Page 8 of The Dead of Summer

I dream that I am swimming deep underwater, and I dream that I am swimming toward light. And air. And an oncoming sense of space, freedom, brightness, and breath.

But in my dream, I am also swimming down.

I bolt upright, the echo of a scream in my ears. I squint against midmorning sunlight, stumble to my window, somehow wide open, and send a curious seagull into a catastrophic flutter across my desk, then back outside.

I snatch my phone from where it’s fallen and blink at a dead screen. Great. I plug it back into its charger, but the outlets are still out. The phone stays dark. Lovely. I flop back into bed, already ready for this cursed day to be over, but then I remember Sam.

Sam!

What a strange bit of magic he was. I wish I thought to get his number, not that I’d be able to do anything with it. I wonder when I’ll see him again. The way he just appeared in my life, it’s not out of the question that he’s already downstairs, in the parlor, on the piano—

Like delayed thunder, the memory of the fight with my mom rolls through me. I shoot to my feet. Sam is forgotten. I need to find Gracie and apologize. Now.

I tiptoe through our tiny apartment. It’s a slanted space stuffed up into the roof of Singing House, with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen that was only ever big enough to make Gracie’s morning coffee.

We mostly live downstairs, among the guests, but it always felt like being a ghost in a museum.

I preferred it up here, except I don’t remember it being so small.

I think I hear someone somewhere below.

“Mom?”

It’s probably Maddie cleaning up. I twist on the shower, not bothering to wait for hot water before scrubbing myself clean.

I take longer than I need, mostly because I’m trying to figure out what to say.

I’m sorry isn’t enough. What am I sorry for?

Any attempt to answer that question circles me back around to anger.

I kill the water and stand there, wrapped in a damp towel, wondering if it would just be easier to never bring it up.

No doubt Gracie would be more than willing to play pretend, but I’m not sure that’s an option for me anymore.

Smiling, even just a little, makes me look deranged in the bathroom mirror.

Then, downstairs, there’s a crash. Another crash. Racing footsteps shake the walls as someone runs through the house and down the stairs, and I hear the front door bang open.

“Mom? Maddie?”

I poke my head out of the bathroom. Someone either just arrived, or just left.

With my hair still wet, I pull on my usual uniform: an oversized shirt, little gay cargo shorts, and chunky sneakers Gracie refers to as my anime shoes.

I strap on my watch (approved for depths of three hundred feet!) and, aware that it’s almost noon, I rub on some fancy sunscreen from the stash of discarded tubes left behind by guests.

As I trot down the stairs, I wonder what I’ll find.

A note? A guilt trip left in the form of a cold breakfast waiting for me in the downstairs kitchen?

Or maybe Gracie has already started fixing up the house, all by herself. That would explain the crashes.

Running past the den on the second floor, a new sound grabs my ears.

A wet, sucking whir, like when the aquarium pump gets clogged.

Sure enough, I can taste a briny humidity in the air.

I sigh, realizing I never checked on the tank during the blackout, but when I enter the den, my breath locks in my chest.

Fish scatter like confetti across the shag carpet. They glimmer, still wet, and when I try to pick a few up, they wriggle from my hand. A shining mucus now webs my fingers. Disgusting. I search for a bucket I can throw the fish into, hoping a few can be saved, when I see the tank itself.

The aquarium glass has been completely shattered, and the coral inside now shoots out in slimy spires, spreading up the bookshelf. Chunks sprinkle across the carpet, among the fish. The way water drips from the walls, the ceilings—everywhere—it appears the tank exploded.

“What the hell,” I whisper, but then I have to hold my breath against the smell of marine rot. How could Gracie or Maddie just leave this mess? Or did it only just happen?

Motion draws my eyes to something blue and yellow between my shoes.

It’s an angel fish in a cup of broken coral, except something is wrong.

Or wronger , at least. The fish appears to struggle beneath a lattice of coral, as though the polyps have grown over it.

They undulate, taking on the fish’s color, incorporating it.

When I reach down to pick it up, something tells me to stop.

It’s the way the polyps shiver toward my palm, reaching back, eager to be touched.

I move my hand one way, and the bed of polyps follows. I move the other way. The polyps strain upward, stretching out tiny, hair-thin tentacles.

It knows I’m here.

Right before I pick the fragment up, someone hiccups behind me.

I twist, seeing just enough to know it’s Aunt Maddie before she does the unthinkable.

With a cry, she slams me to the floor. I try to scream, but all the air has been crushed from my lungs.

My hands tangle with hers as she fights to grab hold of my head, but she’s slippery.

Why is she so slippery? I manage to finally look at her.

Aunt Maddie is smiling. Smiling wide . Her eyes stretch open with a terrible glee that overflows in thick, stringy tears down her cheeks and chin.

The tears gush from her nose and between her teeth, too, not a liquid but a mucus that squirms and twists, like it’s alive within her.

“Orlandooooo,” she sings through a clenched smile. “Won’t you play something for us? Something gorgeous? We want to sing!”

I open my mouth to scream, but then I remember my mom’s old saying.

Smile long enough and you’ll end up with tears on your teeth.

I snap my mouth closed and twist my head just in time. Aunt Maddie’s tears lick down my neck instead. My hands scramble through the soaked shag rug, searching for anything to hit her with.

“Orlandooo!” She chokes on my name, a massive bubble wheezing through the froth of her mouth.

Finally, my hands grasp something. The treasure chest ornament!

I smash it into my aunt’s temple, and her grip weakens just enough for me to get a knee under her and kick her away.

I scramble upright, already ready to apologize, but Maddie scuttles past my feet, crawling into the hall.

I toss away the wrecked chest and run after her.

“Aunt Maddie? Are you okay?”

I can hear her crying somewhere in the parlor. I take the back stairs slowly, into the kitchen. I should grab a knife, but I grab a rag instead.

“Mom? Something is wrong with Aunt Maddie. I think I hurt her.”

I use the rag to drag at the mucus all over my neck and hands.

It comes off in a fine, pearlescent powder.

Aside from a slight numbness where the goo touched me, I’m okay.

I approach the pantry—it’s the last place to look—but when I open the door, I’m facing only empty shelves and a window into our backyard.

Behind me, rapid footsteps. I swing out of the way just in time. Maddie barrels past, into the pantry, and I slam the door shut on her. Did she really just try to tackle me again? I bolt the lock and then press my ear to the wood.

“Aunt Maddie? I’m going to go get you some help, okay?”

To my surprise, her answer is clear. “Bless you, Orlaaaaando, but your aunt Maddie is fine. Better and better by the second!”

“Okay, well, I’m glad to hear that, but I hit you pretty hard.”

“Better! And better! And better!”

I can hear the mucus coating her words. Better or not, I’m not opening this door alone. I can’t just leave her in here, though, can I? I ease the bolt open but keep the door shut.

“Just stay put, okay?” I tell her. Then I run to get help.