Emmeline was there now,standing in the foyer, watching Elysium with a thin scowl."I was walking home from my friend's house," she said softly, mesmerizedby her own memories, as though they were being played for her in his tears."I was in a hurry. Didn't want to be late and make my mom worry… Heseemed so nice when he asked for directions. He was lost—from out of town. Hekept apologizing for bothering me and even promised he wasn't one of thosecreeps… I guess he was something else entirely. I thought he looked kinda sad. Stressed, maybe? I had no idea. There were nowarning bells, no alarms going off in my head. And then it was too late. He hitme until my limbs went heavy. Until I couldn't get up.There was another man, and they put me in the trunk…"
Elysium dropped his head back,thumping his skull against the heavy door. "She's here, isn't she?"
A tear rolled off Benedict's lefteye and down his cheek. "Yes."
Hazel cried loudly in theother room, something intangible thudding around in there with her. Mother hadnever liked Hazel. The music started up again, blasting through the walls, butthis time only in the parlor. The doors slammed shut, muting the tangle ofnotes and Hazel's screams.
"I never came home,"Emmelinewhispered bitterly, more to herself than either ofthem. "My mother waited, and I never came home."
Benedict took two stepsforward. Elysium reached out to stop him, pushing at his chest in a weak effortto throw him back, but Benedict slashed at his arm with the knife, cuttingthrough sleeve, skin, and muscle. They struggled against one another, sloppywith exhaustion, grief, and guilt on both sides. Elysium never tried to strikeback at him, only tried to push him away—to grab at the hand wielding the bladeand hold it back from his abdomen.
When Benedict finally shovedhimself back, staggering away from the door, Elysium slid down to the floor. Hepanted for air, arms curling around his middle, around those seven wounds inhis stomach. The knife hadn't been as big as the one they had used on Emmeline,but it would kill him—eventually.
Benedict sank back into thehall, away from the threads of gray light that saturated the front of thehouse, and away from the growing puddle of blood around the front door, wherehis brother sat.
He put the knife back in thekitchen and then went upstairs to shower.
Chapter Eighteen
Benedict woke gently, slowly,and found himself lying on his side on the bed. Emmeline mirrored him, her handclose to his, as though they might touch if only one of them would close thedistance. He smiled at her first, and she smiled back cautiously. He realizedthen how quiet the house was. It had stopped raining outside, and there was noone moving inside but them.
He thought about how he hadleft his brother and cousin downstairs, knowing they were bugs in a spider'sweb—going nowhere.
He had showered, washing offthe blood and the mud, and then laid down.
"Is it time?" heasked, though he felt it.
"Almost," shesaid. "You don't have to, though. You could leave."
Benedict rolled off the bedand stretched, just the way he did at home in their little apartment in thecity. "I might be a liar, Em, but I'm not acoward."
She got up and followed himout of his bedroom and through the little sitting room.
"What should we callyou?" Benedict asked. He felt better than he had since he first steppedfoot into this house days ago.
"Hm?" Emmeline slid past while heheld the door. She wore the boots, or rather, her ghostly version.
"If we were writing aboutyou in our book of spirits, what would we call you?"
She laughed shortly and joinedhim in a walk down the long, dark corridor toward the stairs. "Howabout, The Whispering Dead Girl?"
He snorted. "More like, TheShouting, Shrieking, Cackling Dead Girl…"
She feigned offense. "Howdare you!"
The rug at the bottom of thestairs made a soggy wet sound when he stepped on it. The hard, toxic stink offuel hit his lungs for the second time today. Before showering, he had siphonedthe fuel from the cars into the red, plastic cans in the garage and doused thefirst floor of the house. He paused in the foyer, considering the still shapeof his brother sitting against the front doors in a puddle of blood. His legswere sprawled, and his head hung forward, chin to his chest.
Two steps and he pushed open theparlor door. He didn't step into the ruined room, furniture broken and tossedabout. Theodore's body face-down on the rug where Benedict had left him andHazel's on the far side of the room, head smashed against the edge of a table.
It didn't matter.
They didn't matter.
The big clock began to singmidnight to the house, one long chime at a time.
Benedict smiled, swinging intothe dining room with Emmeline on his heels. "How about TheMidnight Ghost?" He jumped up to sit on the table, facing the wall of familyportraits.
She sat beside him, kickingher heels. "I don't want to be called a ghost…" shecomplained.
"How about, MyMidnight Lullaby then?"
She looked at him, surprised.If she could blush, she might have.
They were seven chimes in totwelve now.
"What happens when wedie?" Benedict asked, picking up the box ofmatches he had left on the table.
"I don't know," sheconfessed. "But I'm pretty sure we'll still be together."
He lit a match. "I hopeso."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cheryl Low might be aghost haunting an apartment building in Sweden where she bakes mountains ofcookies she can’t eat, whispers dad jokes in the ears of her neighbors, andmixes the letters around in the mailboxes.
…Or she might be acompletely corporeal hermit and no cookie in her home has ever gone uneaten.
Find out for yourselfby following her on social media @cherylwlow or checkout her webpage, CherylLow.com.
The answer couldsurprise you!
But it probably won’t.
And be sure to check out
these other novellas from
Grinning Skull Press
Prologue
The sailor ran toward thesound of the ocean, stumbling blindly through the midnight jungle. Mammals,birds, and insects screamed and chirped, callingout into the night as though to mask the sound of waves—working with thenightmare
