Lucy had been working at her current job for nearly ten years, and in that time she'd taken only two days off - once Lugosi had the flu at nine, and again when she herself had it two years ago. She was not overly dedicated to her work, but as the years progressed and her personal days accumulated, she decided that she wanted to keep them on hand in case she really needed them at some point.
Now was that point.
She put in for a week and was quickly approved, which gave her ample time to get the house organized. Thursday morning, after she kissed Lincoln and Lugosi goodbye, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat at the table, where she sipped it with the languor of a woman whose time was her own, and whose boss was herself.
As she enjoyed the peace and quiet, she planned her day to the minute. First, she would finish unpacking the boxes in hers and Lincoln's room, then she'd put away the last of the dishes in here, then, perhaps after lunch, she'd unpack all the books and DVDs - the bookshelf, standing against the wall flaking the dining room archway, was barren, and it bothered her every time she looked at it. A room without books, Cicero said, is like a body without a soul, and as it stood right now, her living room was a corpse.
Maybe she'd do that first.
Finishing her coffee, she got up, rinsed it in the sink, and sat it in the drying rack. Through the window, the day was gray and damp, the thin autumn rain making ripples in the surface of the lake. She liked rainy days - they were perfect for snuggling up with a book or taking a nap. She had a special armchair for the former, and there was something endlessly comforting in sitting by the window with a novel and occasionally glancing up at the rain sluiced glass.
Cozy. Days like this were cozy. Outside, it was cold and wet, but inside it was dry and warm.
She splayed her fingers on the sink and drew a deep, contented sigh. Life was as good now as she supposed it would ever be. She and Lincoln finally had a home to call their own and their little family was happy and at peace. What more could one really ask for? Not much. She and Lincoln didn't bring home a lot of money, but they always had what they needed and often times what they wanted as son was healthy and well-adjusted. Their car, while on the older side, ran wel. She and Lincoln both had job security.
Things were rocky in the beginning, like a plane shaking with turbulence on take off, but they were finally smoothed out. The dark spot was their family, who to this day had very little to do with them. Lana, Lola, Luan, Lynn, and Lori still lived close by, but she and Lincoln rarely saw or spoke to them. When they did, the air was unfailingly thick with tension and their interactions were stiff, awkward, the way they would be with a once close friend after a major falling out and a half-hearted reconciliation. She understood the taboo aspect of hers and Lincoln's relationship...in fact, at one point it even appealed to her...but even so, it cut her deeply that their surviving family did not accept it. She loved Lincoln with all her heart and he made her giddy with happiness every single day. Was it objectively disgusting to feel that way for your brother? To make love to him? To bear his child? Maybe, but Cupid's arrow strikes where it strikes. One cannot help who they fall in love with anymore than they can help what color their eyes are.
It had been nearly thirty years since she first looked at Lincoln as something more than family, and even now, she wished, deep in her heart of hearts, that their sisters would love them be happy for them. She didn't think they ever would, but she held out hope because without hope, you have nothing. Her hope sustained her through many hard times in her life, and while it was sometimes a faint flicker - a candle snuffing in the wind - it never went out completely: Her hope for a better career, her hope for a better home. Those things came to pass, and maybe her hope that her sisters would accept her and Lincoln would too.
Drawing a deep breath, she went into the living room and knelt next to the box of books and movies. She opened the flaps, grabbed a stack of DVDs, and carried them over to the shelf, where she arranged them according to genre: Horror, drama, comedy, and children's. They didn't have very many of the latter anymore, but she held onto Lugosi's childhood favorites out of nostalgia. She went back to the box, picked up another, and turned to take it to the bookshelf, but stopped when a strange tingling sensation reminiscent of pins and needles filled her skull. She stiffened and the DVD's fell from her hands; hissing through clenched teeth, pressed her fingertips to her temples and grimaced in pain as her ears began to ring. An image flashed across her mind - pulsing red light - and something raked across her brain like the tentative ghosting of fingertips...exploring...testing...looking for a way in.
Just as suddenly as it started, it was over, the fingers yanking away as if from something unexpectedly hot. Dizziness came over her and her knees went weak; she started to pitch forward, but shot out her hands and caught herself on the bookcase, leaning heavily on it for support. Her breathing came in hot gasps and a trembling shudder ran through her body.
Nearly thirty years ago, she felt the exact same thing when a demon tried to read her mind - right down to the abiding sense of being violated that now flowed through her like sludge. Her psychic abilities - never especially strong to begin with - faded over time, but she knew the feeling of being mentally cased well enough that there was no doubt in her mind what just happened.
Something tried to get in.
A chill slid down her spine and she looked around as if she would be able to see it - a twisted nightmare creature wrapped in darkness - but she was alone.
Still shaky, she pushed away from the bookshelf and made her way into the kitchen, where she poured herself another cup of coffee with trembling hands, spilling some on the counter. She sat at the table and took a drink, the hot liquid doing little to warm the ice settled in her bones.
Whatever it was, it had to be close. Demonic entities cannot enter mind from afar - there must be a mingling of auras for it to work, your mental energy blending with theirs. The hairs on her arms stood up and the back of her neck tingled. She threw a nervous glance over her shoulder - the kitchen stood empty save for the shade of dirty gray light falling through the window centered in the back door. Maybe she was paranoid now, but she didn't feel like she was alone - she could sense a dark presence nearby, a vague, queasy stirring at the base of her spine. Where was it, though?
In the house?
Her heart skipped a beat and her fingers tightened around the coffee cup, numb to the ceramic burning her skin.
She was suddenly afraid.
Thirty years ago, she and Lincoln faced down two supernatural creatures which, she had come to believe, is two more than most people deal with. Expert monster hunters like Dracula's Abraham Van Helsing do not exist because so few people encounter the otherworldly. Maybe a one time they did, but certainly not anymore. She and Lincoln were then the closest thing to experts on the subject as two people could possibly be. Even so, she was not unfailingly brave in the face of the paranormal. Her mind told her to get up and check the house from top to bottom, but her body was paralyzed in fear. Her hand went to the cross around her neck and she squeezed it tight like a child clutching a teddy bear against the specter of monsters in the closet.
She couldn't just sit here and delude herself into believing that she was mistaken, though. They say that you never forget how to ride a bike...well, you never forget what it feels like to have your brain prodded by a thing seeking ingress. There's no sensation like it in the world, at least not one that she ever experienced. She needed to get up and look around, but God, she didn't want to.
Finishing her coffee, she forced herself to her feet and looked at the door to the back stairway. Her heart twinged and she swallowed hard. She'd start in the living room.
Holding the cross protectively in her hand, she searched the living room and the parlor, the latter devoid of furniture. She snapped on every light as she went, taking heart even though they afforded no real protection. She checked in every nook and cranny, but found nothing, so went upstairs, her dread rising with every step she took. At the top, she stared down the hall, her resolve wavering. She forged ahead anyway, starting in hers and Lincoln's room. Her heart raced as she opened the closet and knelt beside the bed to peer underneath.
She found nothing. No ghosts, no ghouls, no vampires, nothing but empty house.
After Lugosi's room, she went into the attic with a flashlight. Nothing there either.
Back in the kitchen, she dropped into a chair and took a deep breath. That was everywhere.
Her eyes went to the basement door and her stomach dropped.
When the realtor first showed them the house, she noticed a certain atmosphere in the cellar - dank, stale, heavy like a wet woolen blanket. She didn't particularly like it, but she ascribed it to the area being dusty, closed up, and underground. She hadn't been back down there since they moved in, and now that she thought about it, she realized that she may have been intentionally avoiding it.
Was something down there?
Slowly, cautiously, like a woman staring down a dangerous animal in a corner, Lucy got to her feet, her grip on the cross tightening. The arms bit painfully into the padding of her palm and the scraping of the chair legs against the linoleum put her uncomfortably in mind of a crypt door being opened from the inside. She hesitated a moment, then crossed to the door, her steps small and reluctant. She reached out, unlatched it, and swung it open, a stale draft pushing the coppery scent of earth into her nostrils. She listened, heard nothing, and, taking a deep breath, she started down, the treads groaning underfoot. Gray half-light filled the space like ash, and at the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and cast an anxious look around. Shadows nested in the corners and cobwebs blew in the damp draft.
First, she checked behind the stairs, then in the space between the wall and the hot water heater, then crossed to the other side and peeked into the furnace, its inside cold, dead, and caked with the soot of fires past. She found no signs of anything, natural or otherwise. Even so, the back of her neck burned with the sensation of being watched. She turned in a semi-circle , but if something was there, she could not see it….she could feel it, though, a low, thrumming vibration deep in her soul.
Before she knew she was speaking, she said, "I know you're here. What do you want?"
Nothing responded, nothing moved.
It was here, though, she could sense it.
In the kitchen, she shut the door behind her and leaned heavily against it.
Haunted. Her new home was haunted. She let out a humorless laugh and threaded her fingers through her hair. Isn't that just like life? Take something beautiful and happy and fuck it over. Inexplicable tears filled her eyes and she almost broke down. She was so excited for this and now…
She took a deep breath and got control of herself. Ghosts were real - she believed that with every fiber of her being; the number of reports throughout human history were far too many to ignore. What exactly they were, however, eluded her. Some believe that ghosts are conscious spirits while others posit that they are simply echoes rippling through the fabric of reality: When you witness a ghost walking down a hallway, you are seeing something that happened at some point in the past. Imagine pressing your hand into a foam mattress and leaving an imprint - there's your ghost. Whatever they may be, they cannot search your mind the way this did. Demons can and perhaps other things, but not simple ghosts.
Which meant that whatever was here, it was potentially dangerous.
The fridge kicked on with a low hum, and she jumped, a sharp exclamation bursting from her throat. She pushed away from the door and went to the counter, where she'd left her phone. She picked it up, swiped her thumb across the screen, and dialed a number. There might be a demon in her home, or soaked into the very ground upon which it was built, but it would not be there for long.
Lincoln Loud passed Thursday afternoon in a state of restlessness, his fingers drumming on the surface of his desk and his mind far away. He was normally open and affable with his coworkers, but today he was sullen and quiet, replying to their jests, greetings, and small talk with surly monosyllables. Bill from accounting insisted on showing him pictures of his niece and nephew at the water cooler, and Lincoln tolerated it with strained patience, outwardly smiling but inwardly wondering if he could stab Bill in the eye with a pencil and pass it off as an accident. At noon, he went into the dayroom to fetch his lunch from the refrigerator - a tuna sandwich and bag of chips in a brown paper bag - and found it squished by pasta and sauce in a Tupperware container. Oh, there's no room, here, let me set it on top of someone else's food.
Flashing, he snatched the container out of the fridge and threw it into the trash, taking savage satisfaction when the lid came off and the contents spilled out. Fuck you, prick, eat your spaghetti from the garbage. He snatched his lunch, slammed the door, and went back to his desk. As he ate, he turned the previous night's events over and over in his head, worry gnawing at his chest like the teeth of a rodent chewing its way through soft, pink insulation.
It started as a dream. He was shuffling warily through a tilted hallway, his heart slamming. At the end was a door. He went through it and emerged in the basement of the Lutz Drive house. The earthen floor was cold underfoot, the air stale, and soft, throbbing red light filtering out around the edges of the stones comprising the wall. His fear drained away and in its place came the stillest, deepest peace he had ever known. A thousand whispering voices swirled around him like a stir of echoes, and while he couldn't understand them, they were soothing nevertheless.
Someone, or something, handed him a pick ax, and his feet carried him to the wall, the light bathing him in warm glow.
That's when he woke up.
Standing before the stone wall in the darkened basement, a pick ax he'd never seen before clutched in his hands. For a moment, the line between sleep and consciousness blurred, and he didn't know whether he was still dreaming or not. Then, with a start, he realized that he was indeed awake, and he stumbled back, the ax dropping from his hands and landing in the dirt with a soft pfft. The light was gone, if it had ever been there to begin with, but he could still feel it on his face like a sunburn. The voices were also absent, the cellar silent save for the ragged pant of his own breathing. His peace and tranquility departed, replaced by superstitious panic, and he fled up the stairs, falling halfway up and banging his shin on one of the treads.
In the kitchen, he made a pot of coffee and waited at the table, his body shaking and his spirit in turmoil. He sleepwalked every once in a blue moon, but something about this time didn't feel right. In fact, he wasn't even entirely sure where the line of demarcation between sleep and wakefulness lie. He thought he woke just before running, but as he ran it through his mind, he didn't know if he did or not.
Maybe he was awake sooner.
And the pick ax...he and Lucy didn't even own a pick ax. Or a shovel. Or any tools. They just moved from an apartment, for Christ's sake, why would they need any of that stuff? Their landlord did all of the shovelling and pick axing for them. He could have grabbed it from a shadowy corner of the basement, where it was left three or even four owners ago, but he knew for a fact that there was no pick ax down there. Yet he came awake holding one.
Or did he?
He honestly didn't know: He was so confused he didn't know anything...except that the urge to go back down there, pick up the ax, and start digging at the wall...to reveal the source of that wonderful, comforting light, was so strong he jittered.
After his third cup of coffee, he was fortified enough to make it upstairs, his chest filled with yearning. There was nothing in the wall...the light was entirely in his head...but the impulse only grew as he lay in bed. He tossed, turned, and vainly sought sleep, finding questions, fears, and suspicions instead.
Before dawn, he fell into a fitful sleep from which he woke an hour later edgy and tired. The urge to dig came back like a hammer blast, and as he stood in the kitchen making his lunch, he almost gave in...almost threw off his jacket, undid his tie, and went down into the cellar. The ax would be where he left it...the stones would be loose enough that it shouldn't take much work…
Instead, he went to work, and ever since, the dark compulsion had been steadily intensifying, his every cell crying out for him to dig. He had never been addicted to drink or drug, but he imagined that this was how a crackhead felt as he jonesed for a hit, and though he told himself that he would not give in...that he had no reason to tear out the wall in the basement...he knew that as soon as he got home, he was going to whether he wanted or not.
After lunch, he and the rest of the department attended a meeting in the conference room, and while the CFO droned over flow charts and Powerpoints, Lincoln daydreamed, envisioning the heady moment the tip of the ax struck the first stone. He could feel the vibrations of the impact running up his arms, could hear the musical clink of that initial strike. He didn't care what was behind the wall, if anything; the intoxicating act of digging became the only thing that mattered.
By the end of the day, he trembled with need, his right eye twitching and lending him the appearance of a tweaker going into withdrawals. He rushed out to the car, ignoring banal fare-thee-wells and see ya tomorrow, Lincs. In the lobby, Jack the security guard sat behind the front desk, his hands in his lap and a dumb expression on his face. Lincoln and Jack went to school together and got along well, but when Jack told him to have a good day, Lincoln almost snapped at him. Why can't anyone leave me alone?
Outside, the day was overcast and cold, a chilly wind sweeping across the parking lot. He didn't notice it as he crossed to the car, didn't notice the pick up slamming on its brakes and honking as he walked in front of it, noticed nothing but the throbbing need in the pit of his stomach. He unlocked the driver side door and slipped in behind the wheel, starting the engine. Neglecting his seatbelt, he backed up, spun the wheel, and set a course for home, his fingers gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles turned a bloodless shade of white. He resembled a man in a trance, and pulled into his driveway with no memory of getting there.
He parked by the front door, got out, and went inside - he did not notice the change in atmosphere when he crossed the threshold, but his step faltered nevertheless. Not now, a toneless voice spoke from the center of his head. Wait.
Lucy.
She couldn't know.
He wasn't sure where this information came from or why, but he did not question it. The ball of desire in his stomach unclenched, and the intensity of his longing lessened. Later. Later dig. Dig later. Dig tonight.
"Tonight," he mumbled dazedly to himself. "Tonight."
He was cracking up - Friedrich Nietzsche warned that he who fought monsters must take care that he himself did not become a monster, and from the time he was a child, Lugosi Loud studied to fight monsters. Now, at sixteen, he was rapidly morphing into one, his mind crumbling like an archaic piece of masonry and choking dust fogging his brain. Since Tuesday night, voices whispered on an endless loop from the center of his skull, sometimes so low as to be inaudible, and sometimes so loud he couldn't hear over them. They insulted him, commented on everything he did (often critically), and chanted for him to kill, kill, kill.
Losing control of his mind - being a hostage of mental illness - was the one thing that truly terrified him, and now, it was coming to pass, and every waking moment, aching fear throbbed in his chest. He did his best to hide it from his parents, but it was beginning to show. In the bathroom mirror that Thursday morning, his face was pale and his his features haggard, his dark eyes pooled with fevered sickness. Crazy...you're going crazy...you're going to hurt someone...father killer, father killer, father killer. Water spilled down his cheeks and he fisted his hands to his temples. "Shut up! Just...shut...up…"
Monday night, he dreamed of murdering his parents...standing amidst a field of carnage with an ax in his hands, panting, blood soaked into the living room floor and splattered across the walls, body parts strewn around like the after effects of a grizzly temper tantrum. He watched himself from outside - a spectator - and when the other Lugosi lifted his head, he sat bolt upright in bed with a scream locked in his throat. The face he saw was recognizably his own, but harder, colder, his thin lips pulled back from his teeth in a mad smile and his eyes burning with sadistic glee.
After that, he was too afraid to sleep, and passed the rest of the long, satanic night in a fetal position, trembling and fighting back tears. Killer...psycho...monster…
"No," he plaintively moaned.
He's the next John Wayne Gacy.
Another voice laughed cruelly. He'll kill his parents...then children.
"I won't," he vowed.
He'll kill them then molest their bodies.
All of the voices - a thousand, a million, infinity - shrieked with hateful laughter, and that's when he broke down and cried.
He wouldn't hurt his parents...or anyone else...no matter what they said. He hated people who hurt others. Killers, bullies, abusers, rapists, pedophiles, fascists, communists...he despised them and so far he'd dedicated most of his life to standing against them. He didn't want to be a criminal psychologist to hang out with serial killers and be their friend, he wanted to to be a criminal psychologist to stop them.
When he was a child, his mother introduced him to the movies she liked. Halloween; The Texas Chainsaw Massacre; A Nightmare on Elm Street; Friday the 13th; Natural Born Killers; Psycho; and a thousand other cult classic horror films where someone in a mask butchers innocent people. She did it because, he thought, she wanted to share something she was passionate about with her child, just like any parent would. He couldn't fault her for that, and in a way he did enjoy those movies...and the bonding he and Mom did over them...but he didn't like the villains. He didn't look at them as anti-heroes or role models...he didn't relish their kills the way some fans did; the screams and abject, animal terror of their victims stayed with him long after the credits, and lying in bed at night, he asked himself why.
He couldn't remember when he discovered that killers like the ones in those movies really exist, but he did recall being disturbed, scared...and angry. He decided that those men - the Dahmers and Gacys of the world - were every bit the monster as their onscreen counterparts, and needed to be stopped. He was ten when he realized that he wanted to actively fight them. At first he wanted to be a cop...the one to physically put them in handcuffs and take them off the street...then he wanted to be a detective, the one to gather all the evidence and track them down...then, as his interest in aberrant psychology blossomed, he wanted to work at knowing their minds so that he could anticipate their next move and head it off.
Nothing could make him hurt someone else...nothing, not even all the voices in the universe. That didn't staunch the fear gushing from his heart, and while he knew it sounded crazy, he couldn't help the feeling that something was drawing it out of him, making him afraid so that it could feast on it. Something like…
The house.
Tuesday, at school, the voices were faint - he couldn't make out words or even tone, they were a low, monotonous babble and he thought they were going away. Then, on the bus, the volume steadily increased the closer her got to home. The same thing today - they screamed and yelled and laughed as loud as they could, but the farther away he got, the quieter they became until he could barely hear them again. The house...the fucking house...it was trying to drive him crazy. He didn't know how, or why, but as he sat in history class, head down and fingers threaded through his hair in a posture of misery, he decided that it was. What could he do about it? Burn it to the ground?
A shiver went through him. That's exactly what a crazy person would do - torch a house because it's driving me crazy and feeding on my fear like a vampire.
During lunch, he sat next to Paul in the crowded cafeteria and stared down at his tray. Paul went on and on and on about Candy - how beautiful she was, how vivacious and perfect, how she'd never want a geek like him, how he sucked, how he was going to die a virgin. Normally Lugosi would try and buck him up (isn't that what friends do?) but today, he wanted to shake him. Shut up! Shut up! I don't fucking care!
When he looked up, he caught a girl with red hair staring at him from across the room, a sly little smile on her lips. A voice broke from the pack, its words barely loud enough to discern. She knows...kill her.
He forced his gaze back to the tray and squeezed his eyes closed.
"...I wanna kiss her and squeeze her butt cheeks so bad," Paul sighed.
Anger flared in Lugosi's chest and he turned to him, his teeth clenched. Paul shrank instinctively away, his eyes widening in alarm. "Then fucking do it and leave me alone."
The fear and hurt he saw in his friend's eyes disturbed him, and without another word, he got to his feet and stormed off, his hands balling into fists. Rage boiled in his stomach - rage at the house, rage at himself, rage at the voices in his head, rage at his own broken mind - and so too did fear. He was so fucking scared he could barely think, scared of hurting someone, scared of winding up in a padded room, scared of watching his dreams shatter.
And that's just what it wanted.
He knew that innately, the way a baby knows its mother, and he had to fight it, couldn't be afraid, couldn't give in.
At the end of the day, he started toward the bus, but decided that he didn't want to go home...at least not now. Instead, he broke from the crowd of kids streaming out of the building and started walking, letting his feet take him where they wanted. He wound up on the athletic field flanking the building. A row of bleachers overlooked a baseball diamond, and smattering of kids sat here and there in small groups. One lone figure sat at the very top, and even though he couldn't see them clearly from where he stood, he knew instinctively that it was Ramona Santiago.
Climbing onto the bleachers, he went over and sat next to her. She stared into space, her arms wrapped protectively around her chest. The energy surrounding her was dark and thick, and from the stormy look in her eyes, he could only infer that something was wrong.
When he sat, she glanced at him then away, registering his presence but taking no special note of it, as though them meeting like this and sitting together was a well-established tradition stretching back semesters. "You're a fucking stalker," she said, her voice hollow and devoid of emotion.
"No," he admitted, his tone as flat and listless as hers, "I just don't wanna go home."
She darted her eyes to him then away. "You too?"
That knocked him off balance. You too? "You don't wanna go home either?"
She didn't respond; she simply gazed into space; dark vibes emanated from her in waves, and Lugosi's stomach clutched. "Why don't you wanna go home?" he pressed.
"No reason," she said.
The lie was clear in her voice.
"There's gotta be a reason."
"No."
He sighed. "How about this: I'll tell you why I don't wanna go home then you tell me why you don't wanna go home."
She didn't reply and Lugosi took a deep breath. "I, uh, I think my house is haunted." He uttered a harsh, humorless laugh, and she turned to him, her brow knitting incredulously. "I know, it's nuts, but...I'm be serious. I think my house...has something wrong with it." Right now, he didn't know if it was the house or his head, but he wasn't going to tell her he suspected that he was going crazy. "What's your reason?"
Sighing, Ramona flicked her eyes to her lap. "I don't wanna talk about it," she said lowly. She turned her head away and a wave of mental energy washed over him. Like before, thoughts that did not originate in his own mind came, stronger now, but still only colors instead of words. Something was really bothering her and she was so close to tears he could almost smell them, like rain in the air before a storm.
Before he knew what he was doing, he surprised himself by slipping a comforting arm around her shoulder. Her body went rigid and red filled his mind: The color of alarm. His thoughts must have transmitted to her the way hers had to his, because she relaxed and even leaned into him as if for comfort. For a moment, the world was still, like a VHS on pause...then she started to cry, her body hitching and choked sobs falling from her trembling lips. A sharp pang of sympathy rippled through his stomach and he held her closer, his fingertips unconsciously brushing up and down her bare arm. He didn't know what was wrong, but he suddenly wanted to make it better.
Shortly, her tears tapered off to sniffle and her trembling petered out. He grasped for something to say, but came up with nothing, so he just started talking. "I think you bully people because you're afraid that if you let them get too close, they'll hurt you." She tensed but didn't speak. "People hurt you in the past and you don't want it to happen again, so you developed a defense mechanism to make sure it wouldn't: You strike first, before they have the chance to do it to you." He trailed off and collected his thoughts. "I don't blame you. People can be assholes. I don't want to hurt you, though. I legit wanna be your friend. If that means talking about your problems, great, if it means just saying hi in the hall, alright. I feel like...you have some things going on. Right now. Some stuff in the past. I dunno. I think you need someone to talk to and to be there for you. If you want to talk, I'll listen."
Ramona was silent for a long time, considering his words. "I appreciate that," she said haltingly and swallowed. "I really don't wanna talk about it, though."
Lugosi nodded. "Y-You're okay, though, right? Like…"
"No, it's nothing like that." She hesitated, and Lugosi could feel her teetering on the edge of opening up. "It's my mom," she said, "she's really sick and….and I'm afraid I'm going to lose her." Her voice broke on the last word and she started crying again. Lugosi's heart broke and he pulled her closer, not knowing what to say so just comforting her instead.
When the storm passed again, she sniffed and swiped the back of her hand across her nose. "She has cancer," she said haltingly, "and...it's pretty bad." She paused and thought. "And...you're kind of right. I guess maybe I do worry people will tease me...like they used to. I just got really sick of being called snaggle tooth and feeling like shit."
She hazarded a glance up, and their gazes locked. Staring into her liquid brown eyes, shimmering in the light of the autumn sun, something stirred deep inside Lugosi's soul, and his hand went to the side of her face almost of its own accord, his thumb ghosting over her freckled cheek and brushing a stray tear away. Her pupils dilated ever so slightly and her lips parted; she was feeling the same fluttery sensation that he was, the same forward pull.
Tilting his head to one side, he leaned into her, and she met his lips with hers half way, their tongues caressing gingerly at first, uncertain, then with more passion when each found the other agreeable. She kissed clumsily, like a coy fawn slipping on ice, and, sensing her inexperience, Lugosi kissed back just as gently, stroking her tongue lightly with his, leading her tenderly along, teaching her. He slid his fingers into her soft, warm hair and rubbed the pad of his thumb over the delicate ridge of her cheekbone as the kiss deepened, their tongues tasting and tentatively exploring the inside of one another's mouth. Her sweet breath intoxicated his senses and burned away all of the fear and disquiet that had been steadily building in him over the past three days. The moist, pillowy scrape of her lips against his sent tingles racing out from the center of his stomach and turned his knees to jelly. A formless tidal wave of emotion crested over him, rolling from her heart and mind in an excited gush: Panic, fear, arousal, hope, and girlish excitement, She laid her palm flat on her chest and curled her fingers into him like a falling girl clutching desperately for safety, and Lugosi took her other cheek in his hand, holding her face now and drinking her in the way a man might drink in fine wine.
When they parted, her eyes were hazy and faraway, her face flushing pink and her lips sparkling; her chest rose and fell with rapidly exhalations. A slow, lazy smile spread across her glowing face and a light, airy giggle burst from her throat. In that moment, she was radiant, and Lugosi's heart twinged with something he could not name. Gazing into her watery brown eyes, he was captivated. He had seen girls more attractive than Ramona, but none of them were as beautiful as she was right now.
She opened her mouth to speak, but giggled again and darted her eyes away. Her hand still lay on his chest, his heart thumping sickly against her palm. "That was…" she started and trailed off. "I wasn't expecting that. At all."
"Neither was I," Lugosi admitted. "I...I honestly wasn't trying to...you know…do this. I just…" he trailed off himself.
She watched him for a moment with those big, twinkling eyes, then took her hand from his chest and rested it on his knee. "I...I'm glad you did, though. I think." Her brow pinched indecisively and she sighed. "I'm...kinda...worried that...you'll hurt me like everyone else." The final six words came out in a rush of confession.
"I know," Lugosi said, "I kind of...get that feeling." He stopped and collected his thoughts. "I can't say where...this...is gonna go, but I would never hurt you. In any way." He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks and looked deep into her eyes as he vowed, "I promise."
Lucy sat stiffly in the armchair flanking the couch, her arms crossed over her chest and her legs folded underneath. Lincoln sat on the couch, hands on his knees, staring at the TV with the same preoccupied expression he'd been wearing since he came home from work; all that evening, he was quiet, and when she spoke to him, he replied in grunts and monosyllables. When she told him about what happened earlier, he nodded and agreed that calling the priest was the right thing to do, but his placating tone suggested that he was simply humoring her. This is serious, she said. His response was an understated I know.
He should be more worried, why wasn't he more worried? Why did he keep staring off into space? Every time she asked him, he said it had to do with work but didn't elaborate. Something told her that was a lie, but she didn't know for sure.
Maybe she was being paranoid. Ever since the incident in the living room, she'd been on edge, jumping at every noise and looking hard into every shadow. Lincoln often came home with things on his mind, nothing new there. He usually opened up to her, though; he never gave her one word responses and vague excuses. If his boss dressed him down, he told her; if he was having problems with a coworker, he told her; if he was afraid of being demoted for messing up on paperwork or mishandling an irate caller, he told her.
This wasn't like him, and it bothered her.
She yawned. She was starting to get sleepy; her eyelids grew suddenly heavy and her brain felt like it was sinking into warm mud.
Lugosi was acting strangely too. At dinner, he kept his head down and barely spoke. When he did, his voice was a little too loud, like he was talking over a din. Thinking back, it occurred to her that he never once made eye contact during the whole meal. He was normally clear and direct, like his father, and when he talked to you, he locked his gaze with yours. He didn't do that tonight. His posture was different too, tense and guarded; instead of sitting upright, he hunched over. He seemed...nervous. When she asked if he was okay, he said something about a big, upcoming test; Lucy knew her son well enough that she could see through the lie instantly. Lugosi never agonized over a test; he was a good student and all of his grades were passing, even if some were a little on the lower side (like English). She didn't press the matter but maybe she should have.
Her head lolled forward and she snapped it back with a start, realizing that she was almost asleep. She shifted and looked at the clock on the wall: It was ten to eight. Why was she so drowsy?
On the television, a talking head droned about the president's domestic policy while an endless ticker of bad news crawled across the bottom of the screen. She blinked her eyes in an attempt to wake herself up and considered going for a cup of coffee, but the thought of getting up made her even more tired than she already was. She yawned again and allowed her lids to flutter shut. Dozing wouldn't hurt, she guessed.
She rested her head against her shoulder, and in moments she dropped into a deep, drugged slumber.
Now, a voice said from the middle of Lincoln's skull. She's asleep.
Obeying the command as readily as a marionette on the end of a string, Lincoln got to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen, his eyes glazing over. At the basement door, he unlatched it and went down into the darkness. He didn't bother to turn the light on; he didn't need it.
The pickax was where he left it. He bent, picked it up, and held it in his hands. Faint red light appeared between the stones, and for a moment he basked in its brilliance. Hurry, a voice said, this one sounding oddly like his mother. Let us out.
Please, let us out, Lynn begged, we're so hungry.
He saw them in his mind - Mom, his sisters, all with open arms and loving smiles. We're sorry, we love you and Lucy and we're happy for you. Come home. He didn't know how, but they were on the other side of this wall, and if he dug deep enough, they would accept his and Lucy's love...and their son.
Tightening his fingers around the spintery handle, he hefted the ax over his shoulder and paused; the light throbbed faster, more insistently. Let us out, they plead, a chorus of need, let us out, let us out.
He brought the ax down.
Clink!
It would take a while...but he would let them out. He would let them all out.