“I have to keep you safe,” I whisper against her ear.
For once, she doesn’t question me.
ANNALEN DOESN’T COME downstairs in the morning, and before I go up to check on her, I make sure all of the girls are ready for school, collecting books, laptops, and backpacks.
“Mommy, are you okay?” Paris asks me.
I force a tight smile. “Sure, honey.”
“Is Annalen okay?”
“She’ll be okay.” I want to cry as I speak the words.
“Are we sleeping in the living room again tonight?”
“You guys are staying at Dawn’s tonight.”
At least I hope they are. I haven’t yet confirmed with Dawn but decided this morning to take her up on her offer to have the girls stay. They are safer over there for now. I don’t want them here when Julie and the priest come. Whatever she’s planning to do to shut the portal is not something I want them involved with.
“Why?” Paris whines.
“Don’t ask a lot of questions, Paris—run, get ready for school.”
Gretchen, Bridget, and Paris are quiet as they sling book bags over their shoulders, swipe lunch boxes from the kitchen counter.
I stand by the front door and give instructions, my hands moving like I’m conducting an orchestra. “You guys are all going straight to Miss Dawn’s after school. Straight there. Don’t come here first. Okay?”
They nod dutifully and file out. After they’re gone, I check on Annalen.
Standing outside her door, I hear her shifting things around in her room. I’m not going to make her go to school today. She can stay home with me, and maybe, just maybe, we can talk.
Crossing the hall to my bedroom, I call Julie from the landline. She doesn’t answer, so I leave a message.
“Hey, Julie. Please call me as soon as you can. Something awful happened last night. Please, I hope you’re still planning to come tonight.”
As soon as I hang up the phone, I feel a presence behind me, and I spin around. Annalen stands inches away. I grab the neckline of my shirt. “Geez, Annalen, you scared me.” Then I immediately soften and take a step back.
Annalen has no scratches, no contusions. In fact, her face looks clearer than ever before, not a pimple in sight. I look down at my hand. The gash is still there, a war wound, a punishing reminder.
Annalen wears a tank top and cut-off sweats. The morning light streams through the curtains, bouncing off the red glints in her hair. “Why aren’t you at work? Are you sick?”
I reach for her. “Oh, Annalen, I’m...” My voice breaks with a sob.
She moves away from me. “You’d better go to work. You don’t want to lose your job.”
I shake my head. “I am sick. I’m taking the day off.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry about—about last night.”
Her brow bends. “What about last night?”
“About...” But then I stop, confused. Is this her way of punishing me?
Annalen smiles a little and shakes her head, shifting strands of hair into her eyes. She circles the room, touching the items on my dresser, my nightstand. “First of all, I want some new clothes. I’m tired of you dressing us like we’re babies. I’m fourteen now, and I want to look like it.”
My head pounds in time with my heart. Tread carefully. “You know, if you need new clothes, Annalen, your dad and I will get you new—”
“No!” She shouts. “I don’t want Daddy to know anything about this. I want you to buy them. The ones I want, not the nun clothes you want me to wear.” She swings around the poster of the bed, twirling on one foot, leaning in close to my face. “Second, I’m not staying at Dawn’s tonight. The others can go if they want to, but I’m staying right here.”
Her breath smells like the trashcan after scraps have been sitting in it for three days. Instinctively, I draw my head back. “You all need to go to Dawn’s tonight. For your safety.”
“Why? Because you think the house is haunted?”
“For your safety,” I repeat.
Part of me wants to keep her close; the other part doesn’t want her here, where the entities have easy access to her.
“You can’t make me.” She takes another step toward me. “I’m staying in this house tonight.”
And then I understand. These are her conditions. Agree or suffer the consequences.
“No,” I say mechanically. “You will go with your sisters to Dawn’s.” My voice is firm, unyielding. “End of story. I don’t care what you say, tell your father everything, but my only concern is keeping you safe.”
“Sure, Mommy.” She quips condescendingly and whirls away from me. “Anyway, I have to get ready for school.” She starts toward the door and stops at my dresser, runs her fingers over the figurines sitting on top. “Your mother gave you these, didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did.”
In one swift movement, she grabs a figure, cranks back her arm, and throws it across the room. It hits the wall and smashes. My insides twist with anger, followed by relief as I look down at the pieces. It’s not one of the figurines my mother gave me but the water fairy from Steel.
Annalen raises her chin and shakes her hair from her forehead. For the first time since she came into the room, I see her eyes clearly. They are narrow and crowlike.
“That’s for breaking the lamp Daddy gave me.”
As soon as she leaves the room, I rush to close the door and barely make it back to the bed before collapsing. Clamping my hand over my mouth, I stifle my cries and convulse in silence.
None of this is a coincidence. Something evil has taken over.
I think of Julie’s words. “Start digging for steely nerves.”
Instead, I’d been out digging in the dirt last night. Why? What was I looking for?
My cellphone buzzes. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and as I answer, I pray it’s Julie.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Claire. Michael Dunn.”
I exhale my disappointment. “Hi.”
“Yeah, you told me to call you with any other information I found on Nolan.”
“Yes?” Although I’m not sure I can take anything else today.
“Well, I did a little more checking around. He and his family once lived in New Jersey back in the nineties.”
New Jersey. Tina mentioned New Jersey—that’s where he told her he was from.
Dunn clears his throat. “His name didn’t come up right away in my initial searches because he was a minor—only fifteen—and those documents were originally sealed, but apparently, he was embroiled in a scandal with his high school teacher. He didn’t confess to the sexual nature of their relationship until she was already dead.”
I suck in air. Another woman dead.
He continues. “He was never implicated in her death, although he was questioned many times.”
“How did she die?” I eke the words through my teeth.
“That’s another bizarre part of all of this. When all the details came out, members of a satanic cult were implicated in her murder. Ultimately, she died of multiple stab wounds.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Yeah. Her body was recovered in the middle of a field.”
“That’s horrible.” I manage.
“Yep. It’s a pretty sad story. She was divorced, a mother of two girls. Anyway, apparently, Patrick Nolan was involved in that same cult—even as a teenager. As a matter of fact, when the police questioned him as a fifteen-year-old, he told them that he had acquired his teacher’s affections, so to speak, because of his dedication to the group and a blood sacrifice he’d offered to get her,” he clears his throat again, “so to speak.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, he spent some time in a psychiatric center after that.”
I stand, hold onto one of the posts of my bed for support. “What was the teacher’s name?”
“Whitney Brierson.”
56
I sit on the edge of the bed, exhausted and drained, staring straight ahead as I attempt to expand my thinking. Is it unrealistic to think I’m dealing with a different Whitney Brierson? I hold my head. I’m caught in a nightmare, and I can’t wake up.
For the next few hours, I suspend all plans, pinning my hopes on Julie arriving and somehow saving us all. But as the afternoon wears on and I still haven’t heard from her, my hope wanes. Again and again, I call her, leaving message after message.
Daylight fades and afternoon falls like heavy drapery. Through my bedroom window, I watch the bus drop the kids off from school. Gretchen and Bridget arrive, and just as I asked them, they go straight to Dawn’s house. Dawn waits on the front stoop and welcomes them in, the perfect mother. Unlike me.
After Annalen arrives, she walks to the middle of the street and looks up at the window as though she knows I’m standing there. I wave. She glowers, turns, and stalks up to Dawn’s door. I know I’ve made the right choice. Even if Gunnar takes my kids, at least I’ve done what I can to keep them safe.
Once she’s gone, it’s just me, the house, and a sinking sun. I’m a prisoner in my own home. I check my phone every few minutes, searching for messages from Julie. My limbs feel weak like I’ve run a long and arduous marathon and just collapsed—except I’m nowhere near the finish line. In fact, I don’t even know where the finish line is.
I wonder if Julie has blown me off, wonder if I should drink myself into oblivion. As my hope plummets, fear mutates into anger. I sit in front of the television, picking at leftover Chinese food.
When the doorbell rings, I exhale. Julie. Better late than never. Clutching my aching neck, I drift to the front door and yank it open. My relief instantly dissipates.
Agnes Frankenson stands on the front step, her wispy gray hair blowing in the breeze.
I force the words. “Is everything okay?”
Nearly a head shorter than me, Agnes looks up, her face vacant, unreadable. “I’m looking for my husband.”
“Your husband?”
She stares past my shoulder as though expecting to find him standing inside my foyer. “Yes, I think he’s here.”
“Agnes, your husband isn’t here. He passed away, remember?”
She nods. “Yes, I know.”
I shake my head slowly. “Then, he can’t be here.”
“He said he was coming here.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” Her voice is rough, hoarse. “He said they’re all coming here.”
Cold air blows across the threshold. “Who?”
She doesn’t answer but stands on her tiptoes and again tries to peer inside. My heart aches for her. Husband and son both dead. I hope she doesn’t remember the terrible moment when Thomas plunged the knife into her shoulder.
“Look, um, do you want to come in?” Maybe showing her Rich is not here is more effective than telling her.
Agnes steps past me. As I close the door, I catch a flickering glimpse of the streetlamps that line our road—just as they all go out.
AGNES SITS ON THE EDGE of the couch. Her eyes dart between the hallway and me while she knits her fingers together. All of her nails are bitten to the quick. The tops of her hands are covered in purple bruises, as are her forearms.
I glance at my arm and the bruise that’s been there for over a week. Right next to it, a fresh purple one stretches across my skin.
“Where are your children?” Agnes asks.
“They’re sleeping over at a neighbor’s tonight.”
She bobs her head. “You should keep your children close to you. Don’t let them wander.”
I sink down on the other end of the couch. “How are you, Agnes? I’ve been meaning to check in on you.”
“I’m fine,” she says, her gaze floating toward the foyer. “I’m just waiting for Rich and Thomas to come home.”
I fight back the shivers and cross my arms over my chest. “Are you eating? Dawn said she brought you some quiche the other day.”
“She did.”
I wonder if it’s moldering alongside the other dishes. “Dawn’s quiche is the best. Her mushroom and gouda quiche is just”—I start to say ‘to die for’ and stop myself—“amazing. Dawn says it’s an old family recipe.”
Agnes nods again, and her eyes sweep the room. The couch creaks as she rocks several times before propelling herself off of it. Then she walks, extending her finger toward the foyer. “I think they’ll be coming from there.”
I stand and follow her.
She shuffles to the foot of the stairs, rests her hand on the banister, and looks up, expectant, eyes wide. Slowly, she turns back to me, a smile parting her lips. “Yes. Tonight, they will come.”
“Agnes,” I say gently. “I think we should get you home. It’s late.”
She shakes her head. “Not until they come. And they will.”
I find myself casting my gaze up the stairwell too.
“No.” She suddenly pivots away. “Not from there.” She crosses the foyer into the kitchen.
I trail behind her. “Can I get you something? What about some tea?”
She opens the door that leads to the deck. “Back door open.”
She steps outside. “I’m coming,” she calls in a weak voice. “Wait for me.”
“Portal open,” the security system says.
I jerk, twitching my head and looking all around, fear crashing over me like a wave. I scurry outside, twisting to look back at the door, half expecting to see a manifestation of the grim reaper.
Where? Where is the portal?
Agnes descends the steps on the end of the deck and plods into the yard. The blue and green lights flicker and dim around her. The shed door is open, and the green spotlight projects a glowing emerald path across the threshold.
At the back fence, a line of shadows appears. At first, I assume the statues are to blame as the illumination casts their silhouettes, but the shadows are moving. I squeeze my eyes shut and blink them open again. What am I seeing?
The forms slink toward the open door of my shed along with Agnes, who quickly disappears inside. I hold my breath and move to the railing to watch the parade of dark figures. Mentally, I count them—one, two, three. Then, I stop. No. At the back of the line—Annalen, marching with the shadows, following them as they flow into the side of the structure.
“Annalen!” I try to shout, but it comes out as a whisper. I hurry down the steps and into the yard. Annalen seems not to hear or see me as she veers off from the shadows and instead begins to run toward the gap in the fence. Rushing through the wet grass past the shed, I slip and land hard on my knee. Water sloshes up and around the thighs of my jeans, and my foot is submerged in ice-cold, swampy water. I push up again and squish toward Steel’s house, drawn to the light blinking on and off in the basement.
“Annalen!”
She continues to hurtle forward, her hair soaked with rain and plastered to her face. Her black cardigan is saturated and droops from her thin frame. Her chin lifts slightly as she walks directly toward the blinking light. The sliding glass doors open, seemingly on their own, beckoning her inside the basement, with all of its evil, cursed objects.
“Annalen!” I charge toward the glass, but it closes faster than I can plow through it, and I collide into it, my palms smacking the impenetrable barrier.
The patio where I’ve so often encountered Steel sitting and smoking is empty. As I slap my hands against the glass, I see him inside, his arms outstretched, welcoming my daughter.
“No!” Each time I pound the barrier, it seems to become harder, denser.
Steel closes his arms around Annalen, pulling her to him. Then he locks gazes with me, staring at me with red eyes of evil fury. Seconds pass in a haze, and I continue to hammer and kick the glass.
Finally, abandoning hope of gaining entrance through the sliding door, I run to the side window and press my palms against the panes. Inside, I can see them from a different angle. Steel sweeps his
hand over Annalen’s face. Her head drops back as though expecting the bite of a vampire.
“Annalen!” I shriek, hysterical and beating the glass. It’s all I have—my hands, my voice, my desperation.
Steel glances at me once more before he bends down, lifts her into his arms, and carries her out of view.
57
I ring the bell one, two, three, four times, pushing the door with all my strength. When it suddenly swings open. I fall inside, smacking my palms and knees against the cold marble. Scrambling to my feet, I resume calling out Annalen’s name as my shoes make squeegee noises across the marble floor.
I yank the basement door open and take two and three steps at a time. Downstairs, the lights are still blinking. As I arrive at the bottom, I gaze at the shelves, lined like soldiers, daring me to enter their ranks. Weaving in and out of them, I visually scour the shadows hoping to see my daughter cowering in the corner. I dip down and scan the spaces in between the rows filled with obelisk-shaped objects, symbol-crested artifacts, and books with leather covers and curling pages.
A sitting clown doll with a painted-on evil grin begins to vibrate and chuckle with a hideous laugh. A music box pops open, the ancient ballerina circling in a jerky, disjointed pirouette. A wooden mask grins at me with an open-mouthed leer. I shy away from them, remembering when I first saw this room, reliving my discomfort in this house the first time I came here. I should have trusted my instincts then.
Annalen is not here. Where has he taken her?
Backing away, I inch toward the staircase and grasp the wooden railing. Then I pull myself up, using my hands to push off each step until I make it to the top. I race through the foyer to the darkened stairwell that leads to the bedrooms—a stairway to hell...
“Annalen!” Circus music plays from somewhere overhead, and the jiggling laugh of the evil clown echoes all around me. I swipe at the walls for a light switch but find none.
“Steel, you bastard!” I scream. “Leave my daughter alone!”
As I reach his bedroom, I spot a lone candle glowing on the nightstand. Flickering shadows stretch out like murals on the wall. A black, stuffed cat rests against the pillows. “No, no,” I gasp. “I burned you. You were ash in the urn.”
The Neighbor: A terrifying tale of supernatural suspense Page 27
