AN: I made the mistake of waving at her when I spotted her on the porch. She called me a harlot and told me to keep well away from her grandson's precious innocence. Ada was not happy. She was willing to possibly kill me, but God forbid I get a black mark on my spiritual record. I'm pretty sure we're on the fast track to Hell. Good! I'll poke others with a pitchfork. That's no fun. What about all the debauchery?
Christineoftheopera-He most certainly would have.
It's been a month since she died. He hasn't been home much-just now and again, to keep up the illusion. He's been telling people she's ill, that her arthritis has confined her to her bed, but don't worry, there's no need to come visiting.
She never welcomed visitors anyway.
To Kitty's parents, he's slightly more truthful-well, considering the circumstances. He's confessed to them (complete with the exhausted, worried relative act) that he's not sure she'll make it through this last illness.
Kitty's mother sent him back laden down with food. Her father muttered something about good riddance that Jonathan's pretty certain he wasn't supposed to hear.
He's been keeping himself busy-packing, selling things (only little things, nothing particularly valuable, lest it draw suspicion) and avoiding going home as often as possible. The fields are messier than usual, but he doesn't care about those anymore. He's tempted, really, to set them on fire.
He hasn't slept there much. He hasn't slept much at all, actually, but what little rest he's gotten has been in Kitty's room. It's warm there, safe.
He had things to do tonight, though. Besides, he is not afraid of her. She's dead. Dead and pecked to pieces. What does he think she'll do, appear and drag him down to Hell with her? Preposterous.
It's after midnight when he stumbles up to bed and passes out, still half-dressed. He sleeps for a little over an hour before there's a horrific crack, like bones breaking, and he wakes with a start.
It's raining. Well, raining isn't the right word. This is an assault by nature. Large, heavy drops crash into the windows and onto the roof, determined to bore holes in the hold house. Lightning flashes outside seconds before another crack.
He's facing the window, and for some reason he's terrified to roll over and even more terrified to have his back to the door. Granny, Granny must be having her nightly prowls again…
He flops over, trying to seem as though he's still asleep. One hand lands perilously close to the edge of the bed and he inches it back, hoping he won't be seen.
After a moment, he twitches a bit and murmurs, "Granny? Wha's going on?"
And then he remembers that she's dead.
He opens his eyes. The room is empty
Of course it's empty!
but he can't stay in this house another minute.
He gets dressed, digs up his tattered raincoat, and makes his way downstairs. Something scuttles behind him in the darkness but he does not look to see what it is. He knows what it is-a tall, thin old woman whose eyes burn with insanity and hatred.
If he doesn't look back, she can't touch him.
He rounds the final spiral and can't help but glance up. There! There, in the shadows-a white, wizened claw of a hand clutching the banister.
He ignores the rain, ignores the wind, just hopes to God that Kitty's awake…or at least hasn't taken allergy pills. Even if she has, out here is better than in there.
He nearly loses his balance when he reaches the top of the tree-if he's going to be struck by lightning, it would be now-and he's frightened to let go long enough to knock.
"Jonathan…?" She's half-asleep, he can tell. "What are…oh my god!" The window flies open. "Are you insane? What's going on?"
"I can't sleep in that house." Here, in the warm room, he realizes how ridiculous this sounds. "I can't do it, m'sorry…"
"You're soaked. Stay there. Take your coat off, at least. Or everything. That might be better."
Everything? Not likely.
He does, however, take off his coat and, after a minute's deliberation, his shirt. He's colder than ever without them and it takes his shaking fingers a few minutes to untie his shoelaces.
"Here." A towel hits him in the chest. "You're not sleeping in wet jeans. Do make me fight you on that."
"Y-you'd lose." He's not so sure he can out of them anyway. Wet denim is better than a bear trap.
"With the shape you're in?" She yawns. "N-not…not bloody likely."
If she tries it, she'll be in for a surprise.
"I can manage."
She does not look convinced.
"Then manage." She stretches out on her bed, hands gripping the headboard. "I'm not letting you in here soaked through."
"Fine."
They stare at each other for a minute before she rolls her eyes and burrows under the covers.
"If you need help, let me know."
He will not need help and that is final.
He does fight a bit with the socks, but he gets them off eventually before attempting jean removal.
He falls over about two seconds in.
"Having trouble?"
"Shut up, Kitty."
She snickers.
"Try not to wake my parents."
Great, something else to worry about.
He stays on the floor and finally manages to get them off thanks to an elaborate shimmy-flail-pull thing. By the time he's free, he's a little out of breath and flushed.
"You okay down there?"
Finally. Dry sweats. He'll never wear jeans again…
"M'okay."
"Get up, then."
He yawns and drops down on the bed. His skin's numb. The rain is no quieter in here, but at least he's not by himself.
And, more importantly, he's not there.
THE END