Sunblocked Summerhouse

by Mixi J Applebottom

  Wynne carefully whispered back, "I'm not sure that he will give us the answers, even if he did give them to Mike." She swallowed nervously and the sweat on her hands was thick enough that she had to wipe them on her shorts. She looked at the salt, the blood-red candles burning low. "Can't this help us?"

  The boy suddenly leaned his ghastly face between the two of theirs. "I'm waiting," he said. He was standing now with his hands behind his back. But his body was partway through the table. Gregory let out a shudder when he looked at him. His shiny black eyes were impossible to miss. They were going to lose the first question.

  Chapter Forty

  Mike turned and walked away from the boy's room. He went to towards the kitchen, carefully avoiding the formal dining area, and instead looping around the hallway the long way. He didn't want to go back to… whatever it was.

  His shoulder still had a tingle in it. A strong, steady ache from where the electricity had ripped through him. Truly, he had become afraid of the formal dining room. He paused before he made the last turn to the kitchen and decided to check the front door again. If access to the outdoors could be taken away at any given moment, so it could return. But the front door was still sealed tightly, the lock still unable to budge. The lock was still disfigured and melted into place.

  He continued his trek into the kitchen. He checked all of the cupboards, but he couldn't find anything to eat, although there was still tea.

  The smell of fresh-baked bread lingered in the room. His stomach rumbled. There was nothing else in any of the cupboards.

  For lack of anything else to fill his rumbling belly, he made himself a cup of tea. The tea had an odd, repugnant smell, as if it had been made from oregano, as opposed to any of the more delightful spices. It was bitter.

  He added even more water, trying to dilute the potent flavor.

  But adding more water seemed to make it stronger for some reason. And as he sniffed the tea, he started to feel a flicker of worry. Something was off about this tea, and he wondered if the boy had poisoned it. He could feel his heart starting to pump even harder. How many sips had he taken? Was it too late?

  His stomach flipped uncertainly. He desperately hoped he could puke it up before it killed him.

  The hair on the back of his neck was standing tall. In a fit of anger, he started to rummage through the kitchen drawers. He wanted to do anything to infuriate and destroy the boy.

  It did not take long for him to see something that would help.

  He grabbed the book of matches, and with a sneer, started to stomp all the way to the boy's room. How would he like it when his room burned down? All his drawings, all his hate. He'd have nothing left. It was only a moment later when he struck the first match.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Wynne hesitantly looked at Gregory. The two of them couldn't think of what to say. If the socks weren't white, and they weren't black, then the choices were endless. The boy’s shiny black eyes stared deep into Wynne. She shuddered. "Um… red?" she said nervously. They would have to give up on this question. They had no other choice.

  "Wrong,” said the boy smugly. He picked up another piece of toast and devoured it in one large swallow. He didn't even hesitate, his mouth stretching and his throat stretching to accommodate.

  "What did I receive on my sixth birthday?" asked the boy, and he had a big wide grin, his sharpened, ebony teeth all sparkling at Wynne. She closed her eyes, unable to stare any longer.

  Gregory frowned and said, "Let me think." Gregory was stalling, hoping that they could figure out a way to communicate with Mike.

  The boy frowned. "No. Guess now." His eyes went wide as if someone had stabbed him unexpectedly in the back. "I'll be back." Then the boy winked out of existence.

  "I think we need to push the layers of the house back together,” said Wynne, her hands covering her eyes. "I don't think this is sustainable; he's not as powerful as the girl was. He's not as powerful as Pear is. But I think he is more powerful than me,” she said softly. She took her hands away from her eyes, and they were bright red and bloodshot, the green one and the yellow one.

  "I wonder where Mike is. He apparently knows the answers. Do you think that means the answer is in the house somewhere?" said Gregory, ignoring her confusing statement on pushing the layers of the house back together.

  "I absolutely think he's here. I think, I think we could run into him if I'm not careful,” said Wynne hesitantly. "But… it's strange that you and me and Calleo are all in the same layer.”

  As if on command, Calleo suddenly came tearing into the room. His eyes were still bright white, the irises completely missing. He had a ghastly look on his face, and he ran to Gregory at such a frantic pace. He jumped on the boy’s lap and stared directly into his eyes.

  "Did you want something?" said Gregory as he gently reached his hand out to scratch under Calleo's chin.

  But the cat opened his mouth and gently clamped down on the finger. And in this manner, he jumped slowly off of Gregory's lap and started to pull him down the hallway. It was awkward, being led by a cat who was barely above his ankle. Gregory was in the most awkward position trying to go with Calleo, being dragged by one finger. But the cat did not seem to mind at all and quickly dragged Gregory to the boy’s room.

  There was a click, like the tapping of a fork unexpectedly on teeth.

  Wynne did not follow.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The match sputtered to life. The flames kissed the first drawing, like two hesitant virgins.

  It was the very one they had been discussing, the one with the yellow socks, and the stick figure drawing of the boy opening presents. Without thinking, Mike had lit the drawing on fire. He hadn't made any effort to ball them together and to make a substantial flame. Instead, he just lit it, still hung on the wall. He had some odd vision the flame would jump from spot to spot, catching all of the drawings and thus the room, and thus the house. As the poisonous tea would kill him slowly, the fire would slowly kill the house. It was poetic justice, and the death of them both.

  This turned out to be a terrible mistake. Because not only did the picture not fully burn, but nothing else caught on fire either. A draft from the open door put out the flame, and the father's yellow socks were just barely kissed by fire.

  Mike frowned and struck another match.

  But then the boy let out a screech. Only then did it dawn on Mike that the door had swung open.

  "Did you try to burn my drawing?" The calm tone of the boy had an underlying level of hatred.

  Mike turned, his heart crashing and pounding in his ears. The boy had somehow grown quite a bit larger than Mike. His fingers were long and pointed, and his sharp teeth were clicking together. For the first time, Mike noticed the long, claw-like fingernails on his dirty hands. The boy snapped his neck to the left and then to the right. His hands seemed to shoot as if bullets from a gun, catching around Mike's throat with super-human speed.

  "You can't take my memories," the boy whispered. "You can't take my memories and burn them."

  Mike gasped. He put his hands on the boy’s hands, trying to pull them free. The boy was stronger than he looked, even for his scrawny size. He could not budge them; he could feel the air starting to burn inside his lungs. He tried desperately to breathe.

  Somehow, the boy was ten times stronger than the grown man. He could feel his feet rising from the ground until he couldn't touch at all, choking and sputtering, his hands still pulling and tearing at the boy’s grip.

  "You can't get rid of me. This house is mine," hissed the boy, his tongue flickering out like a snake on his sharp teeth. A little bit of spittle dripped on Mike's face. His lips started to turn a painful shade of blue.

  But then, the boy let out a scream. He turned around, dropping Mike entirely. Mike slammed into the ground, his feet unable to catch him. But a moment later, he was gasping for air, coming back to life. The boy was turning in a circle, his long arms stretching behind him, clawing at his back.
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  As he turned screaming, Mike could see the source of his agony, as Calleo was firmly implanted on the ghost’s back, his claws digging in, his teeth bared. A nasty yowl came from Calleo.

  Mike did not join in the battle; instead, gasping for air, he ran out the door to hide in his tiny room.

  He ran with such fear-filled intensity that he completely missed Gregory standing there shocked.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Wynne opened her eyes and stared at the formal dining room. The candles were all burned down to nubs. The red wax looked like blood spilled over the table. When she saw herself in one of the broken mirror shards, her face look ragged and worn, as if she had been awake for four days straight. Maybe she had; time did not seem to be behaving. She ran a hand absently through her perfectly straight hair.

  She swallowed, then looked at herself again. Her eyes were bloodshot, more so than they had ever been before. She couldn't get over how strange she looked with one yellow and one green eye. It made her feel confused and nauseated.

  She looked away from the mess on the table, from the plates that had one slice of toast remaining. She stood up and went to the kitchen. As she went through the cupboards, there was no lack of food. There were boxes upon boxes of easy instant meals. Oatmeal, ramen, and a myriad of other things that she didn't quite recognize. Finally, she found some boysenberry tea. She slowly heated up the water and contemplated what she should do. She tried to remember how they had all pushed the girl back to… Hell or wherever she went.

  She tried to feel the strings of the layers of the house. It didn't feel natural. She closed her eyes while she sipped the tea. But she couldn't feel anything, she couldn't feel anything to grab, push, pull, punch. It was all nothingness, as if she had nothing, no powers. Why did Pear have powers, while she was powerless?

  She even reached out and tried to feel the lock, feel it psychically through the air, the melted twisted and mangled lock of the front door.

  But she felt nothing. She wasn't sure if this meant she had no powers, or… even worse, she had used them all up.

  But then she felt, way in the far back, a barely long enough thread to pull. A tiny sliver. She wondered if she should try to pull it so she could see what it was, or if she should let it be. She was still trying to make up her mind when the boy tapped her on the shoulder.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Gregory stared at the scene before him. Calleo had run off as soon as the boy disappeared.

  He wondered if he should follow Mike and figure out where the man had been this entire time, but he was mesmerized by the drawings.

  It was obvious to him that the first drawing was of the sixth birthday party—the yellow socks prominently featured. Gregory quickly looked through the pictures, examining what the boy had received for his sixth birthday present. But in all of the pictures, they were just wrapped presents, nothing opened. He looked for anything else that might be obviously present, like a puppy. But there were no animals in any of the pictures. They seemed absurdly focused, as Gregory was starting to learn.

  Each picture had the boy at the center, doing various activities on what appeared to be all his sixth birthday. Gregory stared at each picture, one after another, frantically feeling panic growing on the back of his neck. If he couldn't find the answer, they'd be wrong on another question… This was a trivia game he wasn't sure they could win. At best, all he could do was stall the inevitable conclusion.

  But stalling might be enough for them to figure out something else.

  He chewed his lip and stared at the first picture again, carefully scanning for any signs of what the present could've been. He looked for the nuances; was a shirt changed? Did anything seem to have been opened? He shook his head, completely baffled.

  He decided instead to try to memorize as much of the drawings as he could.

  And he wondered for a moment where the boy had gone.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  "Do… Do you want me to make more toast?" asked Wynne very nervously. She wasn't sure what to say to the ghost. Had she pushed them through a layer? And if so… Where were they now?

  "I want an answer," the boy said with hostility. But then he paused and cocked his head. "And toast."

  "Okay,” said Wynne. She began to mix flour, sugar, and butter and salt. Slowly, she began to knead up another loaf of bread.

  "Was it a puppy?" said Wynne. She was trying to feel into the layers and feel Gregory. But she was also trying to be so subtle that the boy wouldn't notice. Hopefully, Gregory knew the answer.

  "Wrong," the boy said, watching her hands. She just stirred the powders and liquids together to make something soft and fluffy. He was fascinated. It tossed and turned expertly under her hands. The smell of flour and salt was already thick in the air.

  "A bike?" asked Wynne. Sweat was starting to tease at her neckline. She tried to feel for Gregory again. Hoping for more time.

  "Wrong. Last try." Suddenly, the boy's eyes snapped from the dough that he was so impressed with, to Wynne's face. "Don't try to pull him."

  He could feel the things she was feeling, her psychic energy, or her magic power. She wasn't sure what it was, but she could feel it suddenly get flipped. As if someone had stabbed her in some ethereal unknown way. But the pain, the pain was intense and bright. Like getting socked in the nose, except the nose was her brain. Or her heart… Or soul. She wasn't sure which, but then the wind was immediately knocked from her and she doubled over, tears welling up in her eyes. She tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs were on fire. It took her a full minute to be able to gather herself back together. She felt like pieces of her had been thrown all over the house. She had to think and reach for them. Where was her voice? Where was her sense of touch?

  And finally, once she was all collected, she screamed.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Pear was screaming.

  Her mother had no idea what to do with the child. It was two in the morning and the child would not stop talking about Calleo. She hadn't slept through the night in at least a month. Her gorgeous little girl was now broken, distorted.

  Aurora herself had noticed many changes. So while her small child screamed and thrashed on the kitchen floor, Aurora found herself rocking her chair faster and faster, her knitting needles clicking and clacking together, keeping time. She closed her eyes for a moment, the scream climbing into a piercing shrill note.

  Finally, she said, "Pear, please stop."

  She wasn't sure if it was because knitting made the time pass so quickly, but she was startled to hear Pear's voice coming from directly behind her right shoulder. As if the child had leapt up and somehow in one smooth motion warped behind her. But that would be crazy.

  "Wynne needs my help. I want to see Calleo,” said Pear, her voice low and dangerous-sounding. Like she was a trapped animal, like she was a wild bear.

  "I told you, Wynne is fine. She's just housesitting for us. Besides, you've gotten too old to have a nanny,” said Aurora. She could feel the nervous tickle in her voice, so she tried to make the clickety-clack of the needles in her hands louder. Surely if they were loud enough, she wouldn't be able to feel that thread of fear that had been running through her ever since the…

  The penthouse.

  "I want to go to our summerhouse,” said Pear. Her voice was confident and overly girly this time.

  "I let you talk to Wynne on the phone just the other day. You don't need to see her. They are doing fine,” said Aurora and she looked down at the scarf she was knitting. It was canary yellow, and a very simple pattern. And it somehow had grown by a whole foot already that morning. Secretly, Aurora was dying to have Wynne back just as much as Pear was. Aurora wasn't cut out for mothering alone; she always had a nanny ever since Pear was born.

  She was not particularly fond of raising her child. Now, of course, she loved Pear. She just didn't love the raising of her. What she loved about it was the braiding of the hair, the delightful conversations. And, of course,
the handing her off when she started to scream. Was that so much to ask for?

  Barnett said they couldn't hire another nanny until they could figure out what was going on with Pear's eyes. They had gone to two eye doctors already, both of which basically said the same thing. "I have never seen a child with one yellow eye and one green eye. It's very unusual, but her vision seems fine." The second opinion only added one small detail: "She seems to have a slight bit of ocular damage. Nothing that I'd be concerned about. Her vision is fine."

  Aurora remembered the way his mouth looked when he rolled off those two words, ocular damage. The eyes had been altered by damage. She just wanted Pear's green eyes back. And also, if at all possible, she wanted Wynne back in the house raising their child.

  "Pear, I love you. But when… And that cat… They, they can't…" Aurora struggled to find a sentence that explained the exact thing that she wanted to say. She wanted to say “Your father thinks if you see the cat or nanny that you will go crazy and become possessed. Or that you are possessed.”

  But who in their right mind would tell a small child that they were possessed? And possessed by what? A good spirit? A bad one? The devil?

  All they knew for certain was there was something very wrong with the child.

  "I told her to make them toast,” said Pear. "But I don't think it's working."

  Chapter Forty-Seven