Phobic

by Cortney Pearson

  “Just let it wear off, then,” Todd says, throwing out his hands. His mouth gapes as if he’s a genius and has just discovered a diamond mine.

  “I can’t, Todd. I think he has Joel.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Why else is Joel’s car here, but no one’s seen him for days?” I push aside the thought that he’s already dead. He can’t be.

  “Can you like, focus on them or something? Can you sense her?”

  “I can try. I think I know where to start. Garrett has something awful going on down in the basement. One time I saw Ada carrying a bloody sheet. And the first time I ever saw any of them, Thomas said he’d made Garrett’s arrangements down there.” Not to mention the invisible bloody table I collided with when you fell.

  Todd stands and rests his hands against the marble topping the wash table. “We have to go to my house. We’ve already taken too long. My mom seriously will send someone over.”

  The side-aching pain increases, lancing through. I wince and shake my head. Leaving isn’t an option. Not now that I’m finally getting some type of answers. “Ada!” I call again.

  I hobble like an old lady and perch on my bed. Breaths pump my lungs hard and fast, and it takes longer for the pain to subside. Only this time it doesn’t completely fade.

  “Whoa, Pipes. You okay?” He digs the bottle of codeine from the crinkly bag we picked up at Walgreen’s on the way home, and hands me a small white pill.

  “It’s been a while. I’m sure the drugs are wearing off.”

  Pain gnaws at my side more and more, even when I hold still. I’m sure all this movement isn’t helping. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “Lemme get you some water—”

  “I got it,” I say, choking back the chalky pill. It sticks in my throat, but I keep swallowing. I gape at the broken dollhouse pieces, at the old newspaper articles, feeling like something is completely off only I don’t quite know what it is.

  I need to talk to Ada.

  After several seconds of Todd staring at me like I’m a taxidermied animal on display, I smack my hands against my knees.

  “Guess we better get to your house,” I say. I try to stand, but the drugs haven’t quite kicked in yet, and I let out a moan.

  “Stay put,” Todd says, ripping open the jaws of the Mary Poppins bag his mom brought for me. “What do you want to bring over?”

  “The basics,” I say through my teeth. “Clarinet. Toothbrush. Jammies.”

  Todd gives a little bow and heads toward the bathroom down the hall. His steps sink into me like Jordan’s did on the stairs to the ceiling. My skin crawls, displacing itself from my bones like it’s trying to avoid the sensation.

  This is getting me nowhere. I know one thing—I’m not going with Todd. But he can’t stay here with me either. Not with what I need to do. There’s a reason Dad didn’t want me going down there. And I have to know what that is. But alone.

  If something happened to Todd down there, I couldn’t stand it. Plus, his family. What would I tell his mom? Better that he stays out of it.

  “Your luggage,” he says, giving me his goofy grin.

  Pain shouts at my side, but I stand. My clarinet case sits on the chair at my desk. I grab it and the journal and shuffle into the hallway. Todd offers me his hand, but I shake my head. I want to do this on my own.

  “I got it. Thanks.”

  The silhouette clusters out from the walls, shuddering out to goose my flesh from behind. It forces my steps. Ignoring the pain, I take the stairs two feet at a time like I remember doing as a child when my leg span wasn’t wide enough. I need to get Todd to leave without me. I’ll tell him to go reassure his mom, and I’ll follow him in a few minutes or something.

  Not going to happen.

  We reach the door, and the street outside gleams through the large, circular pane of glass. Sunlight hovers low on the air like a dimmed light.

  “Here,” Todd says, taking my case. He reaches for the journal, too. I let him take it.

  He pushes open the screen and holds it, waiting for me to join him on the porch. He grins, enjoying the chance to be chivalrous. Or maybe he’s just that excited to be getting the crap out of my house.

  The thin edge of the door wedges in my palm. This is it. The point of no return. The smile drops from Todd’s face, instantly replaced with realization and hard determination.

  “Wait—don’t—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I slam the door, blocking him from me. I flinch with discomfort, but before I can do anything, the lock clicks on its own, blocking him out for good. I feel bad, but I need answers. I’ve got to find Joel before it’s too late.

  “Piper!” Todd cries. His fists pound on the wood outside, jarring my nerves and hitting me. The doorbell rings several times, and he calls my name just as many.

  One hand at my side, I lean my forehead against the varnished wood. The pain is abating, thanks to modern meds. It helps me relax a little more, though everything in me tells me to open the door and scram along with him.

  “I told you,” I whisper. “I can’t leave.”

  I do my best to block out Todd’s pleas, the heavy clomping coming from his boots as he tromps over to the window. His face gritted, he lifts the wicker chair as if he’s about to crash through. Dismay smashes over me in a giant swoop.

  I scuffle over and wave my arms. His chest puffs like a storm, but he lowers the chair. I pull out my phone and call him. I could just shout, but yelling is an ab workout all on its own, and my stomach isn’t happy with me as it is. He answers, meeting my gaze through the glass with full-on anger in his expression.

  “Todd, stop! If you do that it will only hurt me.”

  “What do you think you’re doing? Let me back in.”

  “No.” I close my eyes so I avoid the hurt in his. “Just go home.”

  His breaths wisp over the phone for a few seconds, and he scoffs at least twice. “Let me in,” he growls. “At least let me help you.”

  “I’m fine, I promise.” Huge lie. “Just go home.”

  Todd points to the wicker bench. He trots over and plunks down, giving me a stern glare. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Then you might be sitting there for a while.”

  I tap End and lower my phone. Todd hangs his head against the window and pounds a fist against the side of the house. The punch knocks me, socking the air from my lungs and slashing at my stitches. I shriek at the impact and hang onto the curtains for support.

  Todd springs to his feet. His face widens with panic, and he gropes the glass. “Oh man, I’m sorry!”

  I take a few breaths and compose myself. I text him. It’s ok. Brb

  “Piper,” he calls through the glass. “Piper!”

  The chandelier dangling over me tinkles like someone ran their fingers through the crystal pieces. The golden haze settles back, and shouts filter up from the kitchen, almost like they’re taking place below me. I take in a shaky breath. Time to go.

  She did not just do that.

  Todd stands with the psycho’s journal in hand, staring at her porch. The knob won’t budge, the wood quakes under his boots, and he knows there’s no way in hell he’s getting back through that door without Piper herself opening it. Maybe not even then.

  “Dammit, Pipes!” he groans, gripping the phone in his other hand. The phone he’d just spoken to her on. He grimaces, ready to chuck the thing as far as he can. A lot of good that will do.

  He can’t shake the image of her after he’d hit the house. Gasping for air, she’d crumpled over at the fist that somehow struck her instead.

  Suddenly that whole Jordan-axe situation becomes clearer. Jordan’s axe hitting the wall really did cut her. Live wires replace all of Todd’s veins, and the fury turns to shaking, reminding himself far too much of his father. Wherever the jackwagon is, he should only stay there.

  Without thinking, Todd runs to the back and tries the door that always remained open for him, but the
knob doesn’t so much as click; it remains solid, almost like it’s carved out of the same wood of the door. He jars a few of the windows. Nothing.

  “Damn,” he says again. She’s in there. He grips the phone so tightly his knuckles hurt. Piper’s mom committed murder to try and stop this implausible time loop that by rights shouldn’t possible in the first place. And now Piper is in there alone, about to do who knows what just to save her loser of a brother.

  Back to the front porch again, Todd gives the door one last futile tug. When it doesn’t respond, he paces in front of the window while doing a quick mental scan of his options. Tried all the doors, the windows—wouldn’t budge. Call the police—that’s out. All right, Todd, think. He peers through the glass just in time to catch a glimpse of Piper’s slim form turning into the kitchen.

  Toward the basement.

  “Is she crazy?” He braces both hands on the gray siding. “Piper. Wait—Piper!”

  She disappears from his sight. “Ugh!” He catches himself before pounding a palm against the siding and instead reels around and kicks the wicker chair as hard as he can. The white seat tips and slides a few feet.

  “Hey, at least it wasn’t the house,” he tells the toppled chair as if justifying his actions.

  How dare she do this to him, dump all this on him and then refuse to let him help? He could be in there; he could be doing something instead of standing like an idiot, helpless and pathetic. Blocked out. Her brother, the only family she’s got left, is missing. She’s seeing visions—ghosts for all he knows—and has this Skeleton Key connection to a house of all things. And yet she shoves him out like he’s nothing more than a shoulder.

  Todd swipes the screen on his phone, ignoring the text from his mom asking what’s taking so long, and opens a search engine. His brain is a tangle; his chest is full of charcoal. He wishes he had a better understanding of what’s going on, but what should he search for, Augustus Garrett? Haunted houses, poltergeists? Maybe Garrett found a way to tap some alternate space-time continuum, to make his set reality move slower than what the rest of humanity experiences, and that’s how he’s pulling this off.

  Todd’s always wished for a photographic memory. Now would be a really awesome time for something like that to kick in. Maybe there’s something he and Piper read, something he’s overlooking. What exactly is he dealing with here? And how can he extract Piper from it?

  “Screw it,” he says, trotting down the purple front steps. The clouds overhead look dipped in orange, a sure sign of the sun preparing to set. If only he had more time.

  Todd ducks beneath the linden tree’s low branches toward the backyard just as Sierra’s lime green Beetle pulls up and parks. Not at her usual stop—Jordan’s house across the street. But at Piper’s.

  The charcoal in Todd’s chest ignites to full-blown anger once more. He storms over. “You get back in that car and keep going,” he says, driving a finger in Sierra’s direction and then toward the street.

  Sierra swishes her brown hair and stands with one hand on the top of the car door she hasn’t had a chance to close yet. The haughty, self-assured look she usually wears is gone. Then again, it’s been wiped out since she showed up a few days ago with Piper’s zits. Piper’s zits. Todd still can’t believe what he’s seen. What’s real.

  He meant it when he said he’d hardly noticed the acne on Piper. Her big blue eyes and smile were enough distraction for him. Sierra, with her pseudo flawless perfection, was a different story. It was like splats of mud on a classic painting. Who wouldn’t notice? And believe him, plenty of people had.

  “A lot of nerve you have coming here,” he says.

  Sierra folds her arms and tilts her chin away. “Jordan told me what you said to him.”

  “Yeah, and I meant every word.”

  Her brows fold, and she lets out an indignant scoff. What, did she think he’d apologize for telling him to go to hell, along with the other colorful expletives he’d used, after what she and Jordan did? Piper nearly died.

  “I’m not here to talk to you,” Sierra says, finally slamming her door and trying to shuffle past him. Todd takes her by the arm and steers her back to her door. The last thing he or Piper need right now is Sierra snooping. Todd still has to figure out how to get back in there, and he doesn’t need her getting in the way.

  “Let go,” she orders.

  “You’re not here to talk to her either. Get out of here.”

  “Something doesn’t add up!” she yells as if he’s pushed her too far. She wriggles from his grip and shoves his chest. Then at not moving him in the slightest, she checks herself and glances to the house behind him. “Something with her house. With my skin. I mean, how does an axe cut a person when it didn’t even…” Sierra shakes her head. “And the other stuff…they won’t stop, they just keeping coming…” She drifts off once more.

  “What other stuff?” Todd asks, suspicion riding his voice.

  Her voice is less confident when she goes on. “She wouldn’t tell me at the hospital, but maybe—I mean, is she a witch or something?” She touches her face, her fingers trembling, then lowers them as if in defeat.

  “What do you even care?” Todd says in complete disbelief. “You’ve been a hooch to her since the day she moved to Cedarvale. What makes you think she’ll want to see you, let alone talk to you? And what other stuff were you talking about?”

  She succeeds at shoving past him this time, chin in the air. The stately Victorian looks more looming and mysterious than ever—more out of place among the ordinary bungalows, including Todd’s red brick home, and Jordan Warren’s boxy, custom-built house. She marches straight up the porch and reaches for the bell.

  The lights flicker all at once, a streak of lightning sizzling from within. White, blistering, unnatural light, like someone flicks a switch that connects every wire to turn on in unison.

  “Sierra, wait!”

  Sierra hesitates at the flash, then reaches once more. As she touches the bell the whole house alights again, this time with a palatable charge in the air that scorches the hairs on Todd’s arms.

  In an instant, Sierra gets flung back, vaults right at Todd as if someone has a string tied around her waist and jerked it as hard as they could. Her head knocks his chin. He doesn’t register the sound of shattered glass until sense kicks back in and he sees fragments tinkling at his feet. He licks blood from his lip. A line of pain whips across his shoulder blades where he’d collided with the frame of the car door, and little pricks tell him there’s probably some glass embedded in the skin of his back.

  Sierra is slung against his chest. His arms shake as he tries to hold her limp body from falling to the sidewalk.

  “Sierra? Sierra!”

  Gently, he lowers her to the concrete and brushes hair out of her used-to-be-awesome face. Her eyes are closed. Her chest isn’t moving.

  All Todd can do is curse. In his head, out loud, swear words leak out. I don’t have time for this, he thinks. I’ve got to get back into Piper’s house. He remembers the first time he felt something more for Pipes than friendship, when she’d hugged him on her fourteenth birthday. It was the first time he’d held her and not wanted to let her go. The feeling hadn’t changed much since then. If anything it had gotten stronger, especially after the other night.

  He thinks of the things he and Pipes have gone through the past few days, the newspaper articles, seeing Piper daze out as she’d seen people from the past. He glances at the journal lying in the gutter, recalling with absolute clarity the discovery the two of them had made not an hour ago. No time. No time. No time.

  But despite it all, Sierra’s his friend too. Late-night football practices and movie nights at Jordan’s house, conversations he’s had with the shallow but friendly girl. He’s at a total loss as his shaking fingers make their way to her throat. No pulse.

  He scrambles, glancing around for his phone that he was sure had been in his hand.

  “Screw it,” he says once more, snatching the
journal before hefting her limp form in his arms. He runs across the street, not even knocking before he forces his way into Jordan’s house.

  Tilting heavily on the wall, I make a slow descent down the spongy, mold-eaten stairs to the basement, fighting every inclination to bolt back up and let Todd in again. Each of my steps leads me farther into the golden haze, but it’s different this time, as if my body changes its consistency to fit in with the surroundings.

  A girl wails, and with a gasp I realize it’s Ada. Two men I don’t recognize, both wearing the same cream shirt and brown vests and pants Thomas usually wears, each hold Ada by an arm. They must be more servants.

  She’s in that yellow dress. Her black hair is ratted. Tears run down her creamy cheeks, and despair mushes her face. Her knees collapse, but the men hold her to her feet.

  I scan in the direction Ada’s looking, and I cleave to the splintery stair rail for support, though it wobbles under my grasp.

  A cuff encloses each of Thomas’ hands, and he dangles from two hooks hanging from the ceiling. Blood streams across his cheek and down his mouth. He looks bedraggled. Broken. The flesh at his wrists is rubbed raw. He’s been stripped down to a single, loose shirt and slacks, and the shirt hangs open to reveal several crimson gashes.

  I don’t want to see this. But the sight—and the pain at my side—has paralyzed me.

  Mr. Garrett dusts his blood-spattered hands on an apron at his waist, smearing red down its front. He turns to Ada, who bellows, pleading with despair.

  “No! Don’t hurt him anymore, please!”

  Mr. Garrett crooks his head. He tilts Ada’s face with a red hand, and a drop spills onto the shoulder of her yellow dress.

  “Now do you realize the damage you’ve done?”

  She whimpers; her face a crumpled disarray of flesh and tears. Her knees tremble, but the men at her arms stiffen their grimaces and hold her fast.

  Garrett lowers his hand, and a slap-mark of blood paints her cheek. Thomas’s blood. He shows her a small, metal gadget. I recognize it from a diagram in Garrett’s journal; the hitch, the one that looked like an old ear-piercing tool.