Black Hole
I could tell you that our lives were normal before the Winchesters showed up, but I would totally be lying.
It started in my sister's closet. Like a patch of mould on the wall in the very furthest corner, it was easily ignored. Easily overlooked. But then it started to grow, creeping outward, swallowing up the closet space in incremental little gulps.
And no one but me seemed to notice.
Lily bitched at me like crazy when her favourite dress went missing, acting like I was the worst sister ever, and when I pointed out that, 1.) she borrowed my clothes all the time, and 2.) I didn't even like that stupid dress, and 3.) it was probably still in her closet, she kind of... stopped. Stared at me with vacant eyes and a slack mouth, and then she lowered her head and kept eating in silence. It was the creepiest thing I've ever seen, because nothing shuts Lily up when she's on the warpath. Nothing.
Except maybe the thing in her closet.
Don't ask me what it was, because I have no freaking clue other than what the Winchesters told me, and that's one of the things I'm starting to forget.
I could say it was a bit like mould, only – and here's the bit that freaks me out – I had this feeling that it was smart.
And I had this feeling it was hungry.
I didn't understand how Lily could stand to sleep in that room, with the closet less than five feet away. In my dreams all I could see was that creeping darkness gradually spreading across the walls and the floor. Closer and closer until it enveloped me and I was forgotten.
It didn't seem to bother Lily.
Actually no. I take that back. Because I think it did bother her. I just don't think she realised. My sister wasn't always a grade A bitch. Sometimes she was actually pretty cool. She was only a year older than me, after all, and as sisters go, we used to be close, especially when we were younger. But once the thing in her closet got big enough, that stopped being true. Gradually she started getting nastier, until eventually it was like she had the world's worst PMT all month round. And she wasn't sleeping at all. I could hear her crying in the night.
And then things got really bad. I guess it isn't fair to blame the Winchesters for that.
I woke to the sound of my sister screaming for help. It was this awful, wrenching, sobbing sound, heartbreaking to listen to. It's the thing in the closet, I thought. It's finally broken free. I waited, hoping that Mom would get up and go to her, but knowing that she wouldn't: that she was lying frozen in bed, unable to make herself move. Just like me.
I forced myself up, had to fight to quell the image of darkness swarming over my bare feet and up my legs as I padded into the hallway. An image of Lily rose in my mind, her pallid skin speckled with mould, her red hair shining black with blood.
Not happening, I told myself, drawing in a shaky breath. It's not happening.
My sister's screams stopped the instant I opened the door to her room. Standing frozen on the threshold I stared at the open closet. Inside all I could see was darkness, and my sister standing right in front of it, her hair tumbling over her narrow shoulders. It wasn't her, I thought dizzily. It wasn't Lily screaming.
"Lily?"
She glanced at me. I edged inside, darting a nervous glance at the closet. Nothing emerged, but I still felt that needle-sharp sensation of being watched. "Can you hear it, Rose?"
I shook my head. "I can't hear anything."
"It won't stop talking." She reached out a trembling hand. "Why won't you let me sleep―"
"Don't!" I stumbled towards her, grabbed hold of her arm and pulled it down.
"But it won't shut up," she whispered. Her cheeks were stained with the shining tracks of tears; it had been her screaming. Her voice was still raw.
"I know," I said, and her face contorted, her eyes filling with tears again. I wrapped my arms around her.
"I'm so tired," she said. "Why are you doing this to us?"
My gaze returned to the closet. I could smell something musty; it made me think of the damp underside of rocks and silverfish scurrying for cover. Of withered fingers and the rustling of dried-up leaves.
"Please make it stop," she whispered.
"I can't." I could feel it, the thing in the closet. Watching us. Mocking us.
"It's..." She placed her index fingers against her temples and shuddered. "It gets inside me. It whispers things. But you're my sister and I love you." On the last sentence, something twisted in her voice. I shivered.
The laughter of the thing in the closet felt like nails scratching on the inside of my skull. I gripped the closet door, went to slam it shut, but Lily caught hold of my wrist, her face blank, expressionless.
"You're my sister and I love you," she said, and her words were accompanied by laughter.
You'remysisterandIloveyou.
I jerked my gaze towards the closet. "Let go of her," I said, felt only a sick churning in my stomach in response. Specks of blood on crumbling plaster. A cheek pressed against a wall black with mould.
Lily's grip tightened on my shoulder, unnaturally strong. She drew closer to me, her breath hot against my cheek. She smelled sour, like she hadn't showered in a week.
"You're my sister and I love you," she said, and her sing-song voice was thick with malice. "Do you miss your daddy, Rosie?"
"It's not you," I said, wrenching away from her.
"Yeah, it is." Lily tilted her head, reached out and swung the closet door shut, but beneath the door I could see the darkness seeping through, staining the carpet. It was still growing. She tilted her head and grinned at me, eyes glittering. "Who else would it be?"
The next morning, Lily looked like she hadn't slept at all. In fact she looked like a freaking zombie, like a dead thing resurrected and dumped at our kitchen table.
You're my sister and I love you.
She didn't look at me as I sat down; her expression didn't so much as flicker. I wondered if she remembered last night and I suspected not.
"Lily, I think you should change rooms."
She turned her head to glare at me. And I found myself thinking that maybe 'zombie' wasn't so far off the mark after all, because it was like she was thinking about ripping my throat out with her teeth. "I'm not swapping with you," she snapped.
"Hey," Mom said, from the stove. She sounded tired too, and from the way her shoulders were kind of fixed in place, I guessed she hadn't slept much either. "Apologise to..." She trailed off, as if completing a sentence was beyond her capabilities.
"That's not what I meant," I said, horrified at the thought of me moving into Lily's room. "I only thought... I meant the spare room." Lily's room was right above the kitchen, and her closet was probably right above us. I glanced up involuntarily, half-expecting to see a black stain spreading across the ceiling.
I tried again, although I was pretty sure it was hopeless. "It's just I don't think that room's healthy," I said. "I think there's mould in the closet or something. When I went in there earlier, I got all wheezy–"
She stared at me like I was crazy, and for the first time I started to think that maybe I was. Only then I looked at my mom, who was still staring off into space, even though the eggs on the stove were burning, and I bit my lip.
"Mom, the eggs."
She moved slowly, like she was wading through treacle. The eggs had set solid in the frying pan and she poked at them with a spoon, her eyes glazed. Could be drugs, I thought. Xanax or something. She'd been off ever since Dad walked out on us.
Yeah, I thought. Definitely drugs. And God, I wanted to believe that. So much. Because a mom who's whacked out on tranquilisers or alcohol? That makes sense. That's something I can understand. I mean, it would suck, but at least it would be real. At least I wouldn't have to think I was going crazy. Trouble is, I knew it was a lie.
Even before the Winchesters rang our doorbell.
Mom lifted her head at the sound, but instead of going to get the door, she stared up at the ceiling. Lily was staring upwards too. "Um..." I swallowed. "Is no one gonna get that?"
"The flowers..." Mom said. "The flowers are..."
"Okay then." I forced a bright brittle smile. "Guess I'll get it." I stood up and hesitated in the archway. "Um, Mom, are you okay?"
"The sky is falling," she whispered, and pressed whitened knuckles to her lips.
"Wow... that's... Okay then." I hurried to the door, blinking back tears. Because the sky was falling. And there was something hungry in my sister's closet.
See, I have this knack for telling when people are lying to me, and the moment I swung the door open and saw these two guys on the doorstep, I knew they were liars. Cute though and official-looking, wearing suits and flashing their IDs like that meant something.
FBI. Apparently.
"Hi," the bigger guy said. "Is your mom home?"
"Not really," I said, and maybe there was something in my voice that gave me away because he tilted his head and gave me a strange look.
"Who is it, Rosie?" Mom appeared in the hall behind me so suddenly she made me jump. Her fugue-state seemed to have passed, and while that should have been a good thing, all I could think was that it showed the thing in the closet was smart enough to know when to release her. It's protecting itself, I thought. Then I noticed the big guy was still watching me.
"Um... The FBI."
"The FBI?" She joined me at the door. "My goodness, what is it? Has something happened?"
The smaller agent flashed his badge again. "I'm Agent Strummer, Mrs. Cooper. This is Agent Jones–"
"Strummer and Jones?" I said. "Really?"
"Rosie," Mom said. "Don't interrupt."
"But–" I broke off as she shot me a look.
Agent Strummer pointedly ignored me. "We're looking into the disappearance of your husband, Mrs Cooper..." At his words, I shivered, feeling the urge to stare up at the ceiling. Dad's not missing. He's in... He's somewhere. I darted a quick glance upwards, then jerked my gaze back down to the grubby threadbare carpet.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Mom was saying. Her voice was firm and definite, like these were Jehovah Witnesses or something, and not the FBI. Or the fake FBI. Or whatever the hell they were. It was her 'sorry, but I'm closing the door now' voice. "I'm not married."
I flinched, staring at her. Because even though I was pretty sure these guys weren't the actual FBI, Mom didn't know that. So why would she lie to them? "Mom?" My voice sounded very small. As she closed the door, I glanced out at the men, frightened and bewildered, and caught Agent Jones's gaze. He looked worried. Like really worried.
"Why would you say that?" I asked her. "Why would you lie about Dad?"
She glanced at me. "What are you talking about, Rosie?" And she glanced at her watch. "Oh, good Lord, is that the time? I need to..." And she trailed off. Again.
She didn't respond when I spoke to her. Not even when I put my hand on her arm and shook her. She was staring up again, her head tilted to one side like she was listening to something I couldn't hear. Although I thought I might have been able to hear it, if I listened really hard. It felt like an itch on the inside of my eardrum.
Just as I was about to turn away Mom drew in a shaky breath and pressed her knuckles to her mouth again. She caught her skin between her teeth, bit down so hard I could see the muscles in her cheeks flexing. Her eyes remained glazed, but she was making a sound in the back of her throat, a keening sound, like an animal caught in a bear trap. It didn't sound human.
"Mom?" I said, my voice shaking. And this time she did look at me, and I so wished she hadn't, because her eyes were filled with wild terror, and it was the sort of terror that was contagious. "Mommy?"
She dropped her hand. The keening had become words, or something like words: a sort of garbled "–akeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop–" that went on and on as she made a grab for me, her hands hooking into claws. She scrabbled at me, flecking my cheeks with saliva, the sound rising to a garbled scream, a tangled mix of words and incoherent babble, while her fingers bit into my skin.
"Let go of me!" I wrenched away, backing into the door. She froze, staring at me, her eyes wide and glassy.
"Please, Rosie," she whispered. "Please make it stop." And I felt it again, that itching not-quite-a-whisper on the inside of my eardrum. Mom drew in a breath, and I did the only thing I could think of: I ran.
I jerked the front door open and threw myself through it, falling on my hands and knees on the driveway. Scrambling up, I whirled, expecting her to come through after me, to drag me back inside. Instead, she stared at me, her face slack, eyes empty. And then she slammed the door.
Strummer and Jones hadn't left. They seemed to be doing the world's least inconspicuous stakeout in a the world's least inconspicuous car. Although I have to admit the car was pretty awesome.
When I saw them spot me I gave them a cheerily sarcastic wave, saw Strummer roll his eyes. And then they were both climbing out of the car as I came towards them, my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jeans.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Can't decide if you should stay or go?" I paused. "Because of your–"
"Yeah," Strummer growled. "We get it." The bigger guy – Jones – stifled a laugh.
"Little tip," I suggested, and although I was trying hard to keep the shakiness out of my voice, but it was there if you knew what you were looking for. Tears prickled at my eyes. I swear to God I'm not always such a bitch, but I could hear my mom again, her garbled nonsense echoing in my ears and I couldn't think of any other way to blot it out. "If you're trying to pass as FBI agents, maybe pick names that aren't so obviously fake."
"We'll bear it in mind," Jones said. He was looking carefully at me. "It's Rosie, right. Are you okay?"
And it wasn't until he asked me, that I realised that, no, I really wasn't okay. In fact I was shaking. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window of their car, saw the waxy pallor of my skin and the shadows under my eyes. I mean, I hadn't been sleeping a lot lately, but I wasn't prepared for how tired I looked. I almost looked as bad as Lily. They were both watching me now, and I drew my gaze back to them, because I couldn't bear to look at myself any longer. "Who the hell are you?"
"Rosie–"
I took a step away, fighting the urge to turn on my heel and run. "You're not FBI. So what the hell are you doing here? Is it..." I stopped, my mouth dry. "Are you like Mulder and Scully? Is this about the thing in the closet?"
He exchanged a look with Strummer, his jaw clenching. Barely a few seconds long, but from the look of them it might as well have been a full conversation. Whoever these two were they knew each other well, and what I'd said meant something to them. Strummer gestured to himself with his thumb. "Just so we're clear, I'm Mulder. He's Scully."
Jones rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you wish." He turned to me. "You're right. We're not FBI. But we're here to help. I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean. There's something in your house."
He made it sound so simple, so normal. Like there was nothing weird or bizarre about it. It was almost enough to make me trust them. Even though I knew that feeling of normalcy wouldn't last for long. Even though I knew they were liars and I should be afraid of them.
"We've been tracking disappearances for a while now," Sam said. "Your father's among them."
A sick sensation curled up from my stomach. This isn't right. "And you've been looking for him?" I said, trying and failing to keep a tremor out of my voice.
"Uh..." Sam glanced at Dean. "Yeah. Sort of."
"Just one small problem with that. Because my father isn't missing. He's..." Another look passed between them. Sam's jaw clenched. "He called me on my cell phone yesterday," I continued, my voice rising in frustration. "He's..." And then I stopped, because I had spoken to him yesterday, but I couldn't seem to remember what he'd said or... or anything about the conversation. Sam and Dean kept watching me, their faces grim.
You know that feeling, that dawning realisation that people know something you don't? Something bad? And they're just waiting for the right moment to break it to you? Maybe hoping that they'll never have to? Yeah. That.
"It messes with your memory," Dean said. "Makes you forget things. Or makes you think things that aren't true. It's part of how it hunts. and if we don't stop it it's going to spread. Take more people. Mess with more lives–"
"Dean." Another look passed between them. "Think of it as like... uh, a giant mushroom," Sam said, and he was trying so hard to make his voice sound reasonable. "Like Armillaria solidipes. There's a specimen of that in Oregon that's over three miles square.."
"You're such a geek, Sam," Dean said.
"Shut up." And to me: "It's underground, but every so often it'll bloom and mushrooms will sprout up everywhere. But all those mushrooms are part of the same organism–"
I saw a sudden flash of red hair in the darkness, leaving feathery streaks of blood on crumbling plaster walls. The vision was so intense I drew in a sharp breath, my eyes filling with tears. Don't trust them.
"Rosie..." Sam took a step towards me and I jerked away, shaking my head.
"No. No, this is insane. You're insane."
He held up his hands. "You have to listen to us, okay? We're not going to hurt you."
Yes, you are.
"Just... Get the hell out of here. Or I'm going to call the cops."
"Wait!"
I ignored him, sprinting back towards the house. On the driveway I hesitated, turning in a circle to make sure they weren't following me. Then I faltered, my gaze darting up to Lily's bedroom window, half-expecting to see darkness crowding at the glass. I couldn't see anything, but that didn't mean there wasn't anything there.
You can't trust them, Rosie. They're dangerous.
My gaze dropped to the front door. I was remembering the conversation I'd had with my father, the sorrow in his voice at how much he was missing us, how sorry he was that he'd had to leave. He wasn't missing; I'd spoken to him.
So why was I picturing his cheek pressed against a wall blackened with mould? Why was I listening to his screams echoing in my memory?
"I'm losing my mind," I whispered.
There was nothing in my sister's closet.
I used the concealed key to unlock the front door, and ran upstairs, ignoring the shadows of my mom and Lily I could see in the arch that led to the kitchen. In my room I pulled out my cell phone, dialled my father's number, listened as I was forwarded to his voice mail. I hung up and threw the phone onto the bedspread, buried my face in my hands.
They were dangerous, those two men. They were a threat. I don't know how I knew that, but I was certain of it. I crossed to the window and peered out, but as far as I could see they had gone.
Maybe my threat about calling the police had worked. Somehow I doubted it.
When my phone rang, the sound was so sudden it made me jump. I froze, staring at it, then snatched it up. "Hello?"
"Hi Rosie." The speaker's voice sounded distorted, as if my phone was underwater.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, of course. Who else would it be?" He started to laugh, but his voice quickly turned uncertain when I didn't respond. "Are you okay, sweetheart? You sound upset."
I glanced at the display: unknown number. My father called my name, worry in his voice. "I'm okay," I lied. "I just miss you."
"I talked to your mom," he said, his voice crackling. Breaking up. "I might come home for the weekend. Would you like that?"
"Yeah."
His voice lowered, twisting into something that crackled like withered leaves. Something itched inside my skull. The reception on the phone was so bad I could barely make out his words. "It'll soon be over. Not long now."
Goose flesh prickled on my arms, but he'd gone. Hardly daring to breathe, I went to recent activity on my phone.
Nothing. Except for the outgoing call I'd just made. There were no incoming calls.
In the dream I saw my father, turning his head to look back over his shoulder, his mouth forming words.
"Daddy, no," I whispered, reached out to catch hold of him. To stop him from going into the closet. But there was nothing I could do. He stepped inside.
My hand hit something hard and cold and the world jolted around me. I was standing in the closet, my hand pressed up against the wall. It felt cold under my palm, almost alive, and something was swarming up my arms and over my shoulders. Into my mouth. It tasted sour, bitter on my tongue, and then it covered my eyes and I was blind, staring into a writhing hollow void that was alive and filled with malice. Staring into the darkness inside my own skull.
My hand on my father's face. Pressing his cheek against the wall.
I woke, screaming.
A shape stepped out of the shadows in my room, moving into the moonlight that streaked through the open curtains. My father, his body hunched and broken, his face a writhing mass of black mould. He held out his hands, palms upwards, fingers slightly bent, and he staggered towards my bed, his voice an itch on the inside of my skull.
The covers tangled around my legs. I fell on the floor, weeping in stark terror. The carpet felt mildewed to the touch as I dragged myself away from the thing staggering towards me. Bending over me. Beneath the swarming blackness of his face I saw scraps of red, glistening flesh, the gleam of polished bone.
"You're not real!" I squeezed my eyes shut, as it drew closer, the stink of decay so thick I could taste it. Fingers delicately stroked back my hair. I felt hot breath against my ear.
"They're coming for you, " it whispered, each word echoing in my head. " Kill them."
My eyes snapped open. The thing that might have been my father once was gone.
They're coming for you.
I dragged myself to my feet and threw myself out in to the hall. At the top of the stairs I froze, because there were shapes moving behind the frosted glass of the front door.
"Shit."
I turned on my heel, ran to Lily's room.
My sister was in bed, a hunched foetal shape beneath the covers. From the harshness of her breath, the way her shoulders were shaking, she was awake. I slammed the door, pressed my forehead against it, nausea roiling in my stomach. "Lily," I said. "Lily, we've got to–"
"Leave me alone." Her voice was shaking.
I glanced at her. Her face was gaunt, a hollow-eyed blur in the darkness. Her hair hung in dirty, greasy clumps around her face. "Lily..."
"Why won't you leave us alone?!" Her shoulders were shaking with the force of her tears and fury.
"Lily..." I took a step towards her, saw her flinch away, cowering in the bed. And I glanced away, towards the closet. The door was standing open, and I could feel whatever was inside watching us. I felt suddenly dizzy, because something was wrong. They're coming, I thought. That's what's wrong. You have to do this fast. "You're my sister," I said, pleading with her. "You're my sister and I love you."
And I realised as I spoke that it was something I'd said before. In her room, my arms wrapped tight around her, crushing her. Two memories overlapped, clashing; my voice hissing, Do you miss your daddy, Lily?
She flinched, and her lips flattening into a hard, flat line of misery. She pushed herself away from me as I knelt on the bed, reaching for her.
"I'm sorry," I said, but I couldn't stop myself from grinning, a wild, rictus grin that she shrank away from. "I think I'm remembering wrong."
The sick feeling in my gut was intensifying, waves of dizziness surging over me. I was hungry – so hungry – like I hadn't eaten for weeks. Something dark and gloating and savage reared up inside me as I cupped her cheeks. Lily stared up into my eyes in terror, begging me to stop.
It's inside me, I thought. It's been there all along.
I saw an image of myself, crouching on my bed. My hands pressing against the wall between my room and Lily's, the paint beneath my hands speckled with mould. The itching sensation in my skull began to burn.
Just a little while longer, whispered the voice inside my skull. Just a little further. Not long now. Just feed. One more time. And then...
And something was seeping out of my skin, out of my mouth, my eyes, my nose. Darkness swirled down my arms like living ink and over my sister's face. And the part of me that was me shrank to a pinpoint speck of consciousness. I could see, I could hear, but it was like looking through a distorted mirror. Like this was nothing more than a bad dream.
Just one more feed and then this would all be over. It would be strong enough to let me go. To spread. To spore. And then it would all be over. For me at least.
"You're my sister and I love you," I whispered, but my voice was no longer my own.
The door crashed open.
Lily's curls tangled around my fingers. Someone grabbed me from behind, wrenching me away, forced me back on the bed. It was Agent Strummer – Dean Winchester – his expression grim, verging on furious. His fingers probed between my lips, wrenched my jaw open. A thick, viscous, bitter-tasting liquid flooded my mouth. As I went to spit, he forced my jaw closed, pinning me down as I struggled and fought.
It burned, oh god it burned.
The thing inside my head screamed. The walls around us rippled with shadows, thick and dark. As I swallowed, something wrenched in my gut; the worst pain I had ever experienced tore through me, making me buck and spasm on the bed.
And then it passed.
Dean's weight eased off me. Somewhere my sister was weeping. "Lily?" I said, and then I started to cry, because I could still feel her hair in my hands and I couldn't hear her any more.
"It's okay, Rosie," Sam said. "You're okay."
I knew he was a liar.
As Dean stood up, I stared at my hands. At the ragged, bloodied hank of hair clutched in my fingers. And then I looked at Dean. At Sam. At my sobbing mother, kneeling in the open doorway.
I couldn't make myself look at the bed.
"What was it?" my mother asked afterwards. They gave her the story. The same ridiculous mushroom story that Sam had told me. Only it didn't seem quite so ridiculous now. She listened without really listening, and I knew she was already starting to forget. She seemed numb, like she was dosed up on drugs, and I had a feeling that would be the future in store for her.
Looked like I'd get my wish after all.
It takes people, the Winchesters said, and the world forgets about them. It was how they tracked it, looking for disappearances that no one seemed to care about. That no one seemed to notice. My father. A couple of kids at my school. Popular kids, who should never have slipped through the cracks. Kids I hated.
I dropped my gaze to my hands knotted in my lap.
Sam glanced at me, his eyes grim. "It was hiding in the walls," he lied, and I knew he was doing it for my sake. To protect me. I wish I could say it helped, although I didn't deserve it.
"Is it dead?" my mother asked. She wasn't looking at me. She was still too afraid.
And the Winchesters shared another look. "Yeah," Dean said eventually. "It's dead." And although my mother closed her eyes and nodded, I knew he was lying. Like I said, I have a knack for shit like that. I know when I'm being lied to. Unless I'm the one doing the lying, I guess.
We closed off the room, my mom and I, its walls still scorched and blackened, stinking of decay. We boarded over the door, and left it to rot. There was an emptiness in that room, a hollow shape where someone important to us had once existed. Neither of us could bear it and we couldn't afford to move.
I don't blame the Winchesters for what happened. They did their best. Even if they couldn't... Even if...
I forget.
Because they might have stopped it from spreading this time, but they hadn't killed it. They didn't know how to kill it.
I can feel it messing with me even now. Twisting my thoughts and screwing with my memory. Making me forget. Out of spite and malice. For no other reason than revenge. It can't get the Winchesters, but it can get me.
And they'd known that, I think. Sam and Dean. They'd known this would happen.
I don't blame them. They did what they had to do...
But they could have told me. They could have warned me.
Every day I lose a little more of myself. Every day I look in the mirror and the face I see is a little less familiar. Soon, I think, I'll look and I won't recognise myself at all. And I'm losing other things too. I write down what I can, but so little of it makes sense any more, and there are days when I look at the words on the paper and they tangle together into meaningless alien shapes. Maybe it's for the best. When Mom looks at me, all I can see is fear in her eyes.
I had a sister once. Apparently.