Twisted.2014.12.16.2014 FOR REVIEW Read online

  He turned. The door to Mal's room was swinging shut. No one there, but it moved evenly until it clicked firmly into place.

  Blake turned back to the molding.

  The blood had felt so warm.

  And there was something underneath the wood. Something interesting. Like brains under bone, like a heart under ribs.

  He was smiling.

  A moment later he heard/felt something new. Not the door this time. He knew it was closed, and that it would stay closed until he was done with whatever it was he had started. That was fine.

  The sound came from the back of the room.

  He turned to Mal's bed. Below the window where it had always been, the brightest and most beautiful spot in the room.

  The shade was drawn –

  (Was it drawn when I came in here? Is that even important?)

  – and the bed crouched in shadow. The darkness deepened the lower it fell, and below the bed shadow ended and pure darkness held sway.

  The sound/feeling came from the place of greatest black.

  Blake waited. After a moment he saw a faint shine. A glimmer so dim he might have imagined it. Then it grew. It multiplied. It became two and four and then so many he could not count it.

  The centipedes came, and he was not surprised, not afraid. They spewed out from under the bed, raced across the floor.

  He turned back to his work. He gave up teasing the molding free and began yanking it, tearing it. Soon his fingers were bleeding, his nails hung in bloody shreds. He moved from molding to wallpaper, his motions jerky and ragged. He wanted to move faster, faster, faster. But his hands weren't listening properly. One hand moved those jerky motions of a poorly driven machine. One felt like several of the fingers were asleep.

  He pulled the wallpaper away. It was blue with small airplanes flying around it, tiny men in parachutes between each plane.

  Beneath the paper: bare wood, smeared with gold glue that looked like snot. Below the glue the remnants of old paint, half-scraped and grayed by the glue, looked like flaking skin.

  Something tickled his ankles. The centipedes began crawling up his legs. He had to bite back a laugh. Not because he cared about laughing in and of itself, but because laughing might slow down his work.

  His fingers yanked the wall that was Now, revealing layers Before.

  The centipedes covered the room, and crawled higher and higher on his body.

  Blake did not laugh. But his smile grew and grew. And that was fine. That was right. It felt good. Felt like blood.

  GONE JUST LIKE THAT

  Mommy walked toward the door and Mal thought that was crazy and wanted to go to her. But Daddy's words kept banging through his head. The words when Ruthie was born. "What do I do?" "You be a good example. You take care of her. That's what big brothers do."

  Daddy had also told him to take care of Mommy, but Mal was pretty sure that was just when Daddy had to run off after Ruthie. And Daddy was in the other room now, so Mal should stay with his sister, right?

  He didn't know. He had to guess. Do his best.

  Mommy kept moving to the door. To the shadow behind it. The scary shape that a few days ago would have been just a shape but now Mal was sure it was a ghost or a werewolf or maybe that girl from the movie about the killer videotape that he saw at Kel Pedroso's house and Mommy got so mad at Kel he wasn't allowed back there for a month.

  Not any of those. Worse.

  And Mommy was going toward it.

  "Mom, don't," he said.

  A faraway part of him realized he had never called her "Mom" before. That maybe he was Growing Up a bit. And maybe that was sad. But it wouldn't matter if everyone died.

  Mommy put her hand on the door. She looked down at her hand like she thought it might jump off her arm and bite her face. That was why she didn't see the shadow disappear.

  She pulled the door open and gave a little yell. Not a scared one, more like a karate yell, like she was going to try and ninja-chop whoever was there.

  No one was.

  Something fell into the house with a hollow tuk sound. It was a tube like Daddy got all the time from work. Probably full of plans for whatever building he was designing, dropped off by a courier because it was too big or too important to send in normal mail.

  Mal felt like pudding. He probably would have drooped all over the floor, except Ruthie was right there and that would have meant he drooped all over her and he didn't think she would like that. He kept straight up, but was so glad it was just a courier and not a mummy or a dead girl he almost giggled.

  Mommy didn't seem happy. She looked at the tube for a second. Then she stepped out onto the porch. Then she screamed, "Hey!"

  And then she ran away. Gone, just like that. He said her name. "Mommy" this time. But it wasn't a yell. Maybe not even a talk. Just a whisper, and then he was alone except for Ruthie who didn't count because all she did was make funny noises and need him to protect her.

  Thinking that he wondered if he should do more. Mommy was gone. Daddy was… well, he was in Mal's room. But when Mal had gone back there, Daddy had looked weird. Like he wasn't interested in Mal. Or anything else, other than that piece of the wall he was pulling at.

  He had a look in his eyes that scared Mal.

  No, Mal was on his own. Just him and Ruthie.

  He sat down next to her. She was too little for him to pick up the right way. Her neck was all floppy. Mommy and Daddy had let him hold her – a bunch of times, and he was really proud of that. But he wasn't sure about picking her up himself. Still, he wanted to get close as he could. Like he was her shield.

  He sat behind her. And as careful as he could he lifted her little head into his lap. He kept his hands behind her floppy neck and her big head. She looked up at him, and he thought she was smiling. He thought maybe he was doing the right thing.

  Then her smile went away.

  Her onesie changed. It wasn't pink anymore. It was blue. Not just one place, either. All over. Ruthie started to shiver. Her little mouth opened and closed so fast it was blurry.

  Mal started breathing fast. What was he supposed to do?

  He heard something then. Something behind.

  Daddy!

  He felt lighter, instantly better. Daddy was back. Back with them, back to normal.

  Mal turned. Smiling.

  Then not smiling. His mouth opened to scream.

  It wasn't Daddy. Not really.

  THE ONE WHO KNOWS

  When she saw the shipping tube, Alyssa realized that only one person had seemed to know instantly that there was something to fear. And if he had known that, what else might he know?

  That was why she stepped out of the house: hope. Hope that she would see the same courier delivering this package that she had seen a few days before. Hope that he might be able to help. And that was why, when she saw the scrawny form and the red hair of the kid who had delivered the package to Blake at the rental, she ran down the porch steps.

  She had to follow him, because she knew he could help. And she needed help; they all did.

  "Hey!" she shouted as soon as she saw the red hair, so vibrant it was almost an attack; heart and teddy bear and My Little Pony tattoos just as glaring and strange as they had been before.

  The kid didn't look back. He ran. Streaking toward the stripped-down bike on the curb.

  Alyssa ran after him. She didn’t think about it. Didn't have time. She had to catch him: she had no other idea where to go or who to turn to.

  The courier got on his bike. Started peddling. He was fast. The back wheel of the bike turned so hard it didn't even catch at first, just spinning against the street before it finally grabbed the asphalt and launched the bike forward. The front wheel came up a few inches before slamming down, and the courier jolted ahead.

  "Hey!" she shouted again. "Hey, what's going on? Do you know what's happening? What's…?"

  The courier moved away. And she felt answers, understanding – safety – move away with him.


  She watched him until he turned a corner and disappeared. Her only hope for understanding, gone as fast as it had come. She didn't know what else she could turn to. She didn't know any mediums, didn't know what she could search for on the internet that would provide real answers about what she might be going through.

  She went back up the steps. Her footsteps were solid, final, each one seeming to say "This is the end, nowhere to go."

  Someone screamed. A tiny shout, cut off before it bloomed into the shriek it wanted to become. High-pitched and instantly recognizable. Mal.

  Alyssa ran back to the house. Her steps lengthened to the point that she feared she might trip, but she pushed herself still faster.

  "Mal! Ruthie!" she shouted. She cursed herself for leaving them alone, tried at the same time to convince herself there was nothing wrong. Nothing to worry about.

  It was a lie, of course.

  She ran into the house. The living room.

  The mat was one of those thick cotton blankets specially designed for a new baby to rest on. To sleep on and look at the world from and someday roll over on.

  Ruthie was doing none of those things.

  Ruthie was gone. So was Mal. The book, too. And somehow that only made it worse. To know that wherever her son and daughter were, the death-tome might have followed –

  (been taken)

  – along with them. To know they couldn't escape it.

  The toy Mal had been holding – the squishy little toy with a plastic mirror sewn onto one side – lay mirror-side down a few feet from the mat. Like it had been thrown there, or kicked. Other than that, there was no sign that either child had ever been in the room.

  She had the strong impulse to turn over that little toy. To look into the mirror as though it were really a recording a device that might show her what had happened in here. But of course it wouldn't.

  Or perhaps it would. Perhaps that would be worse.

  She didn't touch it. It stayed on the floor.

  "Mal!" She ran from room to room. The living room was empty. So was the entry, the dining room. No one hiding under the table.

  "Ruthie!" She knew it was foolish to call for a baby – the infant could hardly call back. She did it anyway. And again: "Ruthie!"

  The kitchen was empty as well. She opened the pantry, even went so far as to yank open the under-sink cupboard space. Mal could squeeze into that dark little place.

  But he wasn't there. No little boy, no baby girl.

  She ran upstairs. Room to room, faster and faster, calling their names as she went from her bedroom to theirs. No answers, no sign of them.

  Then there was only one place left. The place she had left for last, and she realized that in all her calling she hadn't once called for Blake. Neither wondering where he was nor calling for his help.

  Because she knew where he was.

  And she didn't think he was going to help.

  She went to Mal's room. The second she rounded the stairs and set foot in the thin corridor that led to his room and the kitchen, she heard something. Each step toward her son's room made the sound louder. Low, but insistent. Sliding. Rasping.

  Familiar.

  She kept moving toward the room, but her toes felt like they were turning inside out. Trying to keep as far back as they could.

  The sound was one she had heard on the night her boy had awoken in a sea of centipedes. Millions of legs and bodies tangled around him, ready to bite and kill and drag him down to wherever they had come from.

  That same sound came from his room now.

  She was no longer running. Her mad dashes from room to room had been arrested by this sound, by her own fear.

  She pressed forward. "Mal? Ruthie?" she said. Her voice was a wheeze, a gasp.

  Then she stopped again. Just for a moment. Because a new sound joined the angry chittering. A plinking counterpoint that turned their hordes into a huge insectile waltz.

  It was the music box. Singing its song, and she knew that this was where it really belonged, that this was the party for which it had really come to play.

  She was crying. Fear for the children. Fear for Blake. And as good a mother and wife as she liked to think of herself to be, she knew she was terrified for her own safety, too.

  She knocked on the door. The rasping dance of insect feet didn't cease or even stutter. It went on, as did the music.

  She knocked harder.

  Blake's voice answered the knock, so quickly that it interrupted her motion. Like he was waiting for her to do this and waiting to give his response.

  "Leave us alone."

  The words were low. Almost friendly. But there was no mistaking the darkness below them. Or the fact that the rasping chitters rose with his words. It wasn't just a request. There was threat buried in the sentence, and the grave was a shallow one.

  Alyssa reached for the knob. She knew her kids were in there. She had to –

  "Don't."

  Her hand jerked just as it touched the doorknob. The contact itself seemed to cause an electric shock to jump from metal to skin, numbing her fingers.

  This time the speaker wasn't Blake. It wasn't coming from Mal's room. She turned her head to look down the hall. The small entry, the open front door to the house.

  Did I leave that open, or did he open it?

  The courier stood in the doorway. He looked around, observing the living room, the dining room. But she noticed he didn't come in. He didn't cross the threshold.

  He finally looked at her. His skin, like that of most redheads, was fair. But now it looked whiter than it had before. He was pale as snow, and his acne and the red freckles that could still be seen around his many tattoos were so bright they looked like laser targeting dots.

  "Come with me," he said.

  "I can't," she answered. Her hand rose toward Mal's door again. "My kids –"

  "They're not yours. Not now." The courier looked around again, his eyes contemplative. "It's still happening. It's not done." He refocused on Alyssa. "There's still time to get them back. But you have to know, or all you'll do is die first, probably right in front of them."

  The courier didn't look at her again. He turned around and disappeared from the doorway. Gone.

  She wanted to follow him. A moment before she had followed him, had fled after him in a moment of unthinking decision that may have gotten her children killed. But now that she had an actual invitation to do so, she didn't want to leave.

  She turned to Mal's room. The chittering and the music box had been joined by deep pounding. It sounded like Blake was beating the walls down with a sledgehammer.

  "Blake," she said, not really sure how she would finish the sentence, "I –"

  "WE'RE WORKING!"

  This time there was no attempt at friendly tones. Rage and hatred were all that she heard in her husband's voice. And his scream drew the chittering to a fury that was so loud it drilled into every crevice of her mind and made her scream.

  She finally ran. Not because she wanted to, but because to stay would be to fall into an abyss of insanity and be dashed to pieces at the bottom.

  And what could she do for her family if she was insane?

  Or dead?

  DARKFIRE

  Ralph didn't know what day it was. He just knew he'd been working at working – working at surviving – for what seemed like forever. Starting work at sunup, finishing after sundown. Sleeping where he could.

  So far those places were safe. So far.

  But he hadn't thought beyond that. He hadn't changed his clothes, hadn't showered. Ali and the other couriers had made some comments – even a group that was as determinedly ill-groomed as some of them were had started feeling he cast the profession in a poor light. But he barely heard them. He was just moving. Keeping ahead of the hands that kept clutching at him, the smiles widened by razor gashes, the bloody holes where eyes once were, an infinitude of misery.

  And anger.

  These dead were so angry.

  He ran jo
b after job, and took no thought of what else he might do. Because he didn't know if there was anything to do. No one had ever taken him aside and given him a crash course in spirit evasion. And he was tired. So tired, so incapable of thought. Becoming almost an animal, a thing that existed only to exist. A beast for whom survival was the end-all and be-all.

  So he took the jobs because that gave the beast purpose. The last remaining shield, however pitiful, that might protect him from the things that were now far too present, far too close.

  Ding-dong.

  It wasn't a job that needed a signature, just a drop. So he dropped it and ran/stumbled back to his bike. Heard the door open behind him but didn't stop. He had nothing to say to the client.

  And what if it wasn't the client? What if the wraiths had learned to open doors? Something new… and every new thing had, thus far, been bad.

  Then he heard someone scream, "Hey!" and he knew that it was one of them. They had grown stronger. Not just hanging to this world, but somehow coopting the trappings of life itself. This ghost had a house.

  That makes no sense, Ralphie. What would a ghost do –

  Don't argue, just run.

  What if someone needs you?

  RUN!

  He ran. Crashing down the porch, nearly tumbling face-over-feet as he stumbled to the bike, the only thing he really trusted.

  He fumbled with the bike as well, managing to get it upright after a few fractions of a second during which he grew old and died a thousand times. Then he was astride the seat, the worn leather under his right buttcheek as his left foot clipped into the pedal and then pushed down as hard as it ever had.

  The bike jumped forward. He heard more screaming, more words. A woman's voice. A woman-thing's voice.

  "Hey! Hey, what's going on? Do you know what's happening? What's…?"

  He turned a corner, and her voice died out. She might have stopped talking, she might have disappeared. But he couldn't slow down, because maybe she had just moved ahead of him. That had never happened before… but it would hardly be the first new thing to happen these days.