“Alice…”
Her mother’s voice was desperate. Hopeless. Beaten. Suddenly, the fingers disappeared from the hole. Alice dropped to one knee and stared out, trying to see what was happening.
“No, you stay away from me. Fucking get away, stop, stop—”
Something flashed in front of the door. It was only there for a split second. Something pink.
Debra moaned and was silenced with a muffled thud as she fell out of Alice’s view. Then there was only stillness.
“Mom?” she whispered, staring out the hole.
A long shadow appeared, and a dark figure shuffled out in the hall. Alice turned away from the hole, pressing her back to the door.
There was a knock on the door.
It was soft, slow, a steady beat of three, four, five knocks. Tears ran down Alice’s face as she prayed, begged, that the sound would stop, that whoever was out there would leave her be. The knocks subsided, and for a moment, she heard nothing at all, just the thrum of her own heart. The silence was finally broken by the sounds of something heavy being dragged through the empty house. Down the hall. Up the stairs. Finally, out of the reach of her ears entirely.
There was nothing left for her. Everything she knew, the world she inhabited, was gone, washed away in the span of a few short days. When the house had grown completely silent and she worked up the nerve, she picked up the doorknob and slipped the metal rod back into place. Acting entirely on instinct, she fiddled with it for a few seconds. The latch clicked open, and the door swung free, creaking loud enough to echo in the ghostly silent house.
There was the diary. Left just in front of the door. A present. A gift. A thought occurred to her, an image so grotesque and yet somehow perfect, somehow true. This house was alive, hungry, and she, sweet little foolish Alice, was slowly feeding her family to it. And what did she get in return? Words scratched onto a page.
She stood there, frozen for a moment, not wanting to touch it, not wanting to move. The painting was across from her, angled so she couldn’t see it from where she stood. All she needed to do was move forward, a step, maybe two, and there it would be. But Alice didn’t need to look. She knew exactly what she would find. Beside the doorway to her right were a few drops of blood. So little of it, like someone had dripped a bit of paint.
She’s dead.
Alice hated the voice now, but she didn’t have the strength to argue with it. It felt inevitable that her mother was dead now, that Alice would find her and Dean both dumped into the frozen pool, their eyes glazed, still surprised, still amazed that they were no longer among the living. Her mind went in reverse, playing back the scene like a DVR, and she saw Frank carrying the bodies, throwing them in one after the other, and if her imagination went forward, she would no doubt see him dumping her in as well.
Why?
It was her voice this time, the usual, quiet, meek voice, and it was a fair question, one she couldn’t answer. This scene was a puzzle plagued with too many missing pieces.
Was the house haunted? Had it somehow taken control of her father, turning him into something closer to Walker, the first iron-fisted parent? Was it Mary, a bloodthirsty spirit hungry for revenge?
Though tempting, none of those answers felt possible. They were still wrong in their own ways. Alice put one foot forward, carefully stepping over the diary, afraid that it might jump up and attack her if she got too close. Once she was safely past it, she looked up at the painting and found what her mind had already told her would be there. The family had changed, the black paint still wet where the crude X had been drawn over the mother. The sight of it made Alice burst into a fresh round of quiet tears. This was it, then. This was what the world was, what her life had become. Her family, the most important people in the world to her, had become nothing more than a series of check boxes being ticked off, one after another.
A grocery list.
Yes. That felt about right. There were no answers, none that she could find, only a silent house filled with the echoes of her lost family.
A noise echoed from the other end of the house, cutting through her tears. The front door rattled. Unlocked. Swung open. The winter blew in, the very sound of it bone-chilling.
“Debra?” Frank called, stomping off his feet again.
It’s him. You know it’s him, and you know what’s next.
“I can’t believe it, but there’s almost eight inches out there. I don’t think we’ve had snow like this in twenty years.”
Why was he talking to a house if he knew it was nearly empty?
You know why. He’s playing dumb. He’s putting on a show for you, to make you feel better. To put you at ease.
“I walked all the way to the road. It’s completely shut down. Unless the cops have four-wheel drive, I don’t see how they’ll get up here.”
Alice stared down at the drops of blood, at the diary, and back up at the dripping X on the wall.
You don’t have much time.
Alice picked up the diary and darted into her room.
Chapter Sixteen
Alice could hear him moving through the house. He was in the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards, the fridge. Usual dad stuff.
“You see anything of Dean?” he asked his nonexistent wife.
Alice didn’t reply, and she didn’t hesitate. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he came looking around the rest of the house; she ran to her closet and began to bundle up. A hooded sweatshirt, boots, gloves, anything that she could find quickly that would keep her warm. She didn’t have a plan, not a real one. All she wanted to do was put distance between them.
You’re afraid of him, the voice whispered. You should be.
“Debra? Alice?”
He was closer now, maybe even in the hall. Alice pulled on her other boot and froze.
“What happened to the door?” he asked.
She held her breath and slipped into the closet, immediately thinking of spiders – brown recluses – and centipedes. She pushed into the curtain of hanging clothes and pulled the door closed to a slit.
“What did you guys do when I was—”
He was there now, just outside the bathroom door, surely close enough to see the drops of blood and the newly painted X on the wall.
“Oh my god…”
The fear in his voice. Was it real? It sounded genuine, but how could she trust it? Was it just another part of the game he was playing?
It sounds like he’s scared, the quiet Alice said, speaking up and making herself heard. I don’t think he’s that good at acting.
“Alice!” he screamed, bolting into the room, throwing the door open. “Debra!” He tore out of the room, his heavy boots clomping their way through the house. It was now or never. If she was going to make a run for it, this was her only chance.
But where would she go? What would she do? The closest neighbors were probably half a mile away through snow the likes of which she’d never seen in her life. It was foolish. No, it was fatal, a mistake that would undoubtedly take her life.
Frank’s voice boomed from every corner of the house, but Alice merely slunk down to the floor, hiding like…a rabbit in a hole. It was all she knew to do. She waited there, quietly, patiently, until the footsteps drew closer. Frank barreled back into the room, breathless.
“Alice?”
She could hear him, striding across the room, checking under the bed, behind the curtains. There was nothing left to do. He was coming; she slipped the diary under her sweatshirt and prepared herself.
The closet door flung open, and there he stood, red-faced from both the snow and his furious run through the house. He looked confused to find her there, as if he expected her to already be gone.
To already be eaten.
“Alice, Jesus, what happened?”
Don’t be fooled.
The comp
eting voices inside her argued, but they both agreed on one thing. This game wasn’t over, and if she didn’t play it, she might never know the truth. Alice decided to play the game. Until she knew more, it was the only choice she had.
“Daddy,” she said, leaping into his arms. He hugged her back, and despite her fear, her mistrust, it felt good. He picked her up and squeezed her tightly, and she wondered how this man could possibly be the cause of what had happened.
Don’t fall for it.
But she did, and when he carried her over to the bed and set her down, she felt part of herself breaking.
“What happened, Alice?” he asked, wiping the tears off her cheeks.
“I was in the bathroom, and someone took the doorknob off. I…I couldn’t get out, and I heard Mom yelling at someone.”
“Who? Did you see anything? Anything at all?”
Why does he want to know what you saw?
Alice considered the question carefully, making sure not to hesitate too long. “No. I didn’t see anything. I just heard her screaming, and she came down the stairs, and it sounded like people fighting. And then…it just got quiet.”
Frank was shaking his head, as if the details were too impossible to imagine. “There was someone here?”
Alice stared at him, studying him. “Yes. I don’t know who.”
“And the cops?” he asked. “Did they ever show up?”
She shook her head.
“Jesus,” he said, stomping his foot. “What the hell is going on here?”
He turned to leave the room, and Alice felt a twinge of fear; despite her suspicions, he was the only thing standing between her and certain doom.
After all…it will be dark soon.
The dark was coming, and the only thing worse than being alone in this house was being alone in the dark.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Don’t leave. Don’t go upstairs.”
“Why? I need to keep looking, and she might be up there. I need to—”
“That’s where it took her.”
Frank’s brow creased and he slipped his arm away from her. “It?”
“I…I don’t know. But you can’t go up there alone.”
Frank leaned out of her bedroom, into the hall, and peered up the stairs.
“Dammit,” he said under his breath. She’d never seen him so jittery, so breathless, her calm, easygoing father. It only deepened Alice’s conviction that he wasn’t the same anymore. That something had changed him somehow.
He’s becoming like Walker.
He grabbed her hand and dragged her into the kitchen, where he rifled through the bills and mugs that littered the counter, a search that quickly became frantic.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“What?”
“My phone…my fucking phone, it was right here.”
He was in full panic mode then, his rising terror making her feel sick to her stomach.
“Did you see it?” he asked. “Mine or Mom’s?”
Alice didn’t have an answer.
“Where the fuck is it?” he yelled as he slammed his hand on the counter, hard enough to knock a glass loose inside one of the cupboards. He turned back to Alice and stared. “You heard footsteps?”
She nodded.
“Any of them coming from the kitchen?”
She nodded again.
“Come on.” He led them down the hall. Alice’s feeling was growing, the feeling that the house was against them, that it was alive and hungry, that it was stalking them as if they were a family of rabbits, saving the youngest for last.
Frank took a quick detour to the unfurnished den and dug around in some boxes. He finally found a toolbox and tested out a handful of weapons. A screwdriver. A box cutter. Finally, he settled on a claw hammer, which he held in front of himself, testing its weight. He swung it once, twice, then met Alice’s stare. The mad gleam in his eyes was a shocking thing to see, as if he were mentally preparing himself to kill someone.
Again…
“Stay close,” he said, going up the stairs.
The house creaked as they ascended, each step whining as if it were alive, as if it didn’t want to be stepped on.
This was where it happened.
No. Not now, Alice thought desperately.
But this was the place. Right here. Maybe on that step. Or that one. Do you think he pushed her?
Stop it, she thought. Stop it now.
Frank walked in front, hammer held at his side, taking each step slowly, carefully, as if he expected something to leap from the landing at any moment.
I bet he made it look like an accident. Just blamed it on the rickety stairs. I wonder if her neck broke on that step there, just where your foot is.
The house was a tomb; the only sounds were the creaking stairs and the endless, rushing howl of the wind and snow. If Mom and Dean were still here, where could they be?
Alice and her dad reached the landing, Alice’s heart beating so hard she worried, dimly, that she was having an asthma attack like she did when she was younger, that she might pass out. Her lungs felt strange; the stress of everything was tightening her chest, making it hard for her to take in air. Frank heard her breathing, and he glanced back, a look of concern in his dark eyes. He reached down, took her hand, and squeezed it. It was a small gesture, but enough to bring her back from whatever brink she’d been standing on.
They checked the empty room to the right of the landing, found it empty, untouched. Down the long hall they went, past the crawl-space door. Frank strode by it without a word, but Alice stopped, pulling him back. He turned, and without a word, she pointed at the small door.
The small metal hook was unlatched.
Frank nodded and carefully opened it, hammer raised. The same pile of old junk greeted them, just as it had before. Frank leaned closer, peering in. There was nothing but more darkness hiding within. He silently closed the door.
The bedroom at the end of the hall loomed, darker than normal. When they approached, the reason was clear. Snow had covered the skylight overhead, and without the lights on, the room was pitch black. Frank flipped the switch and methodically searched the room. Under the bed, in the closets, in the bathroom. It was empty.
“There’s nothing here.”
His voice was swallowed in the cold silence of the house.
“There’s nothing here.”
There was bitterness in his voice, a raw, sore pain that spoke of deep loss.
“There’s nothing here.”
And there it was, a sudden change, as quick as a bolt of lightning on a sunny day. The grief was gone. In its place was something darker. Something accusing. Frank turned and looked at his daughter, his baby, his sweetie, with a curdled stare.
“Daddy…”
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked, taking a step forward.
“Dad…”
“There’s no one here!” he yelled. “Explain that to me.”
“I don’t know. I…I was stuck in the bathroom.”
“You said you heard them upstairs, right?”
“Yes…I mean, that’s what it sounded like.”
“That’s what it sounded like?” He laughed, a chuckle that bled into a cruel, bitter groan. “We’re talking about sounds now?”
Alice realized she’d been backing out of the room. Her eyes were fixed on the hammer, on her father holding it like a gun, like something unpredictable, something that might go off if you weren’t careful with it. She could see the white lines of his knuckles as he gripped it.
“I’m sick of this shit,” he said, marching forward slowly. “I’m tired of these games, Alice. I’m your father.”
She was halfway down the hall now. Tears were running freely down both cheeks.
“Stop that,” he said, stompin
g the floor. “Stop that damn crying. You always do this whenever things get hard. You cry. It doesn’t do you any good, do you understand that?”
She had her hands up, tracing her finger tips on the wall, careful to steady herself, to keep from falling. When her fingers brushed across the banister, she cried out, a weak, soft cry. She sounded like a small animal, a creature too pitiful to do anything other than cry.
This is it, the voice whispered. This is where he does it.
“This isn’t a game,” Frank said. “Your brother and your mother are missing. This is your last chance.”
She stepped onto the landing, felt the breeze coming up from the steps. The cold air kissed her cheek, and goose bumps ran up both arms, an electric feeling, as if her skin were anticipating what was coming.
He’ll use the hammer. They won’t notice. You’ll be covered with bruises once you hit the bottom, so they won’t notice at all.
“If you know anything, I mean, anything, about where they are, you better…tell…me…now.…”
She glanced down; her boots neared the edge of the top step.
Six inches or so…that’s all that’s left.
“Tell me…”
Alice opened her mouth to speak, but there was too much to process, and her mind stumbled. The hammer, the snow, the painting, the wind, the stairs, the little drops of blood, the glimpse of pink, the madness, the rooms that didn’t fit, the face in her window.
In all of it, Alice could find no words.
“I said…”
Did he raise the hammer?
Yes.
Or was he just leaning forward, leaning down in that way that grown-ups always do? Always looking down, always telling you no, never listening.
No.
Was this it, the moment that her father, the one who gave her piggyback rides and played hide-and-seek, who double bounced her on the trampoline and once spent an entire weekend putting together a little toy kitchen for her…was this the moment that he killed her?
Yes. Yes, yes, yes; you have to move, you have to get out of here, you have to do something!
Alice leaned back, intending to run, intending to dash down the stairs, intending to dodge out of the way. Instead, she felt the world tilt back. It was an awful feeling, one that she’d known before, whenever she leaned back too far in a chair, her parents warning her to keep all four feet on the ground, and that moment coming at last, inevitable, impossible to escape now that it was in motion.
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