by Hunt, James
A tightness took hold of Claire’s chest, and she clutched it as the nurse holding her by the arms tried to pull her up. Another wave of sobs scrunched her face and creased her lips into a painful, solid line that lay as flat as the cardiac monitor for her son’s heart.
Dr. Talbert stepped back from the table, his shoulders sagging with his arms limp at his sides. He turned to Claire and said something. But those words weren’t right. They couldn’t be. Matt was ten. He was healthy. He loved baseball and being a big brother. He was a good kid. He was her son. Her first born.
“God, no!” Claire’s face reddened and she grew more hysterical.
“Ma’am, please,” the nurse said, trying to pull Claire back. “It’s best if you don’t stay. Please.”
Claire smacked the hands that reached for her or Matt. “Don’t you touch him!” She hovered over his body protectively, holding his face, his skin still ice cold. She pulled him to her chest and slowly rocked him.
Tears dripped from Claire’s face, raining over her child like an afternoon shower. She shook her head, feral moans escaping her lips. She stroked his hair, pushing the bangs from his forehead, and then gently leaned down and kissed his cheek. When she removed her lips, she laid her head on his chest.
A faint beep echoed through the room. Claire lifted her head and looked back to the monitor, the green line still flat. She looked at the nurse and doctor, both of whom were staring at the screen as well. “Did you hear that?”
Claire turned back to Matt, fanning the flames of hope. “C’mon, Matty. Come back. Please, come back.” She shut her eyes, praying. She wasn’t sure who was listening, or what was listening, but as she whispered promises to a being she wasn’t even sure existed, another beep sounded. And then Matt opened his eyes.
3
When Chuck delivered the news to Owen about his son, he sprinted to his van and sped toward Main Street. The ambulance’s flashing lights revealed the doctor’s office, where he also spotted their U-Haul parked at a slanted angle, half on the street and half off, blocking three other cars from leaving. Owen parked in front of it, blocking another two cars himself.
Claire and a team of paramedics were in the examination room, hovering over Matt, when Owen entered. They checked Matt’s blood pressure and lungs, placing their stethoscope over a skin that looked a sickly pale grey.
Owen saw the red stains at the corners of his son’s mouth and didn’t even notice Claire groping his arm until she started speaking.
“Owen, he came back.” Tears lingered in her eyes as she sniffled. “He was gone, but he came back.”
Owen shook his head, trying to make sense of his wife’s hysteria. “Came back from what?”
“Your son flat lined, Mr. Cooley.” An elderly man in a white coat spoke up, and Owen saw the name Dr. Talbert inscribed on the upper right breast of the coat. “He was dead for almost a full minute.”
Owen slowly reached for his son’s hand. It was ice cold. “I-I don’t understand.” He turned back to Claire. “What happened?”
“It was a miracle,” Claire answered, hugging Owen with the same wondered surprise in her voice. “Our boy came back.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Cooley?” The paramedic on Matt’s right side removed the Velcro blood pressure strap from Matt’s arm. “We’d like to take your son over to Southern General and run a few tests to make sure he’s all right. It’s just a precaution.”
“Okay. Sure,” Owen said.
“We’ll give you guys a minute, and then we’ll load your son into the ambulance.”
“Thank you,” Claire said.
With the medics, nurses, and doctor gone, Owen gently placed his calloused palm against Matt’s cheek. “How are you feeling, bud?”
Matt’s eyes were half-closed, and his lips barely moved when he spoke. “I’m okay.” The words were cracked and dry like a desert earth. “Is Chloe all right? I saw the snake coming, but I didn’t know if she got away in time.”
Another wave of tears flooded Claire’s eyes, and Owen smiled proudly. “She’s okay. But you need to rest. Try to sleep, all right?”
Matt nodded, and Claire kept hold of his hand while Owen beckoned the medics to return. They loaded him onto the stretcher, Claire hovering over their boy protectively.
“I’m going to ride with him,” Claire said, then looked to the paramedics. “That’s okay, right?”
“Yeah, but we only have room for one more, so we can only take you.”
“It’s fine,” Owen said, touching Claire’s arm. “I’ll follow with Chloe in the van.”
Claire gasped. “Oh my god. I forgot about Dad. He’s still at home. I didn’t even tell him we left. I just got in the van and—”
“Claire,” Owen said. “It’s fine. I’ll go home and check on him. Do you have your phone?”
She nodded.
“Call me if anything changes,” Owen said, giving Claire a reassuring kiss. “I’ll see you guys in a little bit.” Owen retrieved Chloe from the nurses in front while Claire accompanied the paramedics into the ambulance that loaded Matt inside, then quickly sped away.
Chloe didn’t say much, just wrapped her arms around Owen’s neck and buried her face into his shoulder. Her little body was hot, and she quickly formed a Chloe-sized sweat stain on his shirt in the sixty seconds it took to walk her out to the van. He strapped her in the seat and gave her a kiss. “You all right, bug?”
She shook her head.
“I know it was scary, but everyone is safe now.” Owen gently stroked her fine light-brown hair. “The doctors are going to make your brother better, and then we’re all going home together.”
“But what about Grandpa?” Chloe asked, her voice small with her head tilted down.
Owen raised his left eyebrow but kept his tone kind. “What do you mean?”
“Matt said that he might have to go away,” Chloe said, her chin buried in her chest as she picked at the hem of her shirt with a large rainbow over the front. It was one of her favorites. “He said that Grandpa was sick.” She looked up at him, those curious eyes searching her father’s face for reassurance. “Can the doctors make him better?”
“They’re going to try.” Owen kissed her cheek and then climbed behind the wheel. He started the van and headed back to the house, hoping Roger hadn’t gotten himself into too much trouble while he’d been alone.
* * *
Roger’s shirt had soaked through with sweat. He turned in a half circle, his feet sinking in the mud as he stepped in the swampy reeds. As he turned, he saw a house. It wasn’t the house he’d lived in in Baltimore, and the thick trees with long strands of moss weren’t the branches he’d climbed in the city park as a boy. He shut his eyes and tried to remember.
Why did he come outside? Where was he? Why didn’t any of this look familiar? He opened his eyes and looked down at the pair of hands now foreign to him. The gold band he’d worn since his vows was nothing more than a constricting piece of jewelry that he could no longer remove because of his swollen arthritis. When had his hands gotten so old? He clenched those unrecognizable hands into fists and grunted in frustration, his head growing fuzzy.
He stumbled through the hallways of his mind, groping at the darkness, his fingers searching for a light switch that would show him the way, but found nothing. And that’s when he heard it.
A rattle. It echoed down those dark corridors and gave the illusion of an omnipresence. It clanged in a rhythmic dance. The noise was familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before.
Roger turned back to the house. He lived there. Yes, he remembered now. Louisiana. That’s where he was. He glanced down at his legs, which were covered in mud all the way up to his knees, a few hardened specks on his shorts. The rattle sounded again.
Had he followed that noise out here? No. It was coming from the house. He needed to go back inside. Claire would be home soon. At least he thought she would. Where had she gone? The store?
Slowly, Roger lifted one
foot in front of the other, the commands from his brain slower than they should have been. His body felt broken, like his muscles were thick with hardening concrete. It hurt to move.
Roger smacked his feet against the steps up the front porch and knocked the mud off, then halfway through the motion, he stopped and stared down at his shoes in confusion. He grunted and then tracked mud into the house.
Inside, he shied away from looking at anything for too long. It worried him that he didn’t recognize where he was. It felt wrong. All of this felt wrong.
A whisper tickled the back of his mind. Roger stopped. He scratched the back of his head. The voice wasn’t his own. He leaned against the wall for support as he started to feel dizzy again. He was sick. Now he remembered. But what was he sick with? He didn’t feel like he had a cold.
Another rattle. It was louder than the one he heard outside, closer. It preceded another whisper, and then the rattling fell into a rhythm with the whispers. Someone was speaking, but he couldn’t understand what was being said. Was it because he was sick? Claire would speak to him sometimes, and he didn’t recognize her words. He didn’t recognize because… of the disease.
He was sick with something bad, but what was it? Cancer? Liver disease? Some vital organ failure? A clouded memory of his doctor visit floated by, and he tried to read the doctor’s lips, but nothing looked familiar. He chased after it for a while, trying to remember, trying to figure out why he couldn’t remember, and then—
Roger stopped in the hall, the sudden recall of his illness slamming into his chest like a pillowcase filled with bricks. A hopeless dread took hold, and he started to hyperventilate. He’d requested the tests and had gone by himself. It was like his mind and body took one step further away from each other every day. It wouldn’t be long until they couldn’t hold onto one another anymore. But such was life. The older you grew, the more you had to say goodbye to.
At first it was the strength of his youth. Then his tenacity. Then his career. Then his sweet Rachel. And now the last pillar of resolve that he clung to, his mind, was crumbling away.
Another rattle, more whispers.
Roger remembered that the doctor told him he would still have moments of lucidity. And when those moments presented themselves, the doctor recommended to focus on a single memory, a very important one. A focal point to rally behind. He closed his eyes and swiped at the cobwebs of his mind, frantically opening doors to find it, and just when he was about to give up, he saw it. Claire’s birth.
His first and only child. He pulled the memory over him like a warm blanket. Never in his life had he felt more purposeful than that moment. For the first time, he understood what the word ‘unconditionally’ meant.
Another rattle, and more whispers penetrated his thoughts. But these noises weren’t from his illness. He’d heard these noises before. Last night, he saw something. He chased something.
The old bones of the house creaked and groaned as Roger followed the noise down the left hallway from the living room, then past the dining room.
Thunka-dunka-dunka. Thunka-dunka-dunka.
The rhythm of the rattle quickened and the whispers grew louder in Roger’s head. The chanting, the rattling, all of it seemed to work in coordination with his heart that pounded faster and faster. He wasn’t sure which was leading which, but when he arrived at the last door on the rear left of the house, the noises stopped.
Roger wiped the sweat trickling toward his eyes. He reached for the old brass door knob, and despite the heat, the metal was cold. He opened it, and the hinges creaked loudly until the door came to a rest. Roger lingered in the doorway, glancing around the room and saw—
Nothing. No furniture, no decorations on the walls, no closet. Only a dirty window that clouded the afternoon sunlight.
Roger tracked more mud into the room as he stepped inside, his footprints following him to the center of the room. He squinted into the corners and glanced up at the ceiling. Those noises were coming from inside here. He was sure of it. At least he thought he was.
Roger looked down at his feet, and his mind grew heavy and clouded. He struggled to keep hold of the clarity that brought him here, but it was like fighting a riptide pulling him out to sea. The current was too strong. He turned around to leave but the door slammed shut.
Water flooded through the crack at the door’s bottom, and Roger splashed his feet in the stream, tugging at the brass knob, the door sealed shut. The water darkened to black and quickly rose to his ankles, then his shins. He twisted and yanked at the knob, but no matter how hard he pulled, the door wouldn’t budge.
Roger turned toward the window, the water up to his waist now and emitting a stagnant stench, like sewer water. He waded toward the window, his movements slow, hoping he could open it to escape. But just before he reached it, the door burst open and a wave of black water crashed against his back, dunking him into the black. He clawed toward the surface and gulped air as he broke through, his hands scraping the ceiling.
Roger turned back toward the door, which disappeared as the water level rose. He paddled toward it, every breath through his mouth, his head tilted upward avoiding the taste of death that surrounded him.
Something brushed against Roger’s leg under the water and he jerked his foot away in a panicked escape. When he got close to the door, he took one last breath and plunged into the black abyss. Even with his eyes open, he couldn’t see underwater. He patted the wall with his hands, feeling for the door, and discovered that it had shut again. His fingers grazed the brass knob and he gave it a tug, but it remained locked.
The water neutralized any power as he kicked and punched the door, unsure of how it even closed. His lungs ached for breath and he swam back to the surface and gasped for air. He coughed up some of the black water, his head dipping below the waterline twice as he struggled to stay afloat.
A cramp bit his left leg, and his arthritic fingers clawed at the walls to keep himself from drowning. And then, with his head tilted up toward the ceiling, thinking he was taking his last breaths, the water leveled off.
Less than three inches of space separated the water’s surface from the room’s ceiling. And as Roger bobbed up and down, clinging to life, he noticed that the water’s surface never rippled, not even from his own movements. His breaths echoed like he was in a cave and then suddenly stopped.
All sound was sucked from the room. Roger’s left arm numbed, and a fleeting fear of a heart attack struck his mind. But the numbness spread to the rest of his limbs, the water growing cold. He took breaths, feeling the motion of air filling his lungs, but still couldn’t hear them. However, the smell remained, and it grew more pungent.
Water bubbled on the other side of the room, but the surface didn’t ripple. The small, rounded mounds of black burst then blended back seamlessly with the water’s surface. And then, just as inexplicably as the water appeared, it began to recede.
Roger bobbed up and down more freely, and his muscles shook with relief when his toes felt the floor. He collapsed against the wall for support, catching his breath, and the water leveled off to the height of his chest. He looked over to the door, which was still closed, and then reached for the knob. Still locked.
“Help!” Roger weakly pounded on the door. “Please! Someone! Help!” No answer, and when Roger turned toward the window, something penetrated the surface on the other side of the room. It was a skull.
Black water rolled from the empty eye sockets, giving the illusion that the skull was crying as it rose from the dark water. Roger tilted his head to the side and saw the skull was attached to a staff.
The skull was thrust forward in a quick jerk, then pulled back, and it triggered the rattling noise. The sound he heard was bones, smacking together in a violent orchestra. He remained glued to the wall behind him, and he shivered uncontrollably, still unable to hear his own panicked breaths, the only noise in the room that rattling skull.
More water bubbled to Roger’s left and he squinted into t
he black water, seeing something white rising from the depths. It grew larger as it neared the surface and when it broke the black water’s plane, Roger jerked away.
Human bones floated like buoys, bobbing up and down until they came to a motionless rest like the water itself. More water bubbled, and as Roger retreated to the corner of the room in horror, more bones floated to the surface. Ribs, femurs, shoulders, skulls, they all thickened the water like vegetables in a stew.
Roger smacked the bones away whenever they floated close, and then the water bubbled again near the staff and something else emerged from the darkness. Black, matted hair appeared first, blending into the water from which it came. The flesh attached to the hair was scaly, like a snake’s skin, and shimmered the color of grey ash. A formidable brow hovered over eyes as big as lemons, but black as a starless night sky. The creature stopped once its eyes rose above the water’s surface, and it stared at Roger, unblinking.
The creature gave the staff a shake, and Roger felt his own bones rattle. He clawed back toward the door, pulling the brass knob harder and harder, bending the very wood of the door, but nothing budged. Bones rattled again, and Roger looked behind him. The creature glided through the water, slowly, continuing its rhythmic dance of the staff and skull. Thunka-dunka-dunka. Thunka-dunka-dunka.
Roger felt the vibrations in his throat as he screamed but heard only the rattle from the creature’s staff. He spun around, his back glued to the wall as the creature drew closer.
The rattling quickened. Thunkadunkadunka, thunkadunkadunka, thunkadunkadunka. The creature never blinked, didn’t twitch, just shook its staff and when it was less than an arm’s reach away, it pushed its head farther out of the water, exposing a mouth full of dagger like teeth, jutting out in awkward and painful directions. And that’s when Roger finally heard his own scream.
4
By the time Owen shifted into park and turned off the engine outside the house, Chloe was fast asleep. Her head was tilted to the side, her mouth was open, and a little pile of drool had formed on her shoulder. “Like mother, like daughter.”
