Page 14

Eve trudged onto her porch, weary, cold, and profoundly unsettled. She reached for the doorknob. Locked. She rifled through her pockets, searching for keys. Nothing, just Charlie’s locket. Frustration mounting, she patted down her coat. “Perfect,” she muttered. First you lose your phone, now this? She pounded on the door.

No answer.

With a pointer finger, she jabbed the buzzer rapid-fire. Five seconds passed. Nothing. She wiped a foggy window with her sleeve and strained to see inside. The house sat in darkness. Had the family left? How had they locked the door behind them? She smacked a palm against the glass. “Hey,” she yelled, “anybody home?!”

Still nothing.

“Un-fucking-believable,” she groaned.

Ready to try another way in, she turned, but after three steps across the porch, the door creaked open behind her. She looked back. Thomas was standing there, sheepish. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

Eve, too cold, too grumpy for words, brushed past him into the foyer. She slammed the door shut, the warmth of the house breathing life into her stiff limbs, melting away the chill but not the bad mood. Pulling off her coat, she went to the closet and—

“Any luck?” asked Thomas.

Eve blinked at him.

He clarified, “Getting ahold of Charlie.”

“Sure.” She hung up her coat, her thoughts still lost in the woods. She checked the time: 10:46 a.m. Then, she looked at Thomas, her face filled with The fuck are you still doing here?

Reading her mind, Thomas said, “We, uh, we were planning to head out, just… didn’t want to leave the place unlocked.” He nodded toward the window. “A lot of eccentrics out in these woods. Can’t be too careful.”

“Uh-huh” was all Eve could muster. Now, with the added context of Thomas’s past, those pockmarked scars on his face suddenly stood out all the more. Again, that morose vision invaded her thoughts: a gaunt hand, a silver-tipped pen stabbing into pale flesh. Alison started to believe there was only one way to make it stop, to get her old life back… A hint of sympathy for Thomas fell over Eve, along with something else—fear? Thomas, catching Eve’s stare, rubbed his neck, as if trying to shield the scars from view.

Eve considered asking him why they hadn’t stayed at Heather’s place last night, but she had bigger priorities. She cleared her throat. “Anyways. You should hit the road before it gets any worse out there.”

“Of course.” He nodded. “Just waiting on the weather.”

The words sailed across the room, slipped into Eve’s ear canal, and ignited a chemical rage. She didn’t even try to mask it. “You said you were leaving after breakfast.”

Thomas cast her an apologetic look. “I know, but now—without winter tires. The roads. Paige is a little anxious, and she’s worn me down… Besides, the weather should clear up soon enough.”

Eve blinked at him. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might’ve screamed.

He added, somewhat defensively, “We wanted to head out earlier, but… like I said, didn’t want to leave the place unlocked.”

The comment not so subtly shifted the blame onto Eve. But just as she felt the burden of guilt begin to sag on her shoulders, she shook it off and went into problem-solving mode instead. “I’ll get the tire chains from the attic. Then you can leave right away.”

From behind Thomas, Jenny shuffled into the foyer. Thomas ruffled his daughter’s hair, looked at Eve, and said, “Tire chains? I appreciate that, but I’m not sure they’ll fit our truck.”

“They’re universal.”

He sighed with palpable relief. “That’ll work,” he said. “You need a hand getting them down?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve got it,” she repeated.

He nodded again. “We’ll start packing up our stuff right away. Checkout time is at eleven, right?” He smiled, seeming to expect a chuckle, but all Eve gave him was a silent glare. Clearing his throat, he turned away and called, “Paige?” He disappeared into the living room.

His daughter lingered behind, looking up at Eve, her eyes filled with a hint of worry. As if something bad had happened while Eve was away. Maybe Eve was projecting, reading too much into it, but—

“JENNIFER,” Paige’s shrill call snapped from the living room. “Help us clean up. NOW.” Head hanging, Jenny slunk off around the corner.

Eve, alone in her musings, stared into the now empty doorway, still trying to grasp the bizarre events of the morning. Who was that old man in the woods? Why did he warn me about this family? Why did the—

Focus.Charlie’s voice halted her train of thought. Get the tire chains. Get them out of our house.

Moments later, Eve grabbed an aluminum flashlight from the laundry room. Switching off a hanging bulb, she shut the door and had started back toward the foyer when Paige stepped around the corner, blocking her path. The dim glow of winter light cast onto Paige from behind, a white aura spilling over her shoulders, her blond hair. She smiled meekly, her face draped in thin shadows.

The old man’s cryptic warning whispered in Eve’s ear: That’s not what they look like…

Paige broke the awkward silence. “Thomas said you’re lending us tire chains?”

More like donating.Eve gave an apathetic “Yup.”

Paige nodded. “I— we really appreciate all your help. It means a—”

“Good to know.” Eve strolled around her and slipped into the foyer. Her social battery had long run out.

Upstairs, Eve entered the hallway and froze. She narrowed her gaze. The once-hanging flap of wallpaper, the one Jenny had torn away to access the dumbwaiter, was back in place. Eve went over and ran her finger along the edges, a near seamless repair. Had Thomas done this? Under normal circumstances, Eve might’ve appreciated the gesture, but now, like everything else going on, it just didn’t feel right. He should have asked first. Where had he even found the materials to put it back in place?

Returning to the task at hand, Eve reached for the white cord hanging from the ceiling and gave it a firm tug. A retractable staircase creaked downward, spewing a cloud of red dust. She backstepped, covered her mouth, and waited for the dust to settle before ascending.

Eve poked her head into the attic, flicked on her flashlight, and scanned around, like a detective assessing a crime scene. Sloped ceilings. Shallow walls lined with piles of junk. The air up here was damp, a higher pitch of the basement’s odor. Metallic earthiness. But with a slight undertone that made her think of something rotten and foul—a dead rat or maybe a bird, was probably calcified into the walls. Charming.

Hoisting herself up, she rose to stand, nearly bumping her head on a low support beam. Close call. She looked around, studying the clutter. Chairs, tables, cabinets—all in a 1950s minimalist style. Some of it was still in decent shape, but…

… where had Charlie said those tire chains were? A few weeks back, she’d spoken of a narrow corridor leading to an alcove at the house’s front. Eve turned leftward, her light roaming over the stacks of old chairs, furniture, and…

… a dog kennel? It was nestled between a broken grandfather clock and an empty guitar case. Eve drew closer. The metal-wire crate held an assortment of chew toys, expired liver treats, and a plastic food bowl. Fading white letters on the bowl spelled out BUCKLEY. Thomas’s chocolate Lab?

Right then, her flashlight flickered. Stuttering blinks. Darkness. Eve rolled her eyes, gave it a shake. No luck. She smacked it against her palm and it jolted back to life. “That’s what I thought,” she muttered. Turning away, she ducked to avoid another support beam and delved deeper, rounding a tight corner into an even lower-ceilinged alcove. With each step, the world outside grew quieter, until the only sounds were the muffled wind and the occasional murmurs of the family shuffling about downstairs.

Then, somewhere nearby, the drip, drip, drip… of a roof leak or a broken pipe.

The sound was coming from a murky corner. As Eve approached, she could see a passageway, a gap between two support beams. Barely shoulder width, it stretched for a good thirty feet, parallel to the front of the house. This had to be the one Charlie mentioned. Reluctant, Eve pushed into it, shuffling forward. Here, the timeworn innards of the house were exposed: rusted pipes, frayed wires, and reddish-pink insulation. Looked like a botched surgery. All the while, that drip, drip, drip drew closer until…

… an icy droplet landed on the top of her head, muffled by her hair. She looked up. A leaky pipe. Another drop fell, tracing a cold path down her cheek. She wiped it away. Carried on. Behind her the dripping returned, smacking against the cured wood. Rhythmic. A few feet ahead, Eve came upon a gap in the paneling. A two-foot-by-three-foot square at waist height. An entrance? She peered inside.

The dumbwaiter chute…

Curious, she beamed her light into its depths, revealing a narrow shaft that plunged all the way to the basement. Long drop. A counterweighted rope reached down, hooked to a metal cart at the bottom. Memories from the night before rushed up like a cold draft—the figure on the steps, Thomas in the snow. A prickling sensation crept up her spine. Why did I come back to the house? I should’ve just waited at Heather’s and—

Tire. Chains.

She pulled away from the chute and continued down the passage. At the end, she rounded a tight corner and came upon a crooked door, coated with red paint, cracked and peeling like severely chapped lips. Leery, she nudged it open. A blinding glow glared into her corneas. Harsh sunlight was flooding through a square window in the far wall.

Switching off her flashlight, she stepped into a room no bigger than a walk-in closet. The walls were crowded with more random junk—a motley crew of thrift store rejects: bald tires, tacky holiday decorations, empty picture frames. But it was in the back corner, tucked beneath the wiry branches of a plastic Christmas tree, where she found what she was looking for: tire chains. Wasting no more time, Eve gathered them up, ready to leave. Yet, as she rose to stand, something caught her eye: a white file box was sitting beneath the window. Written on its lid, in black Sharpie:

CHARLOTTE’S STUFF (DONATE)

Charlotte? That was Charlie’s legal name, the one still on her birth certificate, but she hadn’t answered to it in decades. Unable to help herself, Eve set the tire chains aside and lifted the box onto the windowsill. She pulled off the lid and rifled through. Inside were a few camera lenses, rolls of film, and an old 35mm Pentax.

Charlie’s camera…

Eve picked it up, turned it over in her hands. She wasn’t exactly shocked to find it stashed away but… up in the attic? And in a donation box at that?

During the early years of their relationship, Charlie was seldom seen without that camera draped around her neck. And Eve still vividly recalled the day when, three years before, Charlie had her own gallery showing. It was a rain-soaked Thursday in downtown Rochester, and they’d rented out a little studio on University Ave. Charlie adorned its walls with mountain vistas, downtown scenes, and live concert snapshots. She’d even put up the blurry portrait of Eve, hiding her face from the camera.

The turnout had been modest, but every single visitor meant the world to Charlie. Eve never forgot how nervous her partner looked as the first people shuffled in. It was a rare, endearing sight—Charlie, usually so self-assured, fumbling her words as she spoke to perusing guests. To Eve, it was just about the cutest thing in the world. And it showed how much Charlie cared about her work.

But Charlie hadn’t taken a photo since her father passed away two years ago. He was the one who’d introduced her to photography in the first place. The one who’d gifted her that 35mm Pentax. A few weeks after his funeral, the camera found its way to a shelf, then to a closet, and now… here. Tucked between a rusty hubcap and a plastic reindeer. No more gallery showings, no more stealthy portraits…

Eve had asked her about it once, but Charlie just shrugged and said: “Don’t have time for it.”

As Eve tucked away the box, she heard the front door swing open and slam shut with a muted thwack. Footfalls crunched on gravel and snow. She leaned forward, trying to get a better view. Down below, Thomas was marching across the yard. Focused. Determined.

He paused at the crooked shed, sneaking a look back at the house as if making sure he was hidden from view. Then, out of nowhere, he exhaled a primal scream, slapping at the side of his head with a flat palm. Violent. Vicious. The type of tantrum that makes people cross the street to avoid you.

A disturbing and surprising thing to behold. Until then, Thomas had seemed to be many things, but violent certainly wasn’t one of them. It only added to Eve’s growing unease.

After excising his demons, Thomas straightened up, collected himself, and fixed his tousled hair. Red-faced, he reached into his coat pocket and cast another furtive glance around. He hunched over and brought both hands to his face. For a second, Eve thought he might be dialing someone on a cell phone. But as he stood upright and exhaled a dark plume, she noticed something pinched between his index and middle finger. A cigarette. He took a long drag and exhaled again. Puffing away, he continued down the winding driveway until the trees obscured him. Was he going to get the truck? If the drive up had stumped him the day before, she doubted he’d fare better now…

As she receded from the window, her eyes caught a message, carved into the sill:

DON’T FORGET WHICH HOUSE YOU’RE IN

It was haphazard, eerily similar to the one on the cabin’s doorstep, Old House…

Don’t forget which house you’re in?

What did it mean? Was it a religious ultimatum: This is a house of the Lord; never forget that. Or was it something stranger?

Eve didn’t know, and frankly, she wasn’t eager to find out.

Besides, she’d wasted enough time up here. Just as she was about to grab the tire chains, a harsh, metallic sound echoed behind her. Eve turned. Around the corner, down the narrow passage, the dissonant rasping droned on, like jagged fingernails scraping against rusting metal. High-pitched. Wailing. Louder by the second. Painful to listen to; she could feel it in her teeth. Then, right as it became nearly unbearable, it rattled to a sudden stop. A halting kuh-chunk sound that made her realize what it was: the dumbwaiter.

Cautious, she peeked into the narrow corridor. Sure enough, the dumbwaiter cart was up here now, but from this angle, she couldn’t tell if it was empty or not. For all she knew, someone might be huddled inside, waiting to leap out, grab her by the neck, and drag her into the depths of Hades…

“Jenny…?” Eve’s voice drifted faintly down the corridor, answered only by that dripping pipe. She glanced over her shoulder, down at the tire chains— Come back for those later. Bracing herself, she ventured forward, one step at a time, flashlight raised like a pointless shield.

Inch by inch, the dumbwaiter’s interior was unveiled and… empty. Joy. It must have been hoisted up with no one inside—after all, that was how they were supposed to be used. One of the kids must’ve done it. Right? She was about to turn back for the chains when something else caught her light…

On the floor, damp footprints. Narrow and gaunt, they gleamed under her light like oil slicks in a back-alley puddle. They started at the dumbwaiter entrance, trailed off down the passageway, and bent around the corner. These weren’t the footprints of a child. With terrible anticipation, she raised her light, a quivering moon that shone through wooden slats and dusty clutter. No shadowy figure in sight.

She opened her mouth, but what did you say in situations like this? Hello? Anybody there? No, don’t say that… “Jenny?” The dusty attic remained silent, interrupted only by that infuriating drip, drip, drip…

Whoever was up here, they were somewhere between Eve and the only way out. Focus. Breathe. One foot in front of the other, she passed beneath the dripping leak, the top of her head muffling its rhythm one last time. At the end of the corridor, she leaned out and swivel-checked both ways. All clear. We’re good. Just get to the exit, and…

With perfect timing, her flashlight flickered into darkness.

Shit.

She smacked it—sputtering light.

Fuck.

She smacked it again. Harder.

This time it surged bright, like a flare, somehow illuminating the entire attic and then…

Darkness.

She click-click-clicked the on/off switch. Nothing. She bonked it against a support beam. Nothing. In a fit of stupid rage, she hurled it across the attic. With a hollow crack, it rattled off a wall somewhere and tumbled to the floor.

Pitch. Black.

The shadowy void engulfed her now, trapping her up here with the vague shapes of old furniture and forgotten relics. Her heart raced. She inched forward aimlessly, arms outstretched. Calm down. Focus on your breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Behind her, a skittering, almost fragile sound—followed by a short, ragged gasp, like a breath taken just before slipping underwater. She halted in her tracks, a shivering cold creeping down her neck as she peered over her shoulder. Silence. Dark. Only that drip, drip, dripping pipe until…

Nothing. Dead quiet. The drip had suddenly stopped. Was someone standing under it? Just as the question formed, the dripping resumed, and a floorboard creaked, slow, careful. A footstep? Swiveling back, she was about to panic, but a literal ray of hope saved her. About forty feet away, the light from the still-open attic ladder cast dimly onto the angled ceiling. She picked up her pace. Careful, don’t trip. Almost there. Almost free and—

At the last second, the ladder slammed shut with an authoritative WHAM.

Fuck.

She collapsed onto the hatch, shouting for whoever was down there to open it. No response. Frantic, she fumbled around, searching for the handle, searching for something, anything. But there was only the splinter-infested floorboards. Cold sweat ran down her forehead, into her eyes—her heart thumped faster—breath gasped. She stopped herself again. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.

Ground yourself.

Focus on your surroundings.

Your senses.

Sight: Darkness. A thin slit of white light slipping through the floorboards.

Smell: Musty air. Dead rat.

Touch: Coarse hardwood. Cold sweat.

Sound: Her own breathing. Wind gusting outside. The dripping pipe and—

Behind her, a slow, rolling sound—like a billiard ball. She gazed back. Only darkness. But then, light flickered to life. The flashlight. It was about ten feet away, rolling in a lazy arc, beaming a dim wedge across the floor. Eve watched, dreadfully transfixed as, bit by bit, the rolling flashlight shone across the walls, the reddish-pink insulation, and then…

… it came to a tottering stop, its yellow glow stretching across the floor, ending just before it reached a darkened nook. It was as if this light was trying to show her something, but… nothing was there…

Her eyes narrowed. Vision adjusted. Just beyond the edge of the flashlight’s circle, a faint outline took shape among the shadows. Standing between an old coatrack and a glass cabinet—a figure. Tall, slender, draped in darkness. Pin-straight posture. Motionless. As still as a storefront mannequin.

Wasit a mannequin?

As if in response to her unspoken query, the figure took a sudden, shuffling step forward. Now, the front of its bare feet stood in the light; jaundiced skin and overgrown toenails stained with dirt.

Eve’s stomach twisted.

The figure took another shuffling step forward, callused heels scraping the hardwood like sandpaper. Now, it loomed, fully bathed in the flashlight’s unforgiving glare—a woman. Draped in a tattered, off-white hospital gown. She was tall, almost six feet, her face hidden behind peekaboo hands, like a child playing some terrible game. And her scalp was shaved down to thin black roots, bluish veins pulsating beneath bone-white skin.

Eve’s breath cut short, like an emergency hatch within her lungs had burst open, sucked out all the air. She couldn’t even scream. That choking moment, horrible and suffocating, seemed to stretch on for eternity until—

The woman took another sudden step forward before freezing in place. Then… two quick steps. Halted. One step. Halted. Three steps and—

The flashlight blinked out. Total darkness ensued, punctuated by those sporadic footsteps. Faster, faster. Unspeakable dread surged from Eve’s gut, climbed into her throat like a swarm of maggots writhing up a narrow pipe until—

Finally, she managed to scream for help. Scream louder than she’d ever screamed before. Swiveling back, she pounded on the hatch, hitting harder and harder, each blow sending jolts of pain through her clenched fists. All the while, those scraping footfalls drew closer, closer, nearly upon her and—

Without warning, the floor swung open from beneath. Blinding light. A fleeting, weightless moment. Then she tumbled down the ladder, the world a dizzying blur as she slammed headfirst into the banister—