Help for the Haunted(133)

I ran to the hulking bookshelf, thinking I could      pull it down to get into the crawl space. Penny and the cage wobbled on top as I      reached around the back and began pulling. The bookshelf rocked a bit, but was      too heavy. One by one, I began throwing those old tomes about demons and      possessed girls my age from so long ago at Franky. She just swatted them away      with the hatchet while I exhausted myself. When I cleared the shelves of most of      the contents, at last I pulled again and this time knocked the entire piece of      furniture over. That shelf and the remaining books and the old rabbit cage and      Penny went toppling down in a loud clatter. I wasted no time pulling my body up      into the gaping hole in the cinder-block wall that led to the crawl space. Only      once did I glance back to see that Penny had come free from her cage and landed,      lifeless and still, on the cement floor while Franky stood there looking      momentarily stunned by it all.

I kept moving, crawling into the darkness, the only      light a small rectangle in the distance created by an air vent on the other side      of the house. My hands were grimy with dirt by the time I reached that light. I      put my fingers on the metal grate and pulled. Who knew how many years it had      been there. Long enough that it wiggled the slightest bit but refused to come      loose.

Behind me, I could hear grunting as Franky lifted      herself into the crawl space too. It made me tug on the grate even more      frantically. Over the sound of the shhhh, I heard      her drawing closer with every second. Soon, she will be       upon me, I told myself, and it will all come to       an end there in the darkness beneath our house.

With every last bit of strength I could muster, I      pulled on that vent until it came loose. Fast as I could, I slid my body out      into the daylight. As my feet were about to slip free, I felt Franky grab at      them. But I kicked and wriggled loose before she could get hold. And when I was      standing, I turned to see her hands reaching out from the vent. It would not      stop her, I knew, but I stomped my foot on her fingers. The force caused her to      release a loud howl, and another when I stomped again.

As Franky withdrew her hands into the crawl space,      I looked around and wondered where to go. That’s when I thought of Dereck on the      other side of those woods, slaughtering turkeys in time for Thanksgiving. I      began running across the street, toward the path beyond the first of those empty      foundations.

But Franky had made her way out of the crawl space      by then and started running too. Just as I got to the edge of the foundation,      she caught up and shoved me so hard from behind that I found myself falling over      the edge. I landed in a murky puddle at the bottom and looked up to see Franky      standing up above. My mind felt so dizzy that her image shifted and reshaped      itself.

My back, my arms, my legs—all       of me—felt in too much agony to move. And yet, I needed to since she      was making her way to the crumbling cement stairs. As I lay there, so many      memories and thoughts flashed in my mind: There was Abigail drawing a map on the      walls around me the night before she left. There was my sister and me creating      the details for our imaginary home over and over again: a window, a painting, a      doorway. There were my parents, who had come to this neighborhood and bought the      lot across the street, starting their lives out like any other new couple. How      could they have known they’d be the only people ever to live here? How could      they have known how horribly wrong things would go for them . . . and      for all of us?

I tried to get up. The most I managed was to roll      over onto my stomach as the murky water splashed around me, soaking my jeans and      sneakers. Franky ambled down the stairs, slipping on the rocks but not falling,      hurrying to reach me. When she did, she grabbed a hank of my hair and pushed my      face into that dirty puddle, holding me there so that I was unable to      breathe.

The shhhh in my ear      grew louder still, the sound warping itself into something higher pitched and      hysterical. And then it became an altogether different sound—it became a kind of      tune instead, one I recognized. For the first time, I heard the words as my      mother’s lilting voice sang that song she used to hum:

We gather together to       ask the Lord’s blessing;