Oliver had been too surprised when he saw the body. And it was Ellie who had the signal jammer. Ellie who, with a smile, had pushed her down the stairs. She must’ve put the twine in Maeve’s pocket.
“But they’ll never believe you. They’ll kill you before you get the chance to explain. Ellie will make sure of it, and Oliver will follow her lead. Lorna won’t be able to stop them.”
She pulled harder on her hair.
“They’re going to kill you, Maeve. Let you die like Callum. One less problem to worry about. They’re going to kill you and let you die. Kill you and let you die. Kill you. Let you die.”
She squeezed her eyes so tight, she saw bursts of color as thoughts beat in her head like a drum, building to a crescendo until finally she shouted, “No!”
She stood in the darkness and dropped her hands to her side.
“No. Maybe you deserve to die, but you’re not going to let them do it. And you’re not going to wait for them to do it. You’re a good person. People like you. You can achieve whatever you set your mind to. So, Maeve Okafor, you can either bang on that door until they let you out, or sit on that step until they come for you, or you can find your own damn way out. Who votes for option number three?”
Maeve raised her own hand.
“All right. Get moving then.”
She used the railing to guide her back down.
“Torch, torch, there must be a torch,” she sing-songed, pretending her heart wasn’t racing. “Or maybe even a candle.”
With arms straight out in front of her, she walked until she collided with a metal shelf. Like a blind woman, she ran her hands over every object she found. She imagined cutting her hand on broken glass or some misplaced gardening equipment. Severing a tendon. Hitting an artery. Slicing off a finger. She could feel every injury before it happened. See blood dripping down her arm despite the darkness that squeezed her tighter and tighter. Her pawing became more frantic. A plastic bottle fell onto her hand as her palms pounded the shelf, encountering a mix of round and sharp edges, bits of metal and plastic. A glass or ceramic object shattered to the floor. A heavy piece of metal hit her in the foot.
“Please, a torch. Please, something. Please please.”
She slammed her hands on the shelf. An eerie green glow entered the room, and the numbers 04:19 stared back at her. Maeve grabbed the digital clock before the Indiglo light faded. It couldn’t project far but created what seemed like a world of sight in the pitch-black cellar.
As the light died, she pressed the Indiglo button again and pointed the glowing display at the shelves. It cast everything it touched in a strange aquamarine glow, like she was seeing in night vision. Even with the rain, she could hear the high little buzz made when the light was active and listened to it fade away with the light. She held the button down, hoping she wouldn’t drain the battery, and made her way through the shelves. At the end of the row, she tripped over a camping lantern. Fuel sloshed inside when she shook it, and she searched the shelf for something to light it with.
“Why did I quit smoking?”
Her luck turned. Among a roll of cord and some loose nails sat a small box of matches. Unable to strike a match and hold the clock at the same time, she sat cross-legged on the dirt floor with the lantern in front of her and the alarm clock beside her. She hit the button and struck a match. It didn’t light the first or second time, and the clock’s whine petered out as the green glow faded. She slammed her fist on the Indiglo button and struck the match again. It lit on the fifth try, but the short matchstick burned quickly. The flame bit her fingertips, and she yipped and dropped it into the lantern, where it burned to nothing without lighting the tallow.
Maeve pulled the lantern closer and tried again.
“Always give up too easily. That’s what Max says. Now’s your time to show him.”
She pressed the Indiglo button and struck another match. It lit on the first try.
“Ha!”
She stuck the matchstick inside the lantern and held it to the wick.
“Come on, come on.”
The flame grabbed hold.
“Tada!”
Maeve shook out the match and experimented with the wick, turning the flame up and down before setting it at a good height and stuffing the matchbox in her pocket. Her field of vision expanded, and with no one to mock her, she danced in triumphant circles despite her ankle.
“I have the power of flame! I am the Master of Darkness. I am . . . Jesus fucking Christ on a bike!” Maeve grabbed the shelf to steady herself.
Her brain told her it was nothing. Only a shadow on the wall. A shadow that resembled a person.
“Hello?”
Wind battered the window.
“My name’s Maeve. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I don’t want to be down here at all, actually. They put me down here and I—”
A faint smell of orange, cedar, and balsam seeped into the room.
“Drakkar Noir?”
She stopped rambling. That smell took her back to a dark cinema watching Stargate and being utterly confused by both the film and Callum trying to hold her hand when she was reaching for the popcorn.
“Callum?”
Holding her breath, she turned around and faced the blank wall.
There was nothing there. She tiptoed to the end of the row and swung the lantern right and left. Maybe she had seen an old dress form or coat rack, but there was nothing down here like that. Nothing that would’ve cast such a shadow.
“You were imagining things, Maeve. Of course Callum’s not here. Just light and shadow. And I mean it’s already a creepy house to begin with.”
Something fell to the ground.
Maeve jumped so high, she thought she touched the ceiling. Her heart pounded, about to burst. She listened, but heard nothing more. She walked toward where the sound had originated. On the ground was a fallen cardboard box, its contents spewing out.
With the lantern in one hand, she sifted through the spilled contents with the other. They were personal items, knickknacks like what one might find at a flea market—dragon figurines and empty photo albums, a Koosh ball, random Happy Meal toys, a pewter mug. Then, in the middle of it all, she found a photo of a couple. She held it close to the lantern. A familiar man and woman in Aran jumpers in an unfamiliar sitting room on a couch, holding hands. The woman’s hair reminded Maeve of her mother’s in the eighties.
Maeve shuddered in the draft. Then paused. It wasn’t a draft. It was a breeze. Air was coming through the wall. She moved the remaining boxes.
“No bloody way.”
There in the wall was a door.
She pressed her hands against it to make sure it was real. The rusty knob wouldn’t turn, but a panel of the door had rotted away. She reached through and found a key inserted in the lock on the other side. She expected it to give her trouble, but it turned with ease. The door opened onto a tall but narrow passageway. Maeve shuffled from foot to foot. She heard nothing in the passage, nor could she see where it went.
She hesitated, then took a step forward. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, she panicked and staggered back. She needed a way out, but no good could come from exploring dark, unknown passages. She reached to close the door.
And another door slammed above.
Maeve crouched down in case she could somehow be sensed above by the heavy footsteps that paced the foyer and paused above her head. Footsteps from someone who had entered the house through the locked front door. Footsteps that approached the cellar door.