Read Online Brood by Chase Novak - Free Book Online

startling to see the tip of Polly’s tongue reaches to her chin. But it gets more unsettling. Polly continues to unfurl her tongue and now the tip of it…reaches down to the hollow of her throat.
    â€œWhoa,” Rodolfo manages to say.
    But she’s not finished. The tip of her tongue sinks lower and lower and now it hangs as a fleshy pink pendant at the middle of her chest. Her mouth strains open to its fullest as she releases more and more tongue, until she can—if she wants to—stick it into her own belly button.
    â€œPut that shit away,” Rodolfo says.
    She retracts it—the tongue zisses back into her mouth like a metal measuring tape returning to its casing. She dries the corners of her mouth, takes a deep breath.
    â€œWhat are we, Rodolfo?” she says. “I mean, really, what the fuck are we?”
    Â Â 
    It is past midnight, nearly one in the morning. Cynthia lies in her bed, miles from sleep. She is thinking of that man lurking across the street with his Bible. She is wondering if he had anything to do with those noises she heard. She tells herself she is being foolish. Nonetheless, she keeps wondering.
    The old house’s ruminative noises continue. The later it gets, the more the house has to say. The water pipes have their opinions. The joists have their complaints. The wooden floors are inconsolable. From somewhere comes a buzzing—a dying lightbulb? A chewed electrical wire ready to bloom into hot flame? A stiff summer breeze pushes the branches of the dogwood tree closer to the house, and its twigs and leaves and withered blossoms scratch madly against the windows.
    But there is one sweet sound too. The sound of Alice’s deep easy breaths as the child sleeps beside her. She wears pale cotton pajamas, childish, with a teddy-bear pattern. Her fingers clasp the cuffs of her sleeves, even in sleep. Every button is fastened. She sleeps on her back, her arms crossed over her chest, like a child in a tomb. Her hair fans over the pillow. The reflection of a passing car’s headlights briefly touches her face, her rosy lips, her long eyelashes.
    Cynthia was amazed—and relieved—that Alice was so easily convinced to come down and spend the night with her. With such utter guilelessness, with such perfect trust, the girl had let Cynthia take her hand and lead her to the master bedroom. Silently, Alice slipped into bed and fell almost immediately into a profound sleep.
    â€œLittle Alley-Oop,” Cynthia whispered to her, and the little girl smiled her sleepy little smile.
    But now…something seems out of place. Something is not right, not yet.
    There is someone else in the room.
    Or so Cynthia fears.
    No. This is more than fear. This is not some vexing trick of the mind. This is not worrying that the banging of the pipes is really the
clump-clump-clump
of an intruder. This is not trying to figure out if what she hears outside might be someone trying to get into the house. This is not fear. This is real. This is as real as real can be.
    Cynthia lifts herself up on her elbows, hoping not to awaken Alice. She peers into the darkness of the bedroom, but it is like trying to see to the bottom of a can of black paint.
    She has no choice but to turn on her reading light.
    There are two worlds, the same but different: the world of darkness and the world of light. They exist simultaneously, they live one inside of the other, yet their realities are profoundly divergent. With a click, the lamp is on, and darkness with all its mysteries and dangers disappears as if it had never existed, and taking its place are bedposts and carpeting, shutters, freshly plastered walls, an upholstered chair upon which the day’s clothing has been deposited, her navy-blue journal that slipped off the bed hours ago. Yet, just as darkness can tease and torture the mind, it also offers hope—a degree of deniability. But now, in the stark light of the room, Cynthia sees something