The Waiting: A Supernatural Thriller(30)

“Yeah, I forgot about that. Lily put the duct tape over its mouth when we were up there staying for a long weekend quite a few years back. She was only six at the time, going through a phase, I think.”

“What kind of phase?” Evan asked, the hairs on his arms beginning to rise.

“Oh, you know, kid stuff.” Jason laughed again, louder this time. “She said the doll would talk to her at night, that’s why she put the tape over its mouth.”

Gooseflesh rolled over Evan’s entire body, and he swallowed, his throat constricting to a pinhead.

“Anyway, just one of those kid things, imaginary friends and whatnot. She grew out of it.”

“Yeah,” Evan answered, his voice like sandpaper.

“Okay, buddy, I’ll let you go. Call me soon.”

“Will do.”

“Bye, man.”

“Bye.”

Evan shut the phone off and sat staring into space for a long time. Shaun rolled over in his bed, and the sound brought him out of the trance. Moving like a ninety-year-old, he crossed the room and flipped the kitchen lights off. He made it only two steps into the living room before going back to the kitchen and propping a chair beneath the basement door’s knob.

With the house as quiet as a grave, Evan got ready for bed and turned out the last light, letting darkness cover everything with its heavy embrace.

~

“I don’t want any more chemo,” she says, gazing at him through the haze of drugs. “They said it won’t do any good anyhow.”

“But you never know, something could happen on the next round.”

She smiles at him. “Evan, look at me, I’m wasted away.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, unwilling to look at how thin she’s become. “You’re going to be okay, you’re going to make it.”

She squeezes his hand.

“I brought something from home, it’s in my bag. Before you leave, I want you to hand it to me.”

“What is it?” he asks, glancing at the bag that sits near the door.

“You’ll see. It’s what I want.”


He moves from her, floating, ethereal, not really there, but everything he sees and hears is sharp, like the world is made of shattered glass. Unzipping the bag, he puts his hand inside and rummages around until his fingers touch it.

Evan came awake, clutching his pillow in two tight fists. His teeth ground together, and tears lay on his cheeks. His breath came out in ragged heaves as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Damn you.”

He sat up, steadying himself with a hand on the bed so that he wouldn’t tip over, the vertigo of sleep still with him. Shaun’s monitor sat quiet, his light snores audible across the hall. Evan stood, rubbing his eyes, and threw on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. The floor beneath his bare feet felt cold, like he was walking on a frozen pond instead of hardwood. Looking into Shaun’s room, he gazed at the S shape the boy made below his quilts.

Hints of moonlight illuminated his way through the house. He glanced at the TV and considered turning it on until sleep came again, but the thought of what would be on at this ungodly hour steered him toward the kitchen. He brewed a cup of tea and looked longingly at the last bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, then sat with the steaming cup between his palms. It would be hours before first light, not long enough to drink wine and too long to stare at the wall.

Sighing, Evan slid his laptop across the table and turned it on, opening his Word document once it booted up. The cursor on the screen blinked below what he had written two nights ago.

No. He’d already decided they were leaving today, they couldn’t stay here, not anymore. He would find a job close to home, something that could at least pay the bills. He’d find a bank that would loan them enough money to pay off the bulk of their debt. Consolidate, that’s what Jason always told him.

His eyes wandered across the room and lit on the basement door, the kitchen chair still propped where he had left it. It looked silly now. Not as much as it would look in full daylight, but silly enough. The screen of his laptop dimmed, and he looked at the words there, imagined the clock down in the dark basement, stolid, mysterious.

Gripping his tea, he rose from the table, removed the leaning chair, and eased the basement door open. Not waiting for his mind to conjure something to be afraid of, he walked down the steps and flipped the light switch on. The basement sprang into view. The doll still lay where he’d kicked it. He made his way to the table and found a folding chair against the end of the nearby workbench. He sat at the table, one hand cupped around his mug of tea, the other flipping through the papers before him.

Most of the sheets contained the detailed diagrams he’d spotted before, their numbers and instructions gibberish as far as he could tell. Deeper in the pile were some handwritten notes. Nearly all of them were illegible, scrawled in erratic angles that spoke of derangement or drug use. Evan had known a kid in college who only wrote poetry when drunk, and then had a fun time the next day trying to decipher his own hand. The writing on the pages looked like drunken messages, and he put several aside before finding one that seemed clearer.

If this is possible, it will change everything. No more night sweats and nausea. No more running from place to place, job to job. I can fix it all.

He reread the text, but farther down the page the writing changed into drawings. He held the paper up, examining the doodles. All of them were round and had two lines running through them at different points. Another, smaller circle sat in the middle of the larger one.