multiplying, threatening to fill my nose, my mouth, my ears … but I welcomed it.
Then Aunt Ro’s hand clamped around my wrist, viselike, tugging at me. I could almost feel the vacuum-sealed air pop open like a black hole that had suddenly been uncorked.
I opened my mouth wide, to protest, and felt the swarm of insects— hornets? bees? horseflies? —rush inside, choking me off, stifling my cries.
Aunt Ro’s grip tightened, and I was
(falling falling falling)
humming from the inside now, from within and from beneath, from my secret, hidden core.
And then the buzzing silenced, and darkness came down.
“IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE.”
I opened my eyes to the sight of thick, rough-hewn beams overhead—the living room ceiling, if not original to Amity’s construction, then at least several centuries old. At the very least.
I was on the sofa, stretched on my back, what felt like a pillow propped beneath my head and smelling vaguely of mildew. I swallowed and felt a tightness in my throat, raw and scratchy, and recalled the buzzing of the sewing room, that silent scream, the patter of wings and the creeping cloud of darkness that swarmed around me before blackness came in full.
My mother’s voice, slightly muffled. That was what I was hearing. It was coming from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about the … were they flies ?”
Flies . Yes, in the sewing room. They could have been flies.
I pawed at my neck, pressed my fingers against my throat, searching, trying to ascertain any bites or stings, any telltale swelling. But I could feel nothing but the prickle of goose bumps on my skin.
Ro’s voice: a mumble, a low stream of minor chords. Sounds wove in and out from the kitchen, like a radio intermittently losing frequency.
“The window’s been open. Who knows how long the realtorleft it that way. Could’ve been all spring, all damn summer. Maybe there was a nest in there, in a closet or a corner or something.” My father now, gruff and unyielding.
Ro’s voice rose. “Did you find a nest, Hal? When you were up there? Was the window open?”
There was a banging sound like a knock, or a fist against the surface of a table, and then my father rumbled again, angry and indistinct, that imaginary radio dial shuffling wildly for a moment. Amity’s angles were playing tricks on me again. On all of us.
“… could have opened it and closed it a hundred times just yesterday!” I heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, imagined my mother rising to pace the kitchen the way she did when she was anxious. “But I don’t see why you should have to leave over this. Flies? It’s ridiculous.”
“Insane,” my father thundered.
(crazy)
My throat lurched. The blood pounded in my ears.
A mumble from Ro. “—didn’t see … the stings.”
“She’s fine !” my mother shrieked, making my shoulders clench. “There are no marks on her! Or, she was fine, until something you said got her so upset.”
“Let her leave.” My father, again.
A door slammed distantly, tinny and thin. It was the screen door off the kitchen. Footsteps grew stronger, drew closer, until Luke’s profile passed swiftly by the living room doorway. His hands were curled around something I couldn’t make out, and he didn’t glance my way. Murray ambled eagerly after him, a whiff of mossy earth, sulfuric and sour, carrying past me in his wake.
There was a ruffle, a scrabbling sound now, slightly frantic, from the kitchen. Aunt Ro: “… leave something for Gwen—”
“—you’ve done enough.” An emphatic cough from my father. Another bang, a clap, more like a palm slapped flat against a surface.
Another scraping sound, another chair pushing back from the table. Aunt Ro this time, I thought. “Never mind, I—I guess I didn’t bring it with me, after all.”
“Ro—” I could picture my mother reaching out, her slim, white arm stretching toward her sister, her forehead creased in
Then Aunt Ro’s hand clamped around my wrist, viselike, tugging at me. I could almost feel the vacuum-sealed air pop open like a black hole that had suddenly been uncorked.
I opened my mouth wide, to protest, and felt the swarm of insects— hornets? bees? horseflies? —rush inside, choking me off, stifling my cries.
Aunt Ro’s grip tightened, and I was
(falling falling falling)
humming from the inside now, from within and from beneath, from my secret, hidden core.
And then the buzzing silenced, and darkness came down.
“IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE.”
I opened my eyes to the sight of thick, rough-hewn beams overhead—the living room ceiling, if not original to Amity’s construction, then at least several centuries old. At the very least.
I was on the sofa, stretched on my back, what felt like a pillow propped beneath my head and smelling vaguely of mildew. I swallowed and felt a tightness in my throat, raw and scratchy, and recalled the buzzing of the sewing room, that silent scream, the patter of wings and the creeping cloud of darkness that swarmed around me before blackness came in full.
My mother’s voice, slightly muffled. That was what I was hearing. It was coming from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about the … were they flies ?”
Flies . Yes, in the sewing room. They could have been flies.
I pawed at my neck, pressed my fingers against my throat, searching, trying to ascertain any bites or stings, any telltale swelling. But I could feel nothing but the prickle of goose bumps on my skin.
Ro’s voice: a mumble, a low stream of minor chords. Sounds wove in and out from the kitchen, like a radio intermittently losing frequency.
“The window’s been open. Who knows how long the realtorleft it that way. Could’ve been all spring, all damn summer. Maybe there was a nest in there, in a closet or a corner or something.” My father now, gruff and unyielding.
Ro’s voice rose. “Did you find a nest, Hal? When you were up there? Was the window open?”
There was a banging sound like a knock, or a fist against the surface of a table, and then my father rumbled again, angry and indistinct, that imaginary radio dial shuffling wildly for a moment. Amity’s angles were playing tricks on me again. On all of us.
“… could have opened it and closed it a hundred times just yesterday!” I heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, imagined my mother rising to pace the kitchen the way she did when she was anxious. “But I don’t see why you should have to leave over this. Flies? It’s ridiculous.”
“Insane,” my father thundered.
(crazy)
My throat lurched. The blood pounded in my ears.
A mumble from Ro. “—didn’t see … the stings.”
“She’s fine !” my mother shrieked, making my shoulders clench. “There are no marks on her! Or, she was fine, until something you said got her so upset.”
“Let her leave.” My father, again.
A door slammed distantly, tinny and thin. It was the screen door off the kitchen. Footsteps grew stronger, drew closer, until Luke’s profile passed swiftly by the living room doorway. His hands were curled around something I couldn’t make out, and he didn’t glance my way. Murray ambled eagerly after him, a whiff of mossy earth, sulfuric and sour, carrying past me in his wake.
There was a ruffle, a scrabbling sound now, slightly frantic, from the kitchen. Aunt Ro: “… leave something for Gwen—”
“—you’ve done enough.” An emphatic cough from my father. Another bang, a clap, more like a palm slapped flat against a surface.
Another scraping sound, another chair pushing back from the table. Aunt Ro this time, I thought. “Never mind, I—I guess I didn’t bring it with me, after all.”
“Ro—” I could picture my mother reaching out, her slim, white arm stretching toward her sister, her forehead creased in
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