The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(34)
Author: Karen White

 

I listened for any further sound of movement, reminding myself that the front door had been locked and that Thibaut was obsessive about checking all windows and doors before he left. His and Jorge’s tools were neatly stowed in a corner of the kitchen, untouched, as were the boxes of plumbing fixtures in the front room waiting to be installed.

 

It was an old house, I kept repeating in my head. Full of weary creaks and groans from simply withstanding gravity and the vagaries of Mother Nature for over a century. Just like Melanie’s dad, who sometimes needed my assistance to help him stand after he’d been kneeling in the garden too long, his knees popping as they readjusted to a standing position. It beat the alternative, as he was fond of mentioning. I imagined my house felt the same.

 

The closet seemed less menacing now with the arc of light spilling into it from the hallway. Maybe what I’d seen in the video had been just odd shadows caused by the too-bright light from a bare bulb. My mom had told me that as a child I would never believe her when she told me something was hot and I shouldn’t touch it. I always needed to find out for myself, leaving nasty blisters on my fingers but the odd satisfaction of knowing for sure.

 

I marched up the stairs with heavy steps, attempting to show confidence either to myself or to anyone—or anything—that might be listening. I flipped on my phone light and gave a cursory inspection of the closet before moving into the two slowly developing new bedrooms and the bathroom. After satisfying myself that I was alone, I headed back toward the stairs.

 

A soft sound from behind me made me pause. It was the sort of sound made by someone attempting to hold their breath to avoid discovery. I turned around to face the closet, aiming my flashlight into the two back corners. There wasn’t enough wall space on either side of the doorway inside the closet for anyone to hide, but I looked anyway. I wasn’t going to lie to myself by thinking I’d imagined the sound. Maybe flying cockroaches had evolved enough to make human sounds. As horrifying as that thought was, the alternative was so much worse.

 

Gripping my phone just in case I needed to use it as a weapon, I turned again to leave. I’d made it to the top of the steps before I was stopped again by another sound. A tap tap tap followed by a high-pitched screeeeech like a fingernail on an old school chalkboard.

 

I marched back to the closet and stood inside the doorway, holding my breath and listening. A swoosh of air brushed my back, turning me around toward the stairway just as the closet door slammed shut in my face. I sprang forward and twisted the knob, which wouldn’t turn, the rational part of my brain telling me that there was no functioning lock on the new doorknob, that if I kept trying it should turn and open. Except it didn’t.

 

Something unidentifiable brushed my cheek, and I screamed. I swatted with both hands, dropping my phone, the beam of the flashlight now aimed up at the ceiling. A ceiling that seemed to be moving with shiny bits and pieces reflecting the light from the screen. One of the bits dropped onto the floor in front of me, followed by the flutter of an insect’s wings passing by my ear. I made a grab for my phone just as the light flickered out and something landed on the back of my neck.

 

I screamed again. And screamed and screamed and screamed as I pressed myself into as small of a ball as I could and raked my nubby fingernails against my scalp again and again until the skin felt raw. Yet I couldn’t stop screaming or scraping, doing anything to keep away the silence that would allow in the thought that I couldn’t escape.

 

The door flew open, and the hall light illuminated a surprised Beau as I threw myself at him. I wanted to keep running, to find the cans of Raid and kill as many of the bugs as I could, but Beau held on to me, his arms tight around my waist, pressing me against him.

 

“What happened? Why are you screaming?”

 

I kept my face tucked into his neck and pointed to the closet, my eyes clenched so I wouldn’t have to look at what I knew was there and had felt along my arms and the back of my neck and hair. “Don’t let them out! They’re all over the ceiling. They’re falling on me.”

 

“What are? Nola, you’re not making sense.” He pried me away from him and held me at arm’s length. “Open your eyes. Now.”

 

I shook my head, only part of it out of resentment for Beau telling me what to do.

 

“There is nothing in the closet, Nola. What did you see?”

 

I opened my eyes, the overhead light blinding me momentarily until they adjusted; then I turned my head to look inside the closet. Empty except for my phone in the middle of the floor. Keeping my arms wrapped tightly around me, I walked inside to retrieve it, looking up at the pristine newly painted ceiling and at the empty hanging rods along the side walls.

 

“There were—” I began, my attention suddenly drawn to the sound of Beau snapping the band against his wrist.

 

“It’s . . . still here,” he said with a low voice.

 

“It? It wasn’t an it. It was hundreds and hundreds of roaches. They were everywhere. On the ceiling. Falling on me. They . . .” I stopped.

 

Beau was staring behind me, into the closet, his eyes widening in fear. Without turning around to see, I ran at Beau again, and he managed to stop us both from tumbling down the steps. With one swift movement, he grabbed the closet door and slammed it closed before lifting me in his arms and settling us on the floor with our backs against the door.

 

“I know. I know,” he said. His voice was very close to my ear as he patted my back as if I were a small child.

 

“They were there.” My voice shook, embarrassing me. I forced my jaw to be still and repeated it. “They were there.”

 

“I believe you,” Beau said, his breath warm on my neck.

 

Little by little, I felt myself relax, and I rested my head on his chest below his chin, the rhythm of his heart in my ear.

 

“I was so scared,” I muttered sleepily.

 

“So was I.”

 

I sat up, our faces close together. “What did you see?”

 

“I’m not sure. It started as a dark spot on the far wall, and then it grew and became three-dimensional and . . . real. Except there weren’t any features. And it seemed to move like . . .” His voice trailed away.

 

“Like an oil slick?”

 

“Yeah. Exactly. Did you see it, too?”

 

I shook my head. “I only saw the—” I shuddered, unable to say the word “roaches.” “But I saw the shadow. It’s on the video Jolene and Jaxson made here yesterday. It’s the one with Mardi doing tricks, and it’s in the background. Inside the closet.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”