by Skylar Finn
“What if they go back on the whole deal? They could be talking to the cops right now.”
“They’re not talking to the cops,” said Cynthia impatiently. “I’m telling you, I know these people, and they’re predictable. All good people are. If they decide not to take the money, she’ll take him to the hospital, putting his well-being above everything else, including her own. Then she’ll come back for the dog. And if she does that, it’s time for Plan B.”
“How are we going to explain that?”
“We’re not,” said Cynthia. “Richard did it, obviously.”
“Frame Richard? Cynthia, he’s our brother!”
“And when he goes to jail for murdering six people, his latest acquisition will go to us,” said Cynthia. “We’ll get Watkins to take care of it. We’ll just give him a bigger cut. If we’re not buying off Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber or splitting the money with Richard, we’ll have plenty extra. Like old times. In the fort. Remember?”
“Oh yeah,” Theresa said fondly.
Emily was amazed she was this easy to manipulate. She almost felt sorry for her.
“Get the stuff from the parlor while I go upstairs and hit the old lady’s room. Do you have the list I gave you?”
There was a pause while Theresa consulted something. “It’s on my phone.”
“Good. Don’t take anything not on the list, and don’t miss anything that is. This money has to last awhile until we own the house free and clear, and even then, we still have to sell it. That could take a while. So, don’t forget anything and don’t mess this up.”
“I’m not gonna mess anything up! Why do you always act like I mess things up?”
“I do not act like you’ll mess things up. I tell you repeatedly not to, so that way you don’t. Get going.”
Their voices receded back down the hallway as the pair carried off their living room acquisitions and split up.
Jesse turned to Emily. “I think it would be best if I went after Theresa. She’s a lot bigger than you.” He paused. “Come to think of it, she’s a lot bigger than me. But I don’t like the idea of you going after Cynthia alone.”
“I’ll be okay,” said Emily. “Her hands will be full. I’ll make sure her back is to me.”
“I know, but she’s wily,” said Jesse. “You know? It’s like fighting a weasel.”
“I know,” said Emily. “But so am I. And I have an idea.”
They opened the passage door that led into the basement.
“Do you remember where the fuse box is?” Emily whispered to Jesse.
“It’s on the far wall, next to the stairs. I’ll get it.”
Emily heard the faint shuffling and bumping sounds of Jesse sneaking across the basement. She heard a faint click from the corner across the room by the stairs, followed by someone cursing loudly somewhere above their heads as the house was plunged into darkness. She felt Jesse rejoin her side.
“It’s funny how easily the power goes out during a storm,” he said.
10
Jesse opened the passage door that led to the parlor. He could hear Theresa blundering around in the inky black darkness. The light from her phone was the only thing he could see, illuminating her scared, pale face in the dark. She looked both angry and upset.
“Hurry up and get back here, the power’s out…because I can’t see anything! How am I supposed to find it? Fine!”
There was an especially loud bang followed by a yell. It sounded like Theresa had inadvertently kicked one of the heavy wooden pieces of furniture.
“Ahhhh, my foot! What is this thing? How am I supposed to get this out to the car?”
Jesse paused and listened. Had Cynthia ordered Theresa to move the gramophone? It seemed like a Herculean task, even for someone of Theresa’s size.
He slipped out of the passage, clenching the bat tightly. Across the room, Theresa grunted and groaned as she struggled to move the gramophone. She gave up, momentarily winded. She hunched over, gasping, her hands on her knees. Jesse approached her and silently raised the bat.
He was unprepared when Theresa whirled around, grabbing the end of the bat and yanking it towards her. Jesse swung out blindly with his right fist, and Theresa batted it away as if it was nothing more than an angry fly. The bat slipped from his grasp and she threw it across the room. There was a harsh chuckle in the darkness, and Jesse realized she had duped him.
“I grew up in the mountains, boy,” she hissed. “It takes more than that for me to lose my wind.” She grabbed a handful of his hair and twisted it as she raised her large and meaty knee, driving it into his gut. Jesse gasped and doubled over, trying not to throw up.
“Everybody thinks they can mess with Theresa,” she said. “Poor old, dumb old Theresa. Well, she’s not as dumb as she looks, is she?” Theresa brought her elbow down onto the tender part of Jesse’s face, and he immediately dropped to the rug.
“You think I can’t beat a man?” she asked. “I can beat a man. I can do whatever I want. Nobody tells me what I can and can’t do.” She dragged Jesse to the coat closet and shoved him in among the coats, wedging what sounded like a chair under the door. “I can take anybody who tries to take me on. I’ll make you sorry you were ever born. I can—” Theresa’s tirade of what she could do came to an abrupt halt and gave way to a prolonged scream.
Jesse rattled the door from the inside and succeeded only in knocking the chair loose enough to open the door a couple of inches, just enough to see the gramophone sliding across the floor of its own accord. It sped full tilt into Theresa, driving her into the opposite wall and pinning her there. She screamed and kicked at the wall, and the heavy frame above her head, which contained a soothing pastoral scene of bucolic countryside, tumbled from its hanging and slammed into her skull. Theresa collapsed on the floor in a heap of tangled hair and overalls.
In the closet, white spots danced in front of Jesse’s eyes. His head throbbed. He slammed his shoulder into the closet door in an attempt to knock the chair loose. A wave of dizziness overcame him and he slumped to the floor.
Emily climbed the steep and narrow passage that led to Matilda’s bedroom. She stopped just outside the passage door. She clutched the poker tightly and waited.
Emily heard the door creak as Cynthia entered the room. There was a pause as she tried the lamp on the bureau, then the switch on the wall. When neither of these turned on, there was a slight click of a flashlight turning on and Cynthia resumed prowling around the room.
She didn’t even react to the power outage. She immediately adapted and moved on. This, more than anything, scared Emily. It reminded her of an apex predator on a nature show: the shark cutting dead-eyed through the water; the crocodile slipping up to a boat and rolling its unsuspecting prey until it becomes too disoriented to escape.
Cynthia’s phone rang and her footsteps paused as she answered. “I’m aware that the power is out, Theresa. Whatever would I do without your remarkable powers of observation? Get the stuff from the parlor like I told you to or I’ll burn you like you’ll never forget…I don’t care. And make sure you get the gramophone.” She stopped talking and the footsteps resumed.
The passage entrance into Matilda’s room was inside the small square created by her vanity. When Emily heard Cynthia open the bureau drawers on the other side of Matilda’s bed, she quietly pushed the door inward and crawled silently onto the rug. She reached back in behind her and pulled the poker from the floor of the tunnel. She crouched behind Matilda’s bed as Cynthia went through all the drawers.
“Well, well, what have we here? Most people keep their jewelry in the freezer, but not you, Matilda…”
Emily felt a flare of anger in her heart on Matilda’s behalf. It wasn’t enough to murder her and rob her; she had to belittle her on top of it.
Cynthia finished rifling through the drawers and opened the armoire. Once Emily heard the creak of the doors opening, she knew Cynthia’s back was to her. She stood up slowly, her hands shaking from all the
adrenaline coursing through her body. Just as Emily swung the poker to bring it down onto Cynthia’s skull, she turned. It was as if she’d known Emily was there all along. The blow glanced off her shoulder. Cynthia grabbed the poker and used it to pull Emily toward her.
“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” she hissed. “I’m so glad we have a chance to say good-bye. I’d never forgive myself if I left without giving you a proper send-off.” She yanked the poker from Emily’s hands and raised it to hit her across the face.
Emily reacted on instinct. She slammed her head into Cynthia’s, and the other woman staggered and fell back on the bed. Jesse always told her she was hard-headed. He meant stubborn, but Emily guessed it could also be interpreted literally.
Emily grabbed the poker back and swung at Cynthia again. She rolled out of the way. It was dark and Emily could see little beside her shadowy outline. She knew it was of paramount importance to take her out before she could reach for her gun, which Emily felt certain was in one of the pockets of her coat. Frustrated and frightened, she threw herself on top of Cynthia, grabbing her by the hair.
Cynthia emitted a surprised grunt. It was as if she hadn’t expected Emily to fight very hard and was unprepared to deal with her on this level. She reached up and tried to get her hands around Emily’s throat, but Emily bit her on the hand. Cynthia screamed shrilly as Emily pulled her off the bed onto the floor. She heard a hollow thunk as Cynthia’s head slammed into the nightstand. She collapsed like a rag doll on top of Emily, and she was pinned on the carpet beneath the dead weight of her opponent.
Unconvinced it wasn’t a trick of some kind, Emily wiggled frantically out from under her enemy. Cynthia lay prone on the rug, silent and unmoving. Emily nudged her with a toe, then rifled through the pockets of her coat, pulling out the gun she found in Cynthia’s coat pocket and putting it in her own.
She shined the light of her phone around the room. She wouldn’t feel safe until Cynthia was securely tied and bound. She looked for something to tie her up with.
One of the dresser drawers hung open, revealing an array of brightly colored scarves, and Emily sifted through them quickly, grabbing what felt like the strongest one. She turned back to Cynthia, shining the phone’s light on the floor where Cynthia had fallen.
She was gone.
Emily ran down the stairs, blinded by rage and fueled by adrenaline. She couldn’t let her get away now, not after all this. Not after she’d come this close to stopping her.
Emily reached for the gun, remembering what Richard had told her in the truck before she went into the cabin: keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire. She clutched the gun in one hand and the fire poker in the other.
She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, kicking the back door open. The car was gone. No. She immediately ran to the front of the house, out the front door, and down the steps. If she could catch her in the act of driving away, she could shoot out the tires, she could—
Emily stopped in the yard, puzzled. There was no sign of either Cynthia or the car—no dull roar of an engine as its driver escaped, no taillights fading out of sight. Then Emily heard the sound of an engine turning over. She turned.
Cynthia had hidden the car behind the forsythia bush in the yard, its bare tangles of dry dead brown limbs concealing her from view until the moment Emily ran from house. The headlights blazed on and the engine revved. Emily understood then that Cynthia planned to run her down.
She turned and ran toward the backyard. There was a large tree on the side of the house, forming a narrow passage between the wall and tree. Emily thought if she could only get there in time, she could get around it and Cynthia wouldn’t be able to pass.
The sound of the engine grew louder behind her and Emily thought, I’ll never make it in time. She slipped and slid across the snow. The fat flakes swirled madly around her, blinding her. She could feel the heat from the car just behind her.
Emily squinted ahead and saw an impossibly strange sight: illuminated by the high beams of Cynthia’s car were Matilda and the children, clear as day. They stood together in front of the tree, as if posing for the portrait in the living room. Unlike the portrait in the living room, their faces were identical masks of pure wrath.
Emily glanced over her shoulder as Cynthia lost control of the car. She was close enough to see her expression of white-faced terror and helpless rage as the car’s tires skidded through the snow.
The car smashed into the tree with an earsplitting crash of metal against wood. Emily threw herself against the side of the house, covering her face and head with her arms. She remained that way, huddled in a small ball, until the sound of twisting metal and shattering glass fell silent and the air was heavy and still.
Emily looked up. Great gray plumes of smoke billowed out from under the hood of the car. The airbags had deployed and it was impossible to make out anything inside. Emily got to her feet cautiously. Was it over? Was Cynthia dead?
In answer to Emily’s silent question, the driver’s side door opened. Emily stared in shock as the bloody, battered figure dragged herself from the car. Her face was horribly disfigured and barely recognizable but for the bright, burning eyes in her skull, which blazed with hatred. It was like a fuel that kept her from death and made her invincible.
Cynthia clutched a tire iron in her hand. It was the same one she’d used to knock Jesse unconscious. She bore down on Emily with that crazed, unstoppable look in her eyes.
Emily had dropped the poker when she ran for the tree. She plunged her hands into her coat pocket, reaching for the gun, and found nothing. She looked wildly around and saw it lying a few feet away. She stumbled backward through the snow towards the gun, thinking if she could only reach it—
Cynthia brought the tire iron down in a long swinging arc, the metal whistling through the air. Emily screamed and rolled out of the way just in time. The iron hit the ground, spraying snow in the air.
Emily was on her back, looking up helplessly as a turtle as Cynthia towered over her. Her face was covered in blood and she wore a depraved smile of triumphant lunacy. She raised the tire iron, preparing to bring it down directly on Emily’s face.
Emily threw her arms up to protect herself, covering her face. But the blow never came.
Instead, there was a scream: prolonged and anguished, it reverberated through the cold night air. Emily opened her eyes, which she’d squeezed shut in anticipation of the blow, and cautiously uncovered her face.
Cynthia glided away from her, heels dragging across the snow, as if pulled by an invisible wire. Her arms dangled loosely as a kitten being held by the scruff of the neck and her eyes were wide with terror. Her mouth hung open in an endless scream.
The driver’s side door hung open from when she dragged herself out of the wreckage. She flew back into it in reverse and the door slammed shut behind her. Emily could hear the click of the automatic locks and Cynthia’s muffled screams through the rolled-up windows as she tried to free herself from the burning wreckage. The doors would not open. The windows would not go down.
Emily, sensing she needed to get as far away as possible, struggled to her feet and ran for the backyard. Behind her, the car erupted into a fireball, and an enormous plume of smoke billowed into the air over top of the inferno.
Emily ran for the door beneath the back stairs and let herself into the passage, closing the door shut behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands, but even in the darkness and silence, she was convinced she could still hear Cynthia’s screams.
11
Emily ran through the passage toward the parlor, holding the light from her phone aloft so she wouldn’t trip and fall. She had to make sure Jesse was okay. Had he taken out Theresa, or was she still lurking somewhere in the house? Had she done something to Jesse?
Emily burst through the door that led from the passage to the parlor. The first thing she heard were muffled thuds from the closet. There was a chair wedged beneath t
he doorknob and Emily went over and yanked it loose, throwing open the closet door.
Jesse stumbled out of the closet and put his arms around her in the darkness of the parlor. She hugged him, but her mind was still racing ahead to what could go wrong, and she pulled away immediately.
“Where’s Theresa?” she asked.
“Indisposed,” he said. Emily shined her light into the corner of the room, revealing the crumpled heap of Theresa, slumped over unconscious on the floor. “Where’s Cynthia?” he asked.
Emily thought of the inferno in the front yard and shivered. She shook her head. “I don’t think we need to worry about Cynthia anymore,” Emily said. “We had better call the cops.” Even as she said it, she could already hear the sound of approaching sirens. The billowing smoke in the front yard must have attracted attention from the neighbors, on edge after smelling smoke in a dry climate.
“Probably a good idea,” agreed Jesse. “I guess I should go turn the lights back on.”
“Probably a good idea,” agreed Emily, smiling.
She went into the living room as Jesse disappeared down the hallway to go to the basement. She had never been more tired in her life. At that moment, she craved nothing so much as the warmth and light of a fire. She quickly built one in the hearth, a large and roaring blaze. After she lit the logs, she immediately gasped and stumbled back from the fireplace.
Illuminated by the flames were Matilda and the children. They were gathered together in front of the fireplace, beneath the painting that portrayed them. They looked much the same as she had seen them outside, but now their expressions were peaceful and benevolent.
As much as this reassured Emily, the sight of them was shocking. She had only ever experienced contact through a secondary medium, and only ever seen them as shadows or lights. To see them this vividly was both startling and, Emily realized, emotionally overwhelming. She had not seen her aunt in many years, and regarding her now, she felt the tears well up in her eyes.
