The Narrows(82)

The next thing she noticed was the blood on her left forearm, tiny crimson pinpricks that wiped off when she pawed at them.

Her throat felt sore and abraded. Moreover, it felt like someone had run a metal rod straight down into her head, through her neck, and down through her spine. Moving hurt. She looked around the room, strands of hair wafting like cobwebs in front of her eyes. The bedroom looked untouched and perfect—yet almost alien to her. She struggled to assemble the events of the past seventy-two hours (or had it been longer?) in her head but found it as fruitless as tossing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle into the air in hopes that they would assemble themselves before striking the floor.

A part of her recalled with perfect clarity what had happened to Evan out in the backyard. However, a wholly separate part of her brain countered that event with falsities and sparkly, curtained gauze, forcing her to question the authenticity of such an incident, which in turn allowed her to function without completely breaking down. That brick wall was rooted firmly at the center of her brain and she was torn about whether she should knock it down and bulldoze straight through it or just pretend it wasn’t there, content to walk around in circles like a blind cat.

She stood on legs that felt as unsteady as broomsticks. Her mouth tasted stale, and her tongue was a swollen lump of cloth. At the window, she peeled away the shade and looked out on the backyard. It did not make her feel any better that there was no evidence out there of what had occurred two nights ago. Either that thing had been real…or she was quickly losing her mind. Either way, there was no positive outcome.

The Pontiac and the Volkswagen both glistened in the silvery light that managed to peek out from behind dark clouds. Now, with the darkness of night behind her, it seemed possible and even plausible to believe that everything had been a dream, a nightmare. It hadn’t been real.

The shotgun was out there. She could see it in the dirt, its inky-black barrel sticking out past the VW’s front tires. She stared at it for a full three minutes, until her eyes burned from not blinking.

Trembling, she went into the bathroom. The visage in the mirror grimaced at her. There was blood on her lower lip where she had apparently bitten down too hard in her sleep, which accounted for the patter of blood on her left forearm. The wine stain was still front and center on her tank top with the Crossroads logo emblazoned across the top. Vaguely, she recalled spilling her wine last night…or two nights ago…

What the f*ck day is this?

Beneath a spray of lukewarm water, she washed her face and hands then pulled her hair back and manipulated it into a hasty ponytail with a fabric hair tie.

She’d wanted to call for help the past two nights but couldn’t. This realization rushed back to her now like a tidal wave. They didn’t have a land line and she’d dropped her cell phone out in the yard two nights earlier, before running back into the house. Trapped. Helpless. She could risk going back out there to find her phone, sure…but that thing might still be out there…

She stripped off her clothes, needing to get rid of that accusatory wine stain, and dressed in a pair of jeans and a halter top. Back at the bathroom sink, she brushed her teeth, nearly sobbing the whole time. It was such a pragmatic and domesticated thing to do, brushing one’s teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, and she thought it would help calm her down, but all it did was make her more anxious and upset. She spit into the sink and threw her toothbrush into the basin then rushed out into the hallway as if someone were chasing her.

The hallway clock ticked ominously. She listened but the rest of the house was incriminatingly silent. At the far end of the hall, where shadows shifted and twisted and looked nothing like the objects which they belonged to, a shape ambled into view, large and hulking. Maggie felt her throat tighten.

It was her father, as big in death as he had been in life, standing there in the suit she and her mother had buried him in. His face was a peeling mask of flesh through which the ridges of his cheekbones protruded. His eye sockets were hollow pits at the bottom of which issued a faint red illumination. His nose was gone, revealing in its absence a spade-shaped cavity that reminded Maggie of hands pressed together in prayer.

—You hated me but all I ever did was try to prepare you for the hardships of this world, he said. His voice was clogged with dirt from the grave.

“I didn’t hate you.” Tears stung her eyes.

—Things you do come back to haunt you, he said. Things you forget about never forget about you.

She cried out then, grabbing the sides of her head while her tears burned hot rivulets down her cheeks. A moment later, when she opened her eyes, her father was gone.

Losing my mind, losing my mind, losing my mind…

In the living room, the broken wineglass still sat in a puddle of spilled wine. She went quickly to the back door and peered through the crescent of glass. It provided a slightly different perspective of the yard than the bedroom window had, but she could still see no more than the tip of the shotgun poking out from behind the Volkswagen. Her cell phone was out there somewhere but she couldn’t see that, either.

Daylight is my best chance. If I keep myself holed up in this house, that thing will come back when it’s dark—it always seems to come back when it’s dark—and then I’m a goner. Daylight is my best bet.

A part of her brain was still trying to convince her that none of this was real and it was all a nightmare and Evan was out working at the plant and he would arrive home tonight in time for dinner and maybe she should shoot out to Lomax’s for groceries…