The woman opens the fridge and takes out the oat milk, drinking straight from the carton, then mashes a banana into her mouth. Next, a yogurt, followed by handfuls of my guacamole, and I’m ready to vomit.
“I gotta get Unc, he needs to see this!” Yusef says, fumbling out of the room.
The woman seems comfortable, in no rush, as if she’s done this plenty of times before. She tries biting into one of the apples we brought back from the farm and winces, holding a hand to her cheek.
I think of the tooth in my pocket as Piper enters the frame, unfazed by the woman’s presence, and my blood turns to ice. They talk, calmly at first, but Piper seems confused, shaking her head . . . refusing something.
Just then, my phone rings. Mom.
“Mom, I was about to call you. You’re never going to—”
“Mari! GET—RIGHT—NOW!”
“What?” I say. The line is terrible.
“Someone—house! Get Piper—GET OUT!”
Piper says one final word to the woman before padding away. The woman watches her, then takes a key out of the pocket of her tattered apron and heads down into the basement.
Piper was telling the truth, all along. No one believed her. And now she’s in that house . . . alone.
“Found—in Bud—OUT! NOW!”
The woman’s voice springs to my memory.
“GET OUT MY HOUSE!”
The phone slips out of my hand as I bolt toward the door.
“Cali!” Yusef calls to my back. “Wait!”
But I’m already down the driveway, arms pumping, trying to beat my own record . . . back to Maple Street.
Twenty-Three
THE LIGHTS ARE on. Every single one. The house is a torch in the distance. The front door wide open, dry leaves blowing inside.
“Piper!” I scream, taking the porch stairs two at a time, noticing Sweets is smashed into a pumpkin pancake. “Piper, come on! We have to go!”
I charge toward the kitchen, where I last left her. The TV is on, Scott Clark spitting his vitriol. The entire floor is empty. But the basement door is open.
Oh no.
“For vengeance is in the hands of the Lord but as he makes you in his liking, he expects you to act on his will and do what he deems necessary. He speaks through his angels, the prophets and community leaders who have been anointed . . .”
I stare down into the abyss. It’s not as black and never-ending as it usually is. A soft light glows below.
“Piper?” I say in a trembling voice. Silence. But she has to be down there.
With ragged breath, I tiptoe down the steps. The thin wood creaks and moans under my weight. I grip the aged railing, afraid a board will give in and I’ll fall right through, breaking a leg or worse.
“Piper?”
A wall of broken wooden chairs and tables surround the bottom of the steps like a dam, towering to the ceiling, Alec’s moving crates tucked in the corner. But behind it all, the light glows brighter. I slip through a narrow entry, my insides a chaotic mess, and find the rest of the basement . . . sparse. A near empty space, the floor dusty, the air damp and cold, smelling of rotting food. A thick coating of dust blankets the bare bookshelves. My foot kicks an empty can and it rolls off to the side, where other empty cans of soup and vegetables lie near a rusted tricycle. And in the far corner sit two makeshift beds, made of charred rags and sheets, a bedbug paradise. The single candle flickers as I stop short.
On one mat is Mom’s zucchini spiralizer. Along with Alec’s watch, the hammer with the red-and-black handle . . . the list goes on. A treasure trove of stolen goods. Something familiar catches my eye. Near a pillow made of faded curtains is an old tape recorder. Similar to the one Mom used to use reporting for the town’s journal when I was little. She would let me record notes and funny voices on it. Which is the only reason why I know how it works. I press play.
“Mari! Mari, come here! Quick!”
My stomach drops, the recorder slipping out of my numb hand and landing on a tin can of . . . peanut butter.
Oh my God . . .
“Piper,” I whimper, backing away. I run up the stairs, barreling around the corner and up to the second floor.
“Piper, where are you?!” I cough out a cry. Her room is empty. Maybe she’s hiding; she has to be in here somewhere, she just has to! I dive under the bed then shove open her closet. On the floor are blankets, stretching out from a hidey-hole in the corner, along with empty chip bags, juice boxes, and Lunchable containers.
She was living in here!
Head buzzing, I run into the bathroom, throwing back the shower curtain. No Piper. The guilt is heavy, weighing down my lungs as tears bubble up. I left her alone and now the Hag—or whoever that is—has got her!
The sour smell hits me like a brick to the face. I cover my mouth, gagging, bending over the sink to catch any chucks, as I finally recognize it. It’s human. Raw body odor mixed with shit and . . . blood. The metal copper scent is so strong, it’s unmistakable.
Behind me, something shifts. It’s slight but noticeable. I freeze, gazing up into my reflection. The large bathroom is still, sparkling clean, nothing out of place. But the linen closet door is cracked open. And in that dark crack, one giant yellow eye is staring back at me.
Holy. Shit.
The contents in my stomach curdle as I stand paralyzed for what feels like eternity. I bite my tongue to smother a cry, then attempt to play it cool, casually looking away, pretending I saw absolutely nothing. I turn on the faucet and splash some cold water on my face. But my heaving chest and trembling hands must be giving me away.
She knows I can see her! Shit, shit shit . . .
A thin river of blood slowly snakes out of the closet, flowing down the grooves in the checkered bath tiles toward my sneaker. It pools quickly at my heel and I stiffen into wood. The door slowly creaks open wide. And behind it is not a little old lady . . . but a giant man. The same man who was standing in my room the night of the party.
“Demons hate anything happy.”
My body won’t turn around. Nothing in this world could make me turn around. We lock eyes in the mirror. Half of his face has the texture of dark molded clay. The fire seared meat out of his cheek, neck, and hair, skin misshapen around muscles and veins, his left ear gone. Beside him, blood rains down onto the floor with soft thuds. Two of his fingers are missing, as if ripped off . . . or bitten.
Buddy . . .
Light catches something metal by his boot and I crumble. In his one good hand, he grips the handle of Mr. Stampley’s ax.
An ax. He’s holding a got damn ax!
Silent fire alarm bells ring through my head as he places a single finger over his lips. Then, in one blink, he charges, shreds of clothing flying behind him like dangling streamers, the ax scraping the tiles. The scream that escapes my mouth is bloodcurdling as I bolt out of the bathroom.
“W-w-w-wait,” he yells.
He speaks. He has a voice! He’s real. And that realization makes it all so much worse. The size of a bison, his heavy steps are like earthquakes chasing after me. He smells revolting but familiar and even in my panic as I run for the door, I realize . . . it’s the stench from the basement, leaking through the vents. We’ve been smelling him all along.
Down the stairs, I slip and slam into the wall, and he jumps in front of the exit. I skirt around him, toward the kitchen, picking up speed. I’ll run through the glass back door if I have to, then I’ll . . .