moment he had feared, the moment when Aimee started to realize that something wasn’t normal. That something was terribly wrong.
Aimee was scared by the things she’d seen, but she had no idea her reaction was terrifying her husband. Jack couldn’t get the image of his own mother out of his head, couldn’t silence her choking wails as his father tried to comfort her, insisting that it was all in her head, that her mind was playing tricks. Offering the same argument to Aimee was to call her crazy. Jack had seen the immovable kitchen table sitting flat on its surface. If it had only been the popcorn it would have been a different matter. It would have been easy to convince her that Nubs was stealing snacks. But that table—he and Aimee’s father had struggled to get it inside the house when Aimee had bought it. They had to call Reagan for help. It was an old refurbished relic, heavy as hell, made out of wood as dense as the Louisiana swamp. Aimee hadn’t flipped that table over herself.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and tried to put it out of his mind, but minutes later he was rolling over, making sure Aimee was really asleep. Holding his breath, he sat up on their creaky mattress, in desperate need of replacement. It was lumpy, and a couple of springs were starting to poke into the thin padding. It whined loud enough to wake the dead whenever they got intimate. He hadn’t fully sat up before the damn thing started to make noise. Eventually getting one foot on the carpet without those springs ratting him out, it took him another fifteen minutes to creep across the floor.
When he finally made it into the hallway he stood in a daze. After all that effort, he wasn’t sure why he’d snuck out in the first place—something had pulled him out of that bedroom, beckoning him into the stillness of the house. He tiptoed down the hall to check on the girls. Abigail was on her side of the room, one arm jutting out over the side of her bed. Charlie, who was fond of odd sleeping positions, was pressed against the wall like a slug, her sheets pooled upon the floor like discarded snake skin. The coolness of the wall kept her from getting hot during muggy summer nights. He took a step back and pulled the door with him, ready to fit it snuggly into the jamb, and stopped short.
Something shifted in the corner of the room. It was a shadow; a squatting figure hiding in the darkness, waiting for Jack to leave the girls alone. Jack hesitated, his fingers clutching the doorknob tight. Something twisted against the valves of his heart. It whispered to him: Close the door. It’s just your imagination. You don’t want to see what you’re afraid is here; and anyway, it’s too late to do a damn thing about it .
He stood there for what felt like an eternity, an overwhelming sense of anger unraveling inside his stomach. He was a father, a husband, the protector of his family and his home, and here he was, afraid to stick his head back inside his daughters’ room, allowing this thing, this shadow, to consume his children rather than facing his fear.
He took a breath. Shoved the door open. Looked inside.
Nothing.
Closing the door behind him, he was both relieved and sure he was wrong. He’d seen something crouched in the corner next to Charlie’s bed. He knew he had. And while anyone else would have blamed it on too many horror movies, Jack couldn’t blame it on anything but his own memory.
He had seen that very figure perched at the foot of his bed when he was a kid; black skin, scaly like a lizard’s, small black horns poking out of its head. Its face, so eerily human, but yet so unearthly that it had certainly come from the very pits of Hell itself. When it smiled, its crooked mouth curled all the way up to its eyes, displaying a maw full of long, jagged cannibal teeth. And those eyes: they were nothing but vacant hollows.
Jack stood outside the girls’ door, chewing on his thumbnail. He needed a plan, a way to keep their lives
Aimee was scared by the things she’d seen, but she had no idea her reaction was terrifying her husband. Jack couldn’t get the image of his own mother out of his head, couldn’t silence her choking wails as his father tried to comfort her, insisting that it was all in her head, that her mind was playing tricks. Offering the same argument to Aimee was to call her crazy. Jack had seen the immovable kitchen table sitting flat on its surface. If it had only been the popcorn it would have been a different matter. It would have been easy to convince her that Nubs was stealing snacks. But that table—he and Aimee’s father had struggled to get it inside the house when Aimee had bought it. They had to call Reagan for help. It was an old refurbished relic, heavy as hell, made out of wood as dense as the Louisiana swamp. Aimee hadn’t flipped that table over herself.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and tried to put it out of his mind, but minutes later he was rolling over, making sure Aimee was really asleep. Holding his breath, he sat up on their creaky mattress, in desperate need of replacement. It was lumpy, and a couple of springs were starting to poke into the thin padding. It whined loud enough to wake the dead whenever they got intimate. He hadn’t fully sat up before the damn thing started to make noise. Eventually getting one foot on the carpet without those springs ratting him out, it took him another fifteen minutes to creep across the floor.
When he finally made it into the hallway he stood in a daze. After all that effort, he wasn’t sure why he’d snuck out in the first place—something had pulled him out of that bedroom, beckoning him into the stillness of the house. He tiptoed down the hall to check on the girls. Abigail was on her side of the room, one arm jutting out over the side of her bed. Charlie, who was fond of odd sleeping positions, was pressed against the wall like a slug, her sheets pooled upon the floor like discarded snake skin. The coolness of the wall kept her from getting hot during muggy summer nights. He took a step back and pulled the door with him, ready to fit it snuggly into the jamb, and stopped short.
Something shifted in the corner of the room. It was a shadow; a squatting figure hiding in the darkness, waiting for Jack to leave the girls alone. Jack hesitated, his fingers clutching the doorknob tight. Something twisted against the valves of his heart. It whispered to him: Close the door. It’s just your imagination. You don’t want to see what you’re afraid is here; and anyway, it’s too late to do a damn thing about it .
He stood there for what felt like an eternity, an overwhelming sense of anger unraveling inside his stomach. He was a father, a husband, the protector of his family and his home, and here he was, afraid to stick his head back inside his daughters’ room, allowing this thing, this shadow, to consume his children rather than facing his fear.
He took a breath. Shoved the door open. Looked inside.
Nothing.
Closing the door behind him, he was both relieved and sure he was wrong. He’d seen something crouched in the corner next to Charlie’s bed. He knew he had. And while anyone else would have blamed it on too many horror movies, Jack couldn’t blame it on anything but his own memory.
He had seen that very figure perched at the foot of his bed when he was a kid; black skin, scaly like a lizard’s, small black horns poking out of its head. Its face, so eerily human, but yet so unearthly that it had certainly come from the very pits of Hell itself. When it smiled, its crooked mouth curled all the way up to its eyes, displaying a maw full of long, jagged cannibal teeth. And those eyes: they were nothing but vacant hollows.
Jack stood outside the girls’ door, chewing on his thumbnail. He needed a plan, a way to keep their lives
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