Or was it blood?
He didn't want to know. Finally, he made it to the boy's room. The drawings were all neatly pinned in place. Carefully, he looked over them, finally spotting a drawing of this very house. Which room? Did it matter? He scanned the room with the red crayon and recognized the large table. The formal dining room.
He carefully lifted it down with one hand. He turned to walk back to the room that Wynne was… well, the kitchen where her voice was. But as he stepped into the hallway, he saw the boy.
The boy was staring into the eyes of the cat and whispering something. Gregory paused to try and listen, but the boy suddenly looked up at him. His big toothy smile suddenly drooped. "Don't touch what isn't yours," the boy hissed.
Quickly, Gregory said, "You died in the formal dining room, next to the kitchen. You have your answer now," he muttered as soon as he finished.
The boy hissed and charged at Gregory. His fingertips were outstretched and his teeth were close. "No! We won this one. Don't be unfair!" screamed Gregory right before the boy grabbed his throat.
"One for you, three for me. We are halfway done before you are mine forever," the boy hissed. Calleo twisted in his arms suddenly, almost breaking free. He shook the cat with his left hand as his right hand gripped Gregory's throat. "You'll never find the answer to this one: What is my favorite game?"
Just then, the boy's eyes went wider and he hissed, "Fire!" Calleo twisted the very second he turned. The boy let go of Gregory's throat, desperately trying to keep hold of the cat. But Calleo swiped at his eye, and the boy let out a scream. He dropped the white, blank-eyed cat. With a loud whoosh of air, the boy swirled down the hallway. Gregory could see a thin swirl of smoke crawling underneath the door.
Chapter Sixty-Four
"Your ghost ate my daughter," screamed Barnett. He was completely losing it and Wynne was finding herself in the dangerous vicinity of a man ready to kill.
"It's not mine!" Wynne shouted.
Aurora was wailing and tearing at her skin and hair. She had gone completely mental. Wynne could feel her panic rising like steam off her skin.
"Why did you bring us here!" Barnett continued to shout, picking up a chair. "You know what happened last time!" He threw it into the wall, his adrenaline too powerful to hold back. The chair shattered and slumped its broken pieces against the floor. He picked up one of the legs and held it like a club. Wynne's eyes went wide with fright.
He turned and waved it at her menacingly. "I'm going to get her back, and you're fired. I’m never gonna write you another check, a reference… nothing."
Then he opened the door to the formal dining room.
Sitting in the room was the crystal ball, the blood-red candles, and the salt star. Barnett stared at it and then turned back to Wynne. "You called him here," he said, his voice dropped so low she could barely hear it. And suddenly, like a rubber band snapping, he was chasing her. He was twice her size, a full grown man, a powerful movie star.
She shoved the table towards him and ran like hell, her feet skittering across the floor and into the hallway. Wynne turned so fast she couldn't stay upright, instead scrambling on all fours as she skidded, her fingers used for traction. Her body was long and stretched out as she moved frantically. She was out of breath and running. Her feet tried not to even make a whisper as they slipped across the tile. If he heard where she went, she'd be dead. She tried to breathe in big, long loops of quiet breath. After turning a corner, she quickly slipped into one of the identical bedrooms.
Her lungs were on fire, and she could hear his angry, heavy footsteps pound past the door.
She slipped herself under the bed and tried not to cry. Her heart was pounding. How could he be trying to kill her? She was not the boy. The idea that he would blame her mercilessly for this ghost seemed absurd. She hadn't fed Pear to anyone. That monster ate the girl.
Just then, the door opened to the room. She held her breath. Why did I hide here? She thought. He would certainly find her at this rate.
He was moving slowly and stepped into the little bathroom on the side of the room. "Where the fuck did you go, Wynne?" he muttered. Then he stomped out. His shiny shoes were not four inches from her face. The tassel on the front was close enough for her to touch. She wouldn't even have to stretch. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. "Damnit!" he shouted and slammed the club into the center of the bed.
Then he stomped out into the hallway and his voice started to fade. He had left the door open.
She lay still, holding her breath and staring at the open door. His shiny shoes passed again, the tassels fluttering slightly as he stepped. This time, he was clattering his club against the wall as he walked. He sounded like a monster.
A few minutes later, he came back into the room. There was a strange smell coming from him now. She stared at his shiny black shoes, holding her breath. Something was wrong. She blinked repeatedly. What happened to the tassels? They were missing. It was like they hadn't existed at all. The shoes were the same shiny black shoe. But that tassel. Had she imagined it?
Suddenly, the feet ran out the door and down the hallway. The smell was getting stronger. It was thick. Suddenly she knew, it was burning. She crawled out in a hurry; the bed was on fire.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Aurora was alone.
She was still slumped in the corner in the kitchen.
Her hands were trembling, and she looked around, trying to understand where she was, and what was going on.
All she could think about was her daughter being swallowed by the creature. But she knew she had to get focused.
This wasn't over. Her hands were shaking, and her concentration was dubious, but she tried to think.
How could she get her daughter back? She wondered if at this point it was even possible or if it was just false hope.
A swallowed little girl. Every time she thought it, her brain would crash again.
She tried desperately to stop picking at her skin, to no avail. Pear was dead. No, she couldn't think like that.
She was going to get her little girl back. Slowly, she stood up, uncertain as to where to go next. She would need… She needed something to make it throw up. And with that dazed thought, she started looking through the cupboards.
She found nothing particularly obvious to make a ghost vomit.
So she decided to look in the bathroom cabinets; maybe she could find some ipecac.
Aurora wandered down the hallway with a dazed shocked expression on her face. She didn't even bother walking at a normal speed; her eyes were almost glassy, she was almost drugged with shock. Ipecac. Little bit of puke, and I'll just wash her hair.
Just wash her. Wash the puke off of Pear. No problem
Barnett would have to deal with how to get rid of the ghost.
But Aurora was going to have to wash Pear's hair. Maybe she should start drawing a bath now. Puke all over her.
She wandered into one of the bedrooms and found a little side bathroom. She turned on the water slowly and then went through the cupboards, looking for ipecac.
She didn't find a bottle exactly labeled as the ipecac. What she did find was a bottle of Nyquil. It was the same. It made people puke. She tried to remember where she had heard it. CNN, maybe? They seemed reliable.
The best of CNN. If Aurora gave him too much Nyquil, then the boy would puke. She started to feel much more confident.
She left the water running and wandered back into the hallway, looking for the boy. Maybe he would willingly drink, or maybe she'd have to hold his nose and shove it down his throat like she was his mama.
It didn't matter; she was going to get her baby back, and with slow deliberate movements, she slowly started looking for him. And that was when she saw the fire.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Mike was gleefully trotting from room to room.
He managed to make some sort of torch with his club and the shreds of the sheet. He walked quickly from room to room
holding the flaming thing to every bed he could find. He was getting turned around, because the hallway seemed to be getting longer. How many beds had he lit? It seemed like dozens. He paused and looked around, trying to gather his bearings.
Where was the kitchen? Everything else was too identical. In fact, where was the boy's room?
There was a smidge of glee as he held the torch to yet another identical bed, but a strange inkling of worry flipped over him. What if he wasn't burning the house?
Once he thought it, he became immediately paranoid. If he wasn't burning the house, what was he burning?
He paused and took his time nervously looking around.
But he couldn't seem to tell if anything was wrong. What if he was outside the house?
That he could go home.
The very idea sparked a bit of excitement inside him.
This time, he took a deep, smug breath and coughed, choking on smoke.
He definitely was burning something.
And that made him laugh. Even though he had a feeling that it was not funny. He sniffed the air again and turned around nervously. He wasn't sure why he was getting increasingly upset. His heart was pounding and the commitment he had moments earlier to burn down the house and defeat the little boy started to fade.
Instead, he was feeling an overwhelming sense of fear. Like he was being tricked.
Even though he couldn't fathom what could be tricking him.
He was tricking the boy. He was setting the fire.
So what was tricking him? Dad?
A strong memory of him trying to be the man of the house suddenly flared up. Mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, and secretly begging his Ouija board for answers in the middle of the night. “Dad?” Mike whispered to the smoke-filled room. There was no reply.
But he didn't like this terrible feeling and he wanted it to stop now. He needed it to stop. He set the torch on the bed so he could run a nervous hand through his hair.
Picking back up his club of fire, he nervously charged into the next room. His feet were too loud, slapping his shiny shoes against the floor.
He could hear the crackling fire in the hall behind him.
The smell of smoke was getting thicker and thicker. He charged into another identical mindless bedroom and held the torch to the comforter.
How could the boy stop him now?
He couldn't. He definitely couldn't.
He turned around and saw the boy with glistening teeth bared in the doorway. "How dare you burn down my house. How dare you try to take my memories from me. You monster."
With that, he leapt upon Mike and grabbed his neck. His hands pressed deeper and deeper into the grown man's throat. Mike tried desperately to fight, but with one arm dislocated and broken, he had very little ability to stop him.
His lips turned blue as he gasped for air, his torch forgotten on the bed. Quickly, he was unconscious. The boy pushed the man's body onto the flaming bed. He was consumed by the flames that were spreading around the room.
Mike did not even scream.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Wynne was carefully slipping down the hallway, one door at a time. Peering around, she desperately tried to find anyone besides Barnett.
She had a feeling that the more they split up, the more dangerous this house would become. There was a possibility they would never see each other again.
She believed that possibility. He was just as real as demons and ghosts. Who had lit the bed on fire? She decided that it wasn't Barnett, despite the similar shoes.
She paused and listened; she thought she had heard someone.
But it was nothing. Gingerly, she slipped down the hallway little bit further and saw Aurora suddenly walking past her. "Aurora?"
"I have to give this to the boy,” she whispered quickly. Aurora nervously looked back and forth across the hallway. She seemed like she should've been in a mental institution, not in a haunted house, the way her eyes were flitting back and forth and her hair seemed scraggly. She had gotten more claw marks in her skin since the last time Wynne had seen her. More desperation? More terror?
It didn't matter. Aurora might never be the glorious woman she used to be.
Maybe she could get her attention. "Aurora, stay with me," whispered Wynne.
But the blonde bombshell slanted her eyes at the younger woman. It was as if she had seen her for the first time and was angry that she even existed. "No. I have things to do." She shoved Wynne unexpectedly and wandered down the hall, muttering, "All we need is a little bit of vomit."
Aurora was going to have to be left to her own devices.
Wynne wanted to find Gregory. At least he was unlikely to try to kill her.
At least she hoped so.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Barnett stepped into a room and it was completely on fire. He glanced quickly left and right, but he didn't see the girl.
He slammed the door and took another step down the hallway. To his surprise, Aurora was coming down the hallway.
He was grateful that he realized it was her, lest he struck her with the club he made. This hit was waiting for Wynne. It was destined for that woman. He would've been horrified to use it on his wife. "Aurora, be careful,” said Barnett, then peered down the hallway, looking for Wynne.
"Vomit. It's what we need," muttered Aurora she walked past her husband, not even bothering to stop and look him in the eye.
It was only then that Barnett started to realize that something was wrong with his wife.
He turned and looked at her, seemingly for the first time in months. Her hair was stringy and a mess; her perfect, plastic breasts looked lovely, but the dress seemed to fit wrong. Even her nails were not manicured well anymore. They were a mess.
The skin on her arms had been clawed by herself. In fact, as she stood, her right hand reached over to her left arm and started digging a new hole.
"Aurora?" said Barnett, shock slowly crawling through his body.
She muttered “vomit” and seemed to be looking frantically past him. Her eyes were wild, and she seemed to have no common sense left inside her. In her hand, she held a bottle of Nyquil.
"Honey, I don't think you're okay," Barnett said, horror filling his voice. He couldn't lose his wife and his daughter. One was enough.
One was enough.
He could feel his life flashing before his eyes, his perfect career, his perfect wife, his perfect daughter. Everything gone. Because of Wynne. Because she had to call a ghost into the house. After their experience at the penthouse, she would go and call another one?
Now Pear was dead.
And his wife was horribly broken.
They were trapped in this wretched house.
He was going to kill her. But he had to keep an eye on his wife. Or he would lose her forever. He didn't want to lose her. "Aurora, you need to stay with me."
"I need to find the boy," said Aurora. "I started a shower for Pear."
"We don't need the boy; you need to stay with me,” said Barnett nervously.
But her eyes were wild and she turned and started to wander away.
"Aurora! Stay with me,” shouted Barnett. But she didn't seem to hear him, still shuffling away. He frantically went after her, trying to think of some way to keep them together. The house could not divide them, and he wondered if he could kill Wynne in front of her. That had never been the plan. He didn't want to further traumatize his gorgeous wife.
Maybe she was unrecoverable. Maybe he should just leave her behind, kill Wynne, and then come back and find her?
He could feel himself struggling to make the decision. He didn't want her to see him kill Wynne. Finally, in the end, he took the long yellow yarn that she had in her bag. She was carrying it, for God knows what reason. He tied her on a leash from his waist to her waist. "Aurora, I'll help you find the boy. But you have to stay close. And… if I ever tell you to close your eyes, do it," he said menacingly.
She was so placid, so complacent that ev
en as he tied a leash around her waist, she seemed utterly uninvolved, like her mind was somewhere else entirely. Then he told her to close her eyes. She did instantly. "I don't want to bear witness to the things that are yet to come. Just want to vomit."
Barnett understood. This whole situation made him queasy too.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Gregory could barely concentrate. He had gone through all of the boy’s drawings, and had no hint, not even a whisper about what game the boy would think was his favorite. He wished he could find Wynne, but he hadn't seen her in ages. Only that one time when he was in the kitchen and heard her voice.
So that was where he went, quickly trudging his way towards the kitchen. He felt overwhelmingly tired, and the air felt thick and heavy. As he got closer, he realized the air was thick and heavy. Smoke brewing and bubbling outside of the hallway. There was a thin, long trail all the way across the ceiling, long tendrils curling and grasping for him.
He hustled to the kitchen. "Wynne?" There was no reply. If they were… in some sort of layers, how would he know if she had left the room?
He wouldn't. He didn't even know if it was really Wynne, or if it was something else entirely. Maybe the boy had already killed her and was playing tricks on him. His shoulder ached and was still definitely bleeding.
He turned to the formal dining room. This was the original place where the boy had been whisked into existence. Maybe he could still do the exorcism.
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