I aim the stake without seeing the target.
I thrust it forward.
I hear and feel the supple give of her flesh as the stake drives home.
She screeches and thrashes and I pull back and stab again.
One eye has burst. The other searches wildly for some way to escape. The refrigerator is her only refuge from the sunlight in the kitchen. She can’t avoid my attack.
When I finally hit the second eye, her body convulses and begins the process of liquifying. She melts around the wooden shaft of the broomstick.
“I’m going to need a new fridge,” I whisper.
The slime bubbles and evaporates. The evil mist rolls from the bottom of the refrigerator and I step back from it as it dissipates.
“Twelve.”
I’ve removed twelve of them. I finally found the one I thought of as the leader, and it rings true. She was the most powerful of them. The sinister feeling that pervaded the kitchen is nearly gone.
(It's nearly gone.)
It’s nearly gone.
I have one more place to check.
The freezer door opens easily. There’s no camouflage at all to the serpent that I find there, curled up with the melting ice. Of course, all I can think about is the ice chips that I was supplying to Kimberly. It was the last act of kindness I could give her, while she was giving everything to our child.
The violet-eyed monster was female. I’m sure of it now. It was female and this is the child that she died trying to protect.
When I move closer, the baby’s eyes open. It’s too young to try to hypnotize me. The eyes are slightly more blue than its mother’s. They’re still beautiful. This little one will grow up to be just as powerful as its mother, I’m sure of that.
Without another thought, I stab it.
If I had any power in the house, I’m sure the Mountain of Pure Rock would be playing a dramatic soundtrack to this murder.
Instead, all I hear is the pitiful cry of the baby as I pull back and stab again.
Hot tears fall from my eyes. My frustrated scream joins the voice of the baby as I try to puncture its wonderful eyes with my dull broomstick.
There is nothing worse than revenge. There is nothing more horrible than committing the murder of an infant while thinking of the senseless death of your own heart.
When it’s done and the thing is melting into the cool water, I stagger back and fall into a chair.
Emptiness is all I feel. They’re all gone—I’m sure of it now.
It’s hot, the sun is continuing to rise in the sky, and I’m all alone in Uncle Walt’s house. I’m all alone except for the buzzing flies.
Sun
(It's worth a shot.)
It’s worth a shot.
Before I give up on this place, I circle the house and wander around in the shadow of the barn until I see it. I find my cellphone, but it’s now simply a black rectangle made of glass, metal, and plastic. Somehow, the glass survived the fall when my cellphone tumbled from my hand. It doesn’t turn on. Maybe it’s just the battery.
I shove it in my pocket and then return inside.
I was upstairs earlier, but I forgot to pickup my wallet. It’s no wonder—the mess in my bedroom reminds me of the struggle here. The pain in my wrist flares as I think about the talons that nearly dragged me into the darkness.
I had a lot of close calls last night.
I’m not going to let myself dwell on those right now.
Sorting through the mess of my bedroom, I find some clothes to change into. It would be nice to have a shower, but without power I don’t have any running water. I clean up the best I can and exit the house through the kitchen.
Part of me wants to tidy up a few things first. The food behind the fridge is disgusting. The flies are still coming in through the broken windows. It would be monumentally stupid to hang around and I’ve done too many stupid things already.
I sit down on the porch and re-tie my shoes.
That poor truck. It was old when I was born. It served my uncle faithfully for all those years and then I blew it up in order to save my own skin. I guess it went out heroically. We could all hope to be so lucky.
I stand up, feeling unencumbered. I almost feel buoyant. The sun is too bright though. I wish my sunglasses hadn’t burned up with the truck. Before I leave, I jog back inside and grab one of my uncle’s baseball caps. It has his smell. He used some kind of pomade in his hair to tame his cowlick.
I’m finally ready. A voice in the back of my head says that this will be the last time I ever see this place.
“That’s stupid,” I say, shaking my head.
The whole point of risking my life last night was to defend this place.
Walking away, across the dooryard and beyond the burned truck, feels completely unnatural. I don’t know if I can explain why. I want to turn around again, just to get one last look at the place, but I force myself to keep my eyes on the road ahead. Once I’m over the hill and my uncle’s place is out of sight, I wish I had.
(This is the house that started it all.)
This is the house that started it all.
Walking to Mr. Engel’s, I’ve had some time to meditate on what I might find. First, I have to acknowledge how stupid it was to not bring either of my stakes. I got pretty good with those things this morning. There’s no telling what I’m going to find inside.
Instead of turning back, I made a deal with myself. If the door is ajar, like it was before, I’m going keep walking and never look back. Any hint that those things are still around and
