Page 24 of Secrets That Bind Us

Verity

Present Day

Four hours earlier

“Noah!” The thumping of Savannah’s feet as she runs down the stairs is loud, and when she finds us having an after-dinner snack in the kitchen, her eyes are narrowed, and her cheeks are pink. “Give them back!”

“Give what back?” He asks around his banana, swallowing it down with a glass of oat milk.

“My paintbrush set! The one dad got me for my birthday before he… give it back!”

Noah looks shocked, but then his brows furrow together, and he puts his banana down. “I didn’t take it.”

“Noah! Quit lying! You’re always taking my stuff! I’m always finding my things in your room or out of place! I told you– I don’t care if you touch my stuff, just put it back!”

My son’s cheeks turn a bright red, and tears well into his big brown eyes. “Savvy, I touch your art stuff, but I know that one’s special. I didn’t take it. I swear I didn’t.”

The thing is, I believe my son. We all know not to touch it. Plus, I just got Noah his own art supplies while we were in town earlier so he wouldn’t touch her things– her more expensive things.

“Mom!”

“Sav, maybe you misplaced them.”

“No, Mom. I keep them in a box on the second shelf of my closet to keep them safe. He watched me put them up there.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“When I put them up there last night!”

“He can’t reach up there.”

“God!” She huffs. “Why don’t you ever just fucking believe me? I hate this fucking house; I hate this town– all you’ve done is make everything worse! Instead of being a better wife, you made Dad leave. Now he’s dead, and now we’re stuck in this fucking hick town because of you! I hate you!”

The lights over us flicker and hum at her outburst as I stare long and hard at my daughter. Panting, she gulps as tears of frustration stream down her face, and suddenly her eyes widen as though she’s realized what she’s said. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

“I think…” I breathe, letting it all sink in, and then clear my throat.

I wasn’t ready for the first I hate you to come from my daughter yet- if at all, really.

Having lost my appetite, I turn away from her and throw the remainder of my sliced peach in the trash, then wash my hands.

I look out the window that faces the front yard and brace my hands on the edge of the counter.

“I think you need to pack up your art supplies.”

“No, Mom, wait-“

I hold up a hand to stop her from talking, unable to face her.

It’s weird when you think you’re doing okay as a parent, and then you learn exactly what your kid thinks of you.

“Three F-bombs, so that will be three weeks of being grounded. No art. Camera, too. In the bin. In the basement. Now, please.”

It’s cruel, but Savannah isn’t like other kids. Taking away her phone doesn’t mean anything to her. Her art, though? Might as well be medieval torture.

“This is so unfair! He took my stuff!”

This time, I do turn to face her. “Three weeks. Bin. Basement. Now. And when you find your paintbrush set, I expect a fully handwritten, sincere apology to your brother.”

“Fine!” I don’t turn to face Noah until I hear Savannah’s footsteps upstairs– still heavy. Still angry. Yeah, well, me too, kiddo.

“I don’t hate you, Mommy.” He says softly, getting down from the barstool by the island and coming to hug my thigh, rubbing the remnants of his banana against the fabric of my sweats at my hip.

Not yet , I want to say, rubbing his back, but I swallow it down along with the clump of unshed tears and sadness to the back of my throat.

Does the mom thing ever get easier? It feels like all I do is keep failing them.

And Savannah is right. In a way. When Micah was alive, and at home, they had someone that could simply be with them.

Well, when he chose to be around, anyway.

Now it’s just me, feeling like I’m being pushed and pulled every which way imaginable with no end in sight.

I search the ceiling for patience… or… something. Anything.

But all that stares back at me is the small chandelier, slightly swaying. I look down at Noah and bend a knee to hug him properly, relaxing in his small, tight, warm embrace. When I pull away, I wipe off the last of the banana still on his chin.

“Thanks, kiddo. How about a movie?”

It’s an hour later. We’re watching Hercules, Noah is beside me, singing along.

My mind is on the next chapter I need to write when I hear Savvy coming back down.

The basement still isn’t fully finished, nor is it furnished, but we don’t have a garage like we did in New Haven yet, so the basement will just have to hold her items. I’ll have Will’s crew work around it.

The bin isn’t big, it has compartments, so nothing gets ruined– but I’m sure it’s still heavy with all of her stuff inside.

I should offer to help; it’s rude of me not to.

But when she glares at us, I put my offer on hold.

“Did you find your paint brushes?”

Her lips form a thin line as she rolls them inward. God, she looks so much like Dean it makes my heart seize a bit. I need to find the ovaries to tell him. To just… sit down with him and tell him. A cup of coffee. Or… dinner. No. Not dinner. My knee bounces at the anxiety of facing him full on.

“I’ll write my apology tomorrow,” She says, with a scowl.

I don’t bother asking where she found them.

I just turn my head to face the television as she makes her way to the basement door under the stairs, flicking on the light switch just outside the doorway and starting down.

I’m so glad I told Will to connect the wiring to a place we could reach from outside of the basement as well as inside instead of going all the way down and then having to pull the light string.

I hated that as a kid– having to feel my way down by the walls.

“Mom!” The shattering scream and a crash comes from below.

I jump up and race down the steps through the still-open door to find Savannah shivering, standing by the bin on the floor, facing the corner of the room. See-through tarps– like before, when Will had different parts of the house sectioned off and divided– hang. “What! Are you okay?”

“Mom…” tears stream down her cheeks, shoulders slumped, rubbing her arms like she’s standing in the middle of a blizzard and can't get warm. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“What?”

“Mom, I swear I saw someone in here. My paintbrushes were exactly in the spot I left them, but I couldn’t find them before. My stuff always goes missing and turns up somewhere else, and I swear I hear wheezing. Mom, I’m going crazy.” She cries. “I think I have what Grandma had.”

I approach my daughter with an outstretched hand, like she’s an injured animal, and place it on her shoulder. “Savvy, Grandma had a sick mind at the end because of the pain medication she was on. Dementia doesn’t run in our family.”

“What about Dad’s?”

“No.” I reply honestly. Dean’s parents are alive and well, from what Zoey’s casually told me over the years. His father retired and moved to Key West, and his mother is sober and living in Houston with her fourth husband. His grandparents died of natural causes or old age.

She nods and bites her lip, like she has more on her mind but is taking my word for it. “I don’t like it down here.”

I huff out a laugh. “It’ll look less scary when it’s finished, I promise. I showed you the blueprints, remember?”

“Can we go? The smell down here is awful, and it’s freezing.”

Looking around, I take a whiff. I don’t smell anything, and the temperature is fine, but I do take her word for it. “C’mon. Let’s go back up.”

“Am I still grounded?”

“ Three F-bombs, Sav. I could have forgiven one due to you expressing your anger, but…” I trail off.

Her shoulders slump forward in resignation. “Okay.”

Okay.

I know better than to fall asleep on my back in this house.

It always starts with a numbing sensation in my fingertips.

The image of a blurry, tall, skinny silhouette just outside my door frame that I keep open in case my children call out to me in the middle of the night.

I can feel it watching me as it twitches, getting down on all fours, limbs longer than the average human, as it crosses my threshold.

Heart thumping wildly, I try to calm my breathing, have my brain alert my muscles to start working, and to move so I can get away.

But it never works. I shiver internally when my sleep paralysis demon disappears behind my footboard, only to feel the mattress dip under its weight when it ever-so-slowly crawls up my feet, claws digging into my shins.

I close my eyes and scream for help, but it’s muffled by tight lips, still seeping drool from when I was asleep.

I can feel its weight as it slides upward, but there’s a noise above me – a voice – murmuring quickly, whispering a secret. A warning.

The urge to pee is severe.

I hate this dream. I hate this dream.

Wake up, Verity.

My eyes look for the voice as this thing keeps inching upwards, sniffing me.

I catch a hooded figure above, bending over me– but how can that be? My headboard is against the wall.

My room is void of any sound except this fucking voice.

I scream internally again.

The thing makes headway, and it’s up to my middle now, taunting. It has no eyes, but I can tell it’s watching me, feeding off my fear like an incubus.

And down my blanket goes, inch by inch– from my breasts, then under, I hate this next part.

“ Dontgointothebasementdontgointothebasementdontgointothebasement .”

What is it saying?

I try to concentrate, feeling sweat on my brow and bile rising.

I realize I could die like this – choking on my own vomit. All while my children are sleeping upstairs. I struggle against the invisible chains weighing me down.

“ Dontgointothebasementdontgointothebasementdontgointothebasement .” The figure above me whispers.

Please!

Can’t it hear me?