How did she get out, if the door had been locked? And what pulled her to that room in particular? Then Emma remembered Jonathan’s calling after the girl in what must’ve been her native tongue.
“You speak Dakota?” she asked, assuming this was the secret he referred to earlier. Some secret. It was the kind packaged with a slew of other mysteries.
He nodded, looking away from her.
Her observation of the red soaking through the Dakota’s dress replaced Emma’s drive to press him further. “Holy hell. We’ve got to get her inside so I can get a better eye on her.” Had she passed out from the loss of fluid?
“Great god,” Jonathan’s voice lost its steadiness as he gathered the girl into his arms.
“What’s going on here?” Papa asked.
Emma hopped. How did they miss hearing him come up the steps?
“This must be your wife, Jon?” Papa asked nonchalantly. He held the tuft of the skeleton’s hair just as naturally as you would a child’s hand.
Jonathan swayed, his attention fixated on the Indian’s lifeless face flopping against the floor.
“Yes, Papa. She’s had an accident.” Emma rocked up and down to quell the shriek rising in her throat. “She can’t wait.”
“Let’s get her to my office, then. I’ll fix what ails her.” Papa’s speech betrayed a flat quality. With an empty stare, he pried away the coat to inspect the woman’s condition. “We’ve made advancements at the college. Some quite suited to her needs.”
Her needs? Wasn’t this just a surface wound, the biggest concern an infection? The area behind Emma’s eyes pulsed. That ominous cloud looming above her head mushroomed. She envisioned smashing the lantern and ending them all, but thought better of it. Where had such an awful notion come from? Fight or flight tapped her on the shoulder. There was still fighting or flighting to do, whichever proved less perilous.
For now, they’d have to go along with the doctor’s orders.
Emma kicked the hook near her feet, disgusted by it.
Watching the back of Jonathan’s bowed head, Emma’s heart sank. Were these his nightmares in the making, or did he have others? Would he ever confide in her?
She shadowed them to the stairs, the lamp shaking the illumination on the walls. All of her insides quaked with it.
Summer 1988
While Mark helped put away all the picnic supplies, he waited for an opportunity to pull his sister aside to ask her more about the dude at the lake. But she’d stuck close to either one or the other of their parents the entire time. And now that the trunk had been emptied and the fridge packed with leftovers, Tausha and Mom were mixing cookie dough.
Not sure if he should alarm his parents about the man he’d seen his sister with, Mark resolved to be even more watchful around the house and over Tausha. If he ever caught that man so much as on the same block, Mark would report it to his parents, or to the police. There had to be a trespassing law. They could file a restraining order. Something.
For now, the coast was clear and his family was safe.
Mark’s thoughts wandered as he gazed out the screen door. Being a few steps from the garage brought vivid flashes of the kiss. Thinking of those fingers in his hair sent electricity up his spine. His lips numbed. Little pinprick stars flared in his vision. The center of his heart cycloned with emotion.
To affect him so strongly, the tangle with the ghostly boy had to be real. Was the house pulling a bait and switch on him, like he’d considered? The only thing his gut warned him about was the animal that’d followed him downstairs, almost right to the exit. But the stimulation of his hormones, the endorphin rush of being in the ghost’s personal space, or it in his, caused his brain to forsake all other danger. A sorry we’re closed sign hung from his survival instincts.
Mark had been on such a smooth path regarding confronting his insecurities and fears. With the boy’s touch, and with those words I love you, the spirit had made all of those concerns vanish. The sound of it was so heartfelt, so passionate, and so accepting. He needed to get back to find out why he’d started feeling that way about the boy too. If the experience had merely been some trick of the chemical fumes, Mark wanted to sniff them again. Even if it was just one more time. Perhaps that was the antidote for all that ailed him. Maybe then the darkness would ebb from his life.
His mind made up, Mark whistled for Salem to join him at the door. Wagging her tail, she hustled along the linoleum, her paws losing traction in her excitement.
After the dog relieved her bladder on the grass, she ascended the garage stairs with Mark. He was hyper-vigilant for any clawing noises or sensations at the back of his neck.
Nothing disturbing whatsoever transpired. Then he remembered when he’d been with Tausha this part of the journey had also been uneventful. The freaky part was the departure. He’d made it out once, so he was pretty confident he could do it again.
At the top of the landing, Salem immediately sniffed around.
Mark sat on the trunk, his hands on his knees.
He waited.
And waited.
The dog nuzzled his leg.
When he peeked at the lantern on the shelf, it’d been repositioned so the mirror faced the wall. Neither Mark nor Tausha had moved it; odd to think someone had been here since. It didn’t seem his sister had an opportunity to go for another round of exploring. Maybe Dad was rummaging for something? Were neighborhood kids hanging out up here? The whacko next-door neighbor?
Mark stepped over and spun the lantern to face out. Leaning his arm on the shelf, he listened to Salem panting. Foolishness flared inside of him. His phantom date had stood him up.
Just as Mark was about to berate himself for expecting another go with the spirit, an invisible hand glided across his chest. Static electricity raised the hairs along his body. Breath tickled his ear. The tingling rocketed to the tips of his toes. His palms perspired.
Mark ground his teeth.
Although he didn’t see lips, he sensed them hovering in front of his. Fingers slipped under his T-shirt, sliding it upward. His brain told him he should’ve been more afraid, but he wasn’t.
Although the boy wasn’t visible to Mark’s naked eye, the mirror revealed a portion of a torso—but this time long golden hair cascaded over that same shirt as before, unbuttoned to a hint of cleavage.
Mark’s brow crinkled, yet he didn’t feel anxious. His brain automatically processed the stimulus.
Those same intense eyes met his, but the supple face had changed. What was different? The mustache was missing—that was it. There was a profound understanding that Mark had kissed this same individual. The core essence was identical, and yet now more effeminate. He didn’t care. Nor did he feel duped. Inconceivably. His insecurity about sitting on the sexual orientation fence died right there. Additionally, in a mind-blowing way, these realizations solidified his contentment with being male.
He snapped out of his reverie, dumbfounded that a ghost had invaded his core, accessing a place he himself never imagined he’d find. It was worse than being stark naked. Yet why wasn’t he terrified? It terrified him that he wasn’t terrified. Any other normal person would’ve burned the rubber of his tennis shoes out of here. His feet cemented to the floor.
Concern blanketed her face as she studied him. “What if we tried everything again?” she said with a haunting despondency. “Didn’t you read the book I left for you? I’ll be different.”
That was her and not his parents? What did Native American attitudes about anything matter to him? To her?
The sound of her voice chased away his ruminations. All he felt now was her familiarity and her hurt. The emotional pain infiltrated him as if it was his own. Mark’s blood throbbed in his ears.
Claws ticked along the floor. Without looking, he figured Salem explored the loft while she waited for him.
“I won’t die this time. I promise,” she added. “And neither will she.”
Sweat popped up on his temples. How did sh
e die? Who was the other person she referred to? A monsoon of anguish entered him, sending his knees wobbling. The feeling scoured his insides raw. His heart bore a vice of hopelessness. At his young age, he’d never wished for death, but thinking about a life without her birthed such a wish. How could these be his emotions? He didn’t even know her name.
Flinging her arms around Mark, she hugged him like it would be their last embrace.
“I love you, Jonathan,” she whispered.
Mark froze. There was that name again. Was it a coincidence? Why was she calling him that? Who the hell was Jonathan?
A growl boomed in his ear, so loud his eardrum hummed. He sensed a slobbery mouth gliding over teeth, just a few inches away from his cheek. If the beast hadn’t been at his level, he might’ve tried to convince himself it was Salem, but she was fiercely growling at Mark’s feet.
The ghost retreated. Her scream pierced the air.
Mark rushed for the lantern, the closest object. Ripping it from the shelf, he got ready to swing. But he wasn’t sure where to aim, until he heard a snarl and caught sight of two glowing red eyes levitating toward him. With all his might, he swung his weapon in the creature’s direction.
It splintered and rained in fragments.
Salem barked and vaulted, her jaws snapping at air.
Something gripped Mark, nails puncturing his upper arms. Whatever it was hurled him to the ground and pounced on top of him. Fur bristled his skin. He struggled to breathe under the enormous weight. His arms splayed across the floor, he turned his head, hoping a fragment of the lantern might be within reach. While futilely squirming, he inched his hand to a shard of mirror. He angled it to refract the sun into what he hoped was the beast’s eyes. Not sure if that accomplished anything, he clutched the glass like a knife. As he drew the shard down and into position, he spied a flash of canine eyes and snout, as well as human-like lips stretching over sharp teeth. And, multi-colored beads, identical to the ones he’d seen on the weirdo at the lake.
Blood drizzled from Salem’s mouth as she ripped and tugged.
Mark seized the chance to stab as wildly as possible. There was a squish. Fluid wet Mark’s hand.
Howling filled the room.
A whoosh swung for him.
Rumbling overhead, the shelves swayed and a few loose nails or screws pinged on the floor, he realized he needed to move—and fast.
Still pinned by the creature, Mark’s heart skipped. He wielded the mirror for another jab, as Salem cried while flying across the floor.
In that moment, Mark jerked himself free and managed to roll out of the way.
The shelving unit toppled with a clunk.
Scrambling to his feet, he shot over to Salem.
“You okay, girl?”
The retriever whined, but stood.
Mark made for the stairs, checking for his dog behind him. Walking off a limp, Salem hustled to catch up as they both fled from the garage.
Since the hose at the back of the house was too close for comfort, Mark opened the backdoor and he and Salem scurried upstairs. Although she headed for the space under his bed, he coaxed her into the bathroom.
It was only then he noticed the mirror shard still in his hand, which was sliced and bleeding. Once it clattered into the sink, Mark rinsed until the water ran clean. Then he tended to his dog who’d obediently climbed into the tub and let him wash away the blood and grime from her coat.
When he’d toweled them both dry and wrapped his hand, Mark examined his face in the medicine cabinet. A red dot on his chin stared back at him. It was a sore bump.
Great. All the stress produced a zit. He opened the cabinet and dabbed some Clearasil on the blemish. Right now his whole life was one big pimple, ready to rupture and splatter puss everywhere.
Mark pondered the piece of mirror in the porcelain basin. Instead of chucking it into the trash can, he raised the strip and peered into his eyes. Noting the new streak of confidence not there previously, he decided to keep the trophy. He and Salem walked down the hall like dazed soldiers after battle.
Mark set the mirror fragment on his nightstand and passed out in his bed, his dog nestling in beside him.
—
Later, Mom and Dad went out for date night.
Mark watched television with Tausha in the room next to the bathroom with the skull mirror. Keeping an eye on her proved easier than he’d expected.
During a commercial break, his daydreams about the ghost girl returned. On one hand she was a total stranger. Sharing an intimate moment with someone he didn’t even know filled him with guilt. Whether it was of his own making, or a result of his mother’s programming regarding anything remotely sexual, he was unable to pinpoint. On the other hand, he sensed an inexplicable connection with this girl. Not to mention, his revved up hormones. Somehow, all of it was more vivid than any other recollection stored in his memory. More real than any of his normal human interactions.
Above the television flashing scenes from some late night B movie, the stained glass window glowed with muted oranges and reds. Odd shadows danced across the beveled Celtic design, periodically drawing his attention away from the monitor. The flick must’ve been messing with his mind, because he caught a moment of what looked like hot breath in the corner of the glass, a brief fogging that dissipated once he focused on it.
Fiddling with the bandage on his hand, he realized he hadn’t lost enough blood to be light-headed, but he was feeling out of it.
Turning to the far end of the couch, where he assumed his sister was still nodding off, he realized she wasn’t there. Unease ran through him. Not only hadn’t he noticed her getting up, but Salem wasn’t on her spot on the cushion. How’d he miss the clumsy dog springing from the couch?
Had he also drifted to sleep, but not remembered? It was late. That much he knew.
If Tausha had gone to pee, he’d hear her in the bathroom. It was unlikely she’d have gone to bed all by herself.
Even more alarming was the fact that Mark didn’t feel alone. The hairs along the back of his neck and along his arms stood on end. His awareness detected an intrusive force. It was the same as being sure someone stared at you, then turning to bust the culprit. However, as Mark scanned the room, he was the only one in it. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, considering trying to figure out how to open the gun’s lockbox upstairs. Where might Dad have stashed the key? He rummaged around in his memory for clues.
He jolted to attention as the front door opened, sighing when he heard his parents’ voices.
“I don’t know where he gets off. Everyone knows Western mythology holds more water,” Mom said.
“I keep telling you that’s bullshit. All religions are interpretations of the same exact concepts,” Dad replied.
“Where’s Tausha?” Mom asked upon stepping into the room. Her eyes narrowed a bit, taking note of her son all drawn up into the corner of the couch. Normally he’d be splayed out, feet on the coffee table. She also focused on the bandage; neither she nor Dad had noticed it earlier. But she didn’t ask about it, probably because a missing child trumped an injured one.
Hopefully Tausha wasn’t somehow with that weirdo from the lake. Or the creature from the garage. Mark didn’t like how those thoughts popped into his mind. “In her room?”
Following two or three commercial breaks, both parents returned to where Mark still stared at the television.
“Son, where’s your sister?” Dad asked.
“She’s not upstairs?” Mark replied.
“Stop messing around. Your father and I have been all over his house.”
Dad’s face clouded with worry. “Where’s Salem?”
Mom powered off the television.
“You check the attic?” Mark recalled their garage adventure and his sister’s preoccupation with those kinds of places. It was possible she’d built up enough courage to embark on her own private investigation.
“She’s not there,” Dad said.<
br />
“The basement?” Mark asked.
Judging from their blank expressions, Mark was the only one who’d considered this scenario. He dashed through the kitchen and down the steps, his parents at his heels.
At first he worried his hunch was stupid, that Tausha had gone outside, or some other reasonable location, but when he saw Salem laying at the foot of the vault door, her brow wrinkled in concern, he realized his gut had been right.
Mark banged on the door. “Taush?” Leaning an ear on the iron surface, he strained to capture the faintest sign of her.
Salem sat up, her tail smacking the concrete.
Mark’s heart skipped. The faintest muffled sound rumbled. You had to guess to make it out. Help! Get me outta here!
“Oh, my God!” Mom said with an unsteady voice. “Is she in there?”
Dad put a finger to his lips and nudged Mark out of the way. Both of Dad’s hands pressed on the door, his face anguished. “Tausha, honey?”
How many layers thick was the damn vault? To keep its contents safe, its namesake after all, it had to be virtually indestructible. Bulletproof. Axe proof. Chainsaw proof?
As many times as Dad had been at this door, manipulating the wheel, he hadn’t been able to crack the code.
Tension crowded the air.
Pearls of sweat dotted Mark’s upper lip.
Mom verbalized what they’d all been thinking. “How’d she get inside?”
It was the house, or something in it. Mark was certain. The jaws of this place had clamped down on his sister. Why had she obeyed the voice? What was in there with her? He pictured her weeping in the darkness, huddled against a surface she prayed was opening any minute now.
Dad looked from his son to his wife, teeth clenched.
“Should I call a locksmith?” Mom asked.
“At this hour? That’ll be a fortune and a half—and who’d come at this hour?”
Fountain Dead Page 12
