by James Hunt
Chapter 6
By the time Owen shifted into park and turned off the engine outside the house, Chloe was fast asleep. Her head was tilted to the side, her mouth was open, and a little pile of drool had formed on her shoulder. “Like mother, like daughter.”
Owen lifted her out of the seat and placed her tiny furnace of a body over his shoulder as she remained asleep. He shut the van door and turned to the house. He stopped at the sight of the muddy tracks that led up to the front porch steps and open front door.
Owen shifted Chloe in his arms and scanned the property as he walked toward the door. He didn’t see Roger in the trees or the field.
“Roger?” Owen’s voice echoed in the massive living room, but only the old floors groaned in response to his footsteps. He followed the mud tracks through the living room and into the dining room, and that’s when he started to hear it.
A low mumble, like chanting. There was a rhythm to it, and it echoed through the walls down the hallway. Owen followed it past his own bedroom on the first floor and back toward the closed door of the spare bedroom where the tracks ended.
Owen glanced at Chloe still asleep on his shoulder and knocked, unsure what Roger was doing on the other side. “Roger? You all right?”
More mumbles answered, and Owen jiggled the door knob. Locked. He returned to the dining room and pulled out one of the chairs. “I’m gonna set you down, okay sweetheart?” Owen gently placed her in the chair, and she grumbled something as she folded her hands on the table and laid her head down.
Owen returned to the room and pressed his ear against the door and heard more mumbling. He pounded on the old wood with his palm. “Roger, you need to open up right now!” Nothing.
Owen rammed his shoulder into the door, and the old wood buckled but didn’t break. He backed up, giving himself a running start, then rushed the door again. Wood splintered off from the frame and the door flung open. Owen stumbled three steps before stopping and saw Roger on his back, his eyes staring at the ceiling, soaking wet.
Owen knelt by the old man’s side and gently took his hand. “Roger, can you hear me?” He cupped his father-in-law’s cheek, but the old timer didn’t react, only repeating his rhythmic nonsense. And his skin was ice to the touch.
Owen leaned closer to Roger’s mouth, trying to understand what was being said, but it might as well have been a foreign language.
Chulung-Oola-Awaola-May. Chulung-Oola-Awaola-May. Chulung-Oola-Awaola-May.
“Daddy?” Chloe poked her head around the door frame, rubbing her eyes sleepily.
Owen left Roger to his nonsense and scooped Chloe off the floor and jogged down the hallway with her in his arms, then dropped her on the couch in the living room. “Sweetheart, I need you to stay right here and don’t move, okay?”
Chloe’s eyes widened, and she nodded as Owen ran out to the van and grabbed his phone. He dialed 911 and returned to the room where Roger was still on his back, mumbling the same words over and over.
The operator picked up. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“Hi, I need an ambulance for my father-in-law. He’s an Alzheimer’s patient, and I think he might have hurt himself.”
Owen nodded along and answered the operator’s questions as the woman assured Owen that help would get there soon. He pressed two fingers into the side of the old man’s neck and checked his pulse. It was racing. Owen pinched Roger’s wet sleeve and then touched the floors of the room and noticed that they were wet too. The whole damn room was wet.