the parchment, though she had no idea what. Like the parchment, the square was age-yellowed, curling up slightly at the edges. It said "Matthew, Jr." in faded cursive scroll.
Alyssa flipped the square over. And knew as she did how stupid she had been to do so, but now unable to stop herself.
It was another picture. A boy. Long, blond hair and what she suspected would have been intensely blue eyes. Dirty pantaloons, and a vest and jacket that looked like they had been put through a shredder.
He was sitting on the cloth-covered chair.
His throat had been slit. Blood running freely over his white collar.
Alyssa cried out, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She looked at Mal's room, expecting him to come out, to look for her and ask what was wrong.
He didn't.
Alyssa looked down and realized she had dropped the envelope and parchment paper.
And, like the picture of the dead boy, the paper had writing on the back of it.
Not a name, though. This time it was just a single word, in bold letters.
BEDROOM GAMES
The bedroom was as beautiful as the rest of the house, and somehow that just managed to piss Blake off even more.
Part of his anger came from the situation. The insect invasion that couldn't have come at a worse time. The fact that they had to live with fear every minute of every day because of Ruthie – whether she ever manifested any problems or not. The last project he was working on –
(and after that nothing after that what then nothing that's what)
– when a year ago he was juggling two dozen.
And, he knew, part of it was just the fact that Alyssa had found this place.
He had never thought of himself as a chauvinist. And maybe he wasn't. He didn't know. He'd have to think about it. Regardless, all he did know was that he felt like he was failing at his basic responsibilities.
Provide money for the family: fail.
Keep them in a nice house: on the verge of failing.
Keep them fed: who knew. A couple more months like this and beans and Spam would be a luxury.
And now, when an emergency hit, he wasn't the one to save the day. Sure, he'd arranged for the exterminators. But if it had been up to him they'd be staying at a motel, smaller and less comfortable for a higher price.
Alyssa found this place.
He knew he should be happy. He knew he should be proud to be married to a smart, resourceful woman.
And he was. He truly was.
But he also hated himself more than a little. And hating himself meant he hated her a bit, too. Because you can't hate yourself without hating the rest of the world.
He tossed his and Alyssa's bags on the bed – king size, solid, beautiful like everything else in this damn place – and then unrolled some architectural plans he'd brought with him on the card table he had already set up. He doubted he'd get much work done here. But he had to try.
He had to try. Maybe this last job would lead to one more. One more, then another.
Stupid thing to hope for, but it was all he had.
The laptop went up next. The owners of the place had left a card next to the bed with the WiFi security code written on it, so he was tapped into the internet seconds after the laptop turned on.
Of course they had a faster connection than the one he was providing for Alyssa and the kids.
He sighed, then tried to think what Alyssa would say. "Cheer up. Count your blessings and enjoy what you have while you have it."
She was right. And that was one of the reasons – one of the many, infinite reasons – why he loved her.
He smiled a bit.
Alyssa came in. He turned the smile up, directed it at her.
And the smile fell off his face when he saw the look on hers. She looked like she had just sat in on a war crimes tribunal. Or, worse, like Mal had finally realized that he wasn't the greatest child in the history of the world and had actually done something wrong.
"What is it?" he said.
Alyssa dropped something on the bed. She wiped her hands when it fell on the sheets, like what she held was covered in slime.
It was a book. Old-looking, leather cover and binding. Some kind of letter or envelope stuck out from between its pages.
Alyssa didn't speak. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Repeated the motion a few times. Blake moved toward her, his arms outstretched.
She jerked her head back and forth in a quick "no." Pointed at the book.
He felt curiosity and concern mix, a strange brew he couldn't remember experiencing at these levels before.
He opened the book. Turned a page. Then another. Not because he wanted to see, but because he couldn't believe it.
Children. Dead children.
He slammed the book shut. The sound was a thunderclap in the confines of the room. He felt it in his bones.
Or maybe that was just revulsion and fear. A new mix that had replaced the curiosity and concern.
"Has Mal seen –?" he began.
"No way," Alyssa said, so vehemently she almost shouted.
Blake stared at the thing on the bed. It lay there like a cocoon, bearing an unimaginable evil waiting to be born. Only this evil could be born and reborn, over and over and over, every time anyone cracked open the cover. "We should hide this from Mal," he finally said.
"We should burn it."
He looked at it again. Low, dark.
Evil.
He nodded. Picked up the book. It felt slick and slimy under his palms, and he understood now why Alyssa had wiped her hands after dropping it on the bed.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
He put the book in his suitcase, rearranging his clothing so the book lay at the bottom. "I'm hiding it. I'll get rid of it as soon as I can."
Alyssa looked suddenly uneasy. She stared at the mound of clothing that hid the book. "Maybe we shouldn't."
"What the hell –?"
"It belongs to the house."
And, just like that, Blake felt like he could do something for the family again. Felt like he wasn't just failing and failing. He could provide something needed, in this moment.
He could provide a decision, and reassurance that it was right.
"I don't care who it belongs to," he said. "It's disgusting. It's wrong." He held out his arms again, and this time Alyssa didn't refuse his embrace. "They probably won't even notice it's gone, and if they do we'll deal with it."
His wife looked at him. Maybe he imagined it, but he thought he saw something there that he hadn't seen in a while. He thought he saw her admiring him. Appreciating him.
Needing him.
"Thank you," she said.
He winked. "Baby down?"
She nodded. Looked around. "Do you think she'd be better off in here?"
And Blake decided again. He reassured again. He felt like a man again. "She's fine where she is. I mean if you really disagree, let's talk about it. But I think we're on the verge of collapse as it is. We need our space and our sleep."
He paused. Then grinned. The grin pulled his face tight, and it wasn't a stretched-thin kind of tightness. It was the pleasant pull of a good moment. Of happiness and confidence.
"Or at least," he said, "we need our sleep or a lack of interruptions if we decide not to sleep."
Alyssa laughed. A tired laugh, but she sounded happy, too. Happy like she hadn't really sounded since they got the news about Ruthie. And Blake wondered how much of that had been his fault. How much of her worry was the fault of his fears, his bitching and moaning, his terror that he too freely shared.
No more. I'll do better.
"Quite the Don Juan," Alyssa said.
"What can I say? Giant bugs eating me from the ground up always make me horny."
She kissed him. Softly. Not passionately. Lovingly. That was enough.
"It hasn't been long enough," she said. "Since Ruthie came."
Blake hugged her. Firmly, but without crushing her. "Babe, it's our second kid. I know the drill. I'll joke, but I'm not pressing. You just let me know when you're ready." Then he sighed melodramatically. "And if I simply explode from pent-up sexual frustration before then… well, you know where the life insurance policy is."
Alyssa giggled. "So romantic."
She kissed him. And this time it was more than simple softness. Heat crept in between them.
Then a bucket of water: a loud knock at the front door. Followed almost instantly by another, and then the doorbell ringing.
Alyssa made a sound that was a weird composite of moan and laugh. Blake knew exactly what she was feeling. He groaned, settling for a simpler version of the noise because he wasn't sure his throat could manage what hers was doing.
"Sorry," he said. "The office said they might courier over some papers." He headed for the door, then said. "At least it wasn't the kids."
Alyssa laughed again. He loved that sound.
He tossed out one last sally. "I think we might be cursed, honey."
And his wife stopped laughing. Stopped so fast he looked back to make sure she hadn't fallen down dead right there in the bedroom.
THIRD STEPS
Mal saw something moving outside his window and his whole body got tight, like it was deciding whether to yank itself into a ball and roll away or jump right out of the universe. Because his room – his borrowed room – was on the second floor. What would he see moving? Other than ghosts, or vampires, or maybe centipedes that were flapping their little legs so fast they had learned to fly?
It wasn't any of those things.
Baby. Stupid baby. How are you going to be an example to Ruthie? How are you going to protect her if you wet your pants at everything?
It was no evil monster. It wasn't even anything outside his window. Not right outside his window, anyhow.
He had seen the flash of a bike out of the corner of his eye. Driving up and skidding to a stop at the curb in front of the house. Maybe he'd seen the rider running up to the porch, too. He wasn't sure. If he had, he couldn't see the rider now.
He looked at the bike. He had seen the type before, always belonging to guys who brought stuff to his daddy. The bike looked cheap, just a bare frame that seemed like it had been made out of a wire hangar. But Mommy and Daddy had both told him at different times that these bikes weren't just fast.
These bikes flew.
They had no brakes. A lot of them didn't even have pedals. The riders took off everything that didn't move them forward, and all that was left was a bike that looked junky but could outrun the family car.
A knock on the front door startled him. Only for a second.
Get over it, Mal. Be a man.
He kept staring at the bike. Wondering what it would be like to ride that fast. To move so quickly that he got hired to deliver important papers.
It'd be cool.
Another knock, and this time he didn't jump at all. Well, barely. Then the doorbell rang.
He was totally cool as ice.
Feet pounded by in the hall. He heard Daddy yell, "Coming, coming!"
A second later, there were more thuds, also running.
He figured it must be Mommy. She didn't yell.
A second later, he heard a third set of thuds. Thud-THUD. Thud-THUD.
The sound of someone limping.
Mommy.
The little hairs all over his body stood up so high and hard he felt like they might pull right off. Just rip away, pull his skin with them, and leave him nothing but bones and blood and inside gunk.
Daddy.
Mommy.
And who had run by between them?
SPECIAL DELIVERIES
Blake took the treads two at a time. "Coming, coming!" he said, and said it again every third step he took. "Coming, coming!" As though it was a counter-password that would be required to receive whatever the courier might have for him.
It wasn't that. Just a simple case of sexual frustration. He had meant what he said to Alyssa: he was content to wait. That was fine.
But the kissing had been nice. More than nice. And to have someone show up at the perfect time to buzz-kill a rare moment of "nice"… that was frustrating. He felt like he had to do something about it. So he could either –
(beat the kids beat the wife kill them all)
– start screaming or laughing hysterically or both, or he could find some more appropriate way to vent. Apparently his vent was to say "Coming, coming," over and over and over.
And just as he hopped off the stairs he realized how else that word could be taken. And he honestly couldn't tell if it was simple coincidence or the kind of thing that would make Freud giggle in his grave.
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