After a quick inventory of his remaining supply, he began opening one sample box after another, prying pills from blister packs and spilling them from his palm into the half-empty brown bottles. He quickly snapped both childproof lids into place again. Once the two bottles were back in the cabinet, he gathered the torn boxes and swept them into his briefcase.
Work done, Myron straightened up and checked his own reflection. He eased the loose strands of his wavy hair back into position. He checked the whites of his eyes and pulled back each lid to gauge the color of the red meat below. Baring his teeth, he checked his gums and under his tongue. Satisfied, he picked up the briefcase and left the bathroom.
In the closet, he stopped to deposit the leather briefcase below a row of neatly arranged Italian shirts. Every shade of white hung in order as though in a clothing store. His shiny leather shoes were lined up in their steel racks like trophies. His silk ties lay neatly in thin custom drawers he and Margot had picked out together. The entire room smelled of Gucci cologne and sports deodorant.
Myron carefully hung up the suit he was wearing, shifting the hangers to avoid crowding, touching, rumpling, ruining. He threw the clothes from his gym bag in the canvas hamper Margot had insisted on keeping separate from her own. It’s just simpler this way. Besides, your workout gear stinks! As he was setting his gym bag onto its shelf, the attic floor above him creaked.
The sound straightened his spine and craned his neck up toward the ceiling.
The white plaster over his head stared blankly back.
Another squeak in the floorboards upstairs left him no choice. Barefoot, he padded over to his closet door and peered out into the hall. The setting sun streamed in through the leaded glass window, washing the wall next to him in shades of pink and gold, shrouding the rest of the hallway in murky shadows. He squinted at the attic door, half-hidden in the back hallway.
A dark shape moved past the door.
He startled at the sight of it. Frowning, he took a cautious step out into the hall toward the attic door. “Hunter? Is that you?”
A faint laugh echoed down the crooked back hallway, bouncing off the closed doors. Or did it come from outside? A passing car? A radio? He stopped breathing for a moment, his eyes searching for the source, his heart pounding loudly against his ribs.
The air stood still.
“Hello?” he said louder this time. “Hunter? Is that you? Margot?” Saying their names seemed to break the spell. He exhaled. Haunted house indeed, he chided himself and plodded loudly down the hall.
The back corridor stood empty. He flipped on the light to be sure. He swung open the attic door and checked the stairs to find them empty as well. Up and down the back hallway, he walked a quick patrol, opening doors, snapping lights on and off. Nothing.
He stopped at Hunter’s door, almost forgetting to knock.
Tap. Tap.
Inside the room, Hunter felt his father’s footsteps vibrate through the floorboards before he heard the knock. He removed his headset and lowered his plastic gun. “Yeah?”
“Hey.” Myron opened the door and waved awkwardly at the boy. “Was that you in the hallway?”
“Huh?”
“Just a second ago. Did you . . .” No. That doesn’t make sense. Myron shook his head at himself. Hunter was in his room. “Did you hear anything just now?”
“Uh, no. I had my headphones on.”
“Huh. Must’ve been your mother.” Myron quickly changed the subject. “So . . . is that . . . that a good game?”
“I guess.” Hunter shrugged.
“Is it fun?” Myron seemed to regret the question before it was out of his mouth. He wasn’t a “cool” dad, no matter how much he’d like to be.
“Uh. Sort of.” Hunter held up the gun. On the frozen screen behind him, a zombie’s face was caught midsnarl.
“Right.” His father nodded as though they’d just decided something important.
“You, uh . . . you okay, Dad?” Something in Hunter seemed to wake up, looking at the man. A sober awareness.
Myron sensed it too and stiffened his shoulders, lifted his chin. “Yeah. Just, you know, tired. Long day. You do anything interesting?”
Hunter shrugged again. He’d left the house for an hour after lunch, walking south down Lee Road toward the grocery store and library. He’d come back smelling of old books and soda pop. “I dunno. Not really.”
Myron relaxed now that his son’s laser focus seemed to dim. Or perhaps it was the effect of the pills he’d taken. “You gonna put together another coding club out here?”
The boy sat there slumped in his leather chair a moment, debating something in his mind. “I dunno. Maybe . . . Hey, Dad?”
The little-boy lilt in his son’s voice squeezed Myron’s heart. He’s still so young. “What’s up?”
Hunter stared at the plastic gun in his hand, flexing and unflexing his fingers as though working something loose. Something that was determined to stay stuck. Finally, he gave up and muttered, “Nothing.”
“Okay.” Myron’s expression closed again, and his eyes clouded over with annoyance and unfocused irritation. He turned to leave. A faint light filtered into the hallway from the attic, casting a glow onto the dark wood floor. The sight made him pause. Hadn’t he just turned it off? “Say, Hunter, do me a favor?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“When you go up to the attic, please remember to turn off the light.”
Hunter scowled at him. But I didn’t.
Myron held up his hand as if he’d heard the silent protest. “Seriously. Every time I come home lately, that damn light is on. Now, you’re the one always asking about our gas mileage and the heating bills and being ‘green’ and all that, right? Can we agree that leaving lights on wastes electricity?”
The man’s voice had shifted just enough, his vowels growing just long enough, for Hunter to hear the difference. The boy stared at the far wall with annoyance and just nodded his head. Drunk, his dull expression concluded. The man’s drunk. There was no use arguing with him. “Sure, Dad.”
“Okay.” Myron tapped the door. “Good night. Don’t stay up too late.”
After closing his son’s door, he sauntered over to the attic entrance and made a show of flipping off the light switch at the foot of the stairs for no one. After he’d swung the door shut and floated languidly back down the hall toward his own bedroom, Myron stopped as if remembering the reason he’d ventured out in the first place. His eyes shifted to the ceiling again. The new paint didn’t hide the waves and ripples in the plaster or the finer cracks. He glared up at them, daring the wood to creak again. Debating whether to go up there, he pivoted toward the attic door.
A shadow stood in the back hallway. It hovered twenty feet down the handwoven carpet runner from where he stood. The shape of a girl.
“Jesus!” Stumbling back, he nearly fell. The walls reeled as he caught himself. He sucked in a breath as though he’d seen the devil himself. “What the hell?” A ghost? No. That’s crazy. But—
It was gone. There was nothing there but a shapeless darkness now that the sun had set.
“Hey.” He took eight cautious steps after it, whatever it was, down the back corridor that led to the rooms over the garage. It was empty. Five steps farther and around the corner, the doors lining the hall were all shut just as he’d left them moments earlier. He stood listening a moment to the sound of his own hitched breathing. What exactly had he seen?