The Haunted

stopped, that the basement was silent. He could hear his own footfalls and the thumping of blood in his ears, but nothing else.

Reaching the bottom, he crossed the few feet it took to get to the edge of the hole and peered down. An arm’s length below the surface, not holding desperately on to a small protruding root, as in his dream, but caught on that root by the back of his pajamas, was James.

Instantly, Julian flopped onto the ground on his stomach, stretching his arm down in an effort to grab the boy. Unlike in the dream, he was able to reach, and his fingers grasped the curved collarless pajama top. He started to pull but realized that James might be too heavy for him to hold with one hand. The material of the pajama top might rip as well. Adjusting himself, scooting forward, Julian used both hands, getting one under each of his son’s armpits, and, wiggling backward, managed to pull him up and out.

He fell backward onto the hard cement floor, holding the boy to him, tears rolling down his cheeks. It took him a moment to realize that James was limp in his arms, and for a brief, heart-stopping second, he thought that he’d failed, that he hadn’t saved his son, that the boy was dead. But then he felt movement beneath his hands, looked into James’s face, saw the fluttering of his eyelids and knew he was alive. The boy was hurt, though. There were bruises on his face and dried blood in his ears, and while he might be alive, he wasn’t conscious.

Julian stood, reached down and picked his son up, the way he had when he was a baby. He wasn’t a baby anymore, though, was almost too heavy to carry up the stairs, but Julian did it.

He expected to be stopped, expected roadblocks to be put up, expected some sort of opposition, but he was allowed to reach the top of the steps, walk through the kitchen and leave the house without incident. James was getting really heavy, and Julian kept talking to him as he staggered down the driveway toward the car, hoping for a response. There was none, but that didn’t stop him from trying, and he continued asking James whether he was all right, kept on begging him to wake up, even as he placed him temporarily upright and leaned the boy’s weight against himself so he could get the rear door of the car open.

Deja vu. This was twice in two days he’d had to do this with one of his children, and it was just as awful and frightening the second time around. After maneuvering his son onto the backseat and quickly closing the door, Julian immediately got in, started the car, swerved backward onto the street and headed for the hospital.

It was deja vu in more ways than one. He thought of the way James had been calling for him, crying out desperately for help.

“Daddy!”

He had sounded almost exactly like Miles.

But he wasn’t Miles.

And he was alive.

Julian lied.

As soon as he knew that both kids were going to be all right, he left Claire at the hospital, telling her that he was going to get Megan’s iPhone and James’s DS so that the two of them would have something to do besides watch TV. But he had no intention of returning to his in-laws’ place or picking up anything.

He was heading back to his house.

He had no plan, didn’t know what he was going to do, but for the past twenty-four hours everything he knew, everything he’d learned, everything he’d seen, everything that had happened had all been swirling around in his mind, and he was sure the answer was in there somewhere, if only he could find the key to unlock it. Maybe if he went back to the house, it might trigger something in his brain, give him an idea, help him figure out what to do. Because his father-in-law was missing, and both his son and daughter were in the hospital. It needed to end here. He had to put a stop to this. Now. Before something even worse happened.

He’d considered asking Rick to come with him. He would have liked some moral support as well as the additional muscle, but he refused to drag another person into this. Enough people had been put in harm’s way already. This was something he needed to do himself. Although even as the thought occurred to him, Julian recognized its essential stupidity. Police didn’t go after criminals alone. Firemen didn’t fight fires alone. He recognized also that the idea that he should go into that house by himself was not his own. It had been placed in his brain, implanted there. He did not fight it, though, did not slow down or call Rick or Patrick for help, but increased his speed so he would get to the house faster.

His cell phone rang. Julian picked it up, glanced down at the number of the caller, then automatically answered and said, “Hello,” before it registered that the call was coming from their house.

“I’ll get both of them next time. Megan and James. And your little wifey, too. Did you get my note? I’ll rape her good and hard. In the ass, the way she likes it best—”

Julian clicked off, threw the phone on the passenger seat next to him. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he thought it might have been John Lynch’s. Whoever it was, it did not scare him off but cemented his resolve to return to the house as quickly as possible.

That’s the intention, a small, logical part of his brain told him, but he ignored it and, moments later, turned onto Rainey Street. He pulled into his driveway—

deja vu

—and got out of the car.

He went through the front door this time. Inside, the house was dark, like a cave. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, and when they finally did, he saw that the interior had changed. Not only had the furnishings been moved and swapped, but the location of the rooms themselves was different. He should have been in the entryway, facing the living room and the hall. Instead, he was looking into his office. Through a doorway in the opposite wall, he could see the kitchen.

He stepped into the room. It was a mess. Books and papers, records and CDs had been strewn all over the floor. The walls were smeared with wide streaks of brown that he hoped to God were chocolate. On his desk, amid a small mound of rubble, his computer was on. The monitor glowed white in the dimness, and there appeared to be words written on it, though when he drew closer, he saw that it was merely a random collection of letters. Nonsense.

Or maybe not. There seemed to be a kind of pattern in the arrangement of the vowels and consonants, and it occurred to him that maybe it was another language, the true language of the being that lived here.

Yesssss.

Julian looked up, startled. Had the word actually been spoken, or had he heard it only in his head? Either way, it had accompanied a rush of wind that blew out from the fireplace, which for some reason was now in his office across from his desk, rather than in the living room. Squinting into the gloom, he tried to see what was in the fireplace, which seemed to stretch back far beyond the width of the house, though that was only an impression, as the darkness within the square opening was complete.

Another rush of air blew out from the fireplace, only this one he could see. It was not smoke, exactly, though it had a billowing quality that reminded him of smoke. Rather, it resembled an arm or a tentacle, one of the liquid, flowing protuberances of an amoeba, perhaps. It had no color of its own but matched precisely the hue and shading of its surroundings, its lower portion the same color as the floor, its upper half corresponding precisely to the appearance of the wall, down to those unexplainable brown streaks.

It was the same formless entity that had assaulted him in the living room before he had moved out, the same evil creature that had tried to get him to kill himself. It didn’t look like a fat man’s shadow anymore, and he had the feeling that this was closer to its true appearance. Although maybe not. He remembered from the cold touch of that shadowy arm that this being was constantly evolving, was always in the process of becoming, that it took on the properties of its latest acquisition. Maybe it had changed since the other day. Maybe this was what it looked like now.

Was Claire’s dad part of it?

“Roger?” he said tentatively.

There was no answer, no change. The breeze kept blowing, and the billowing, liquidy tentacle kept moving forward, causing Julian to back up until he was against the wall and had no place left to go.

He smelled the familiar odor of mold and dirt, and then the creature touched him. Cold. Once again, he sensed the age of it. And the newness of it. The ghost of John Lynch