Page 122 of The Staircase in the Woods

“I let him do…stuff to me. And then I let the house get inside me, too. Sometimes it talked to me in his voice, you know that? Jesus. Jesus! And then I bring you all here and now we’re all fucked, we’re all just empty houses waiting for thismonsterto move in and take us over…” His voice rose to a sad pitch, a whine like a buzzsaw cutting. His arm—the one holding something—slashed out at open air. “But I’m not—I’mnotletting it get in here again, I don’t deserve to be here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

Owen knew:

He was going to hurt himself.

Maybekillhimself.

As his eyes adjusted, he could see the shape of what was in his hand. A knife, but not a knife. Long and tapered to a sticking point. Like a huge splinter.

That’s what it is. A long splintered piece of wood.

From the wall, from one of the stud beams.

Nick turned the point toward himself.

Time seemed to go slow in the darkness—

Hamish and Lore moved toward him—

Nick tucked the weapon toward his chest, pointing it upward—

Toward his chin.

He’s going to stab it upward.

Through jaw, neck, maybe into his brain.

“I used to cut myself,” Owen said, abruptly.

Silence and stillness ensued as the shock of what he said stayed everyone’s hand. He had not planned on saying this, not ever, but here he was. He had to say it. Felt the poison of it purging out of his mouth as the words kept coming:

“I had a knife. A little penknife I bought from the flea market we used to go to and—and I’d cut myself, but not in places you could see. Like, on my biceps. Outside, inside. Sometimes on my inner thighs or even—even around my hip bones. It was stupid, so stupid like—a cry for help that I hid from everyone else, a cry for help Iwouldn’t let anyone hear. How fucking insane is that? It’s why I never wanted to go swimming—never wanted to take my shirt off because the scars on my arms were still there.Arestill there.”

Lore, quietly: “I wondered what those were.”

“I hated myself, too, in a lot of ways because, I dunno, same stupid shit as the rest of us. Daddy issues. How common. Howdull. Oh my father was shitty to me and mean and so I cut myself to feel something or…or to make his words true and right, so that he wasn’t justmeanto me, he wastelling the truth,and that made it better somehow, or so I told myself. But I never said anything either, Nick. I could’ve and I should’ve, but I didn’t. So please put the sharp thing down. We’re all really fucked up and just trying to get through life, and it’s better when we do it together instead of alone. That’s how we’ll survive this house. That’s how we’ll get out of this place. Together, and not alone. But that can’t happen if you do what you’re about to do. Okay? I know that now. Don’t hurt yourself anymore. That’s what this place wants. So go the other way. Okay? Please.”

“Please, Nick,” Lore said.

“Please, dude,” Hamish begged.

Nick let slip another gulping sob.

The weapon he’d been holding—the sharp wooden shaft—clattered to the ground at his feet and he toppled over, sobbing. But they caught him as he fell.

74

Of Fantasies and Fingerprints

Somehow, they found rest. Nick in the middle. The others around him. Lore’s head resting against a cold pipe, listening to the sometimes running of water. The sleep was not good, not complete, but it felt nice, just the same. It was the next morning, them drinking shitty cold instant coffee from some bygone decade, that Nick finally spoke to them like Nick.

“Fuck you guys for making me cry,” he said, smirking. He sipped at the coffee and made a face like he’d just licked a booger off a wall.

“Fuckyoufor making usmakeyou cry,” Lore said.

Hamish reached out and put a hand on Nick’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Dude, I’m just glad you’re all right. This is all fucked, but I’m glad you’re okay, and we’re all okay, and—shit. I’m just sorry, man.” He put his head on Nick’s shoulder, pressing his forehead there and sighing.

For a while, all was quiet. Then Nick said: “I’m not okay, though.”