The Family Plot (13 page)

She opened her eyes—then closed them again until she could escape from the water, and haul herself out of the tub. Standing knock-kneed on the slippery wet tiles, she wiped at her face with her hands.

The old lightbulbs were still ugly and dim, and the room was more dark than bright, more damp than dry. The water gushed behind her. The bathroom didn't shake.

“The hell was that?” Her question bounced off the Mamie pink walls.

The house didn't answer.

Dahlia's heart pounded. She closed her eyes again, and opened them, and nothing was different. Nothing had happened, but her whole body was in fight-or-flight mode. Shaking, dripping, and listening for all she was worth for the sound of a storm outside, or the pop of an electrical fuse, or anything else that might have rocked the house … she waited.

She heard nothing, felt nothing.

“This is stupid,” she told herself, and the bathroom, too. “Just some … trick of the electrical system. Or something.”

She put one foot back inside the tub and looked over her shoulder, out into the bedroom. From the doorway, she could see the edge of the big four-poster bed, the AC unit jutting into the room, one end of the bay window seat where she'd left her bags. She saw only the ordinary shadows and lines of an old house without curtains, and the moon coming and going behind the clouds.

Her heart slowed. She was alone.

She was wasting hot water, and she had no idea how long she could expect that precious commodity to last. The air in the bathroom was thick with steam; it felt good in her chest, and everything was fine. She braced one hand on the tub's edge once more, and climbed back into the jet spray of the showerhead.

This time she didn't close her eyes.

This time, she saw the flash—an instant of whiteness so bright that there were no details, no fixtures, no bathroom. Nothing but white, and the sense of the whole house shuddering.

It was over as soon as it'd happened, but she was already off her feet. She fell sliding into the tub, landing on her back under the full force of the water. She scrambled and stumbled, and pulled herself out of the tub—over the side and onto all fours on a floor that was so wet she could see her own reflection when she stared down, panting, at the space between her hands.

Behind her reflection in that thin sheen of puddle, a shape darted, loomed, and disappeared.

She sat up so fast that she cracked her shoulder against the tub. Ignoring the pain and using the lip for support, she climbed to her feet. She clung to the tub's edge, for it was heavy and sturdy and old, and she trusted old things, even though the floor was uneven and the cast-iron tub rocked slightly from foot to foot when she clutched it.

The steam was so thick, it was like breathing soup. It was hard to catch her breath while inhaling it, puff after puff after puff.

But the bathroom wasn't so large. The mist was not actually soup, and she could see just fine. There was no one there, and no room for anyone to hide. No shadows but the ordinary kind. Nothing looming or lurking—not behind her, not beside her, not over her head, where the ceiling was stained with rust-colored water and a gray-green shadow of mold.

She half considered turning off the water so she could listen. Maybe if she listened real hard, without the water running, she'd hear Brad and Gabe downstairs. Then she'd know that everything was fine, and nothing was wrong.

None of this calmed her heart. It slammed around in her chest, insisting there was something else to hear, and it was important. It was deadly. It was close.

She stood up straight, concentrating on keeping her bare feet flat on the wet floor, and taking careful footsteps through the doorway and into the bedroom. Nothing moved except the ceiling fan, which limped one last half turn and came to a stop. No wind, no storm, no chatter downstairs. No curtains, she remembered—as she stood in full view of … well, in full view of no one, really.

If she was mistaken and some pervert was hanging out halfway up the mountain with a pair of binoculars, let him look. He'd gone to a lot of trouble.

She prowled the bedroom, leaving a trail of watery footprints in her wake and collecting dust on her wet feet. The bedroom was bigger than the bathroom by far, and it came with a few more hiding places. But the wardrobe was empty, as was the nook between the door and the wall.

She closed the bedroom door all the way. The knob was original to the house, and it locked, if you had a key. Dahlia didn't have a key. She looked around for something else to secure it, and spied the awkward old end table that served as a nightstand. The little table wouldn't really keep anyone out, but it'd make a fuck-ton of noise if someone tried to shove past it. She'd settle for an early warning system.

She half carried, half dragged it to the door, and kicked it up against the frame.

“This is stupid,” she reiterated to herself, or the house, or whoever. She left the table there anyway.

Back in the bathroom, satisfied that she was alone, she took another crack at the tub. With one eye on the doorway and the rest of her attention devoted to not falling … she climbed back inside with her bottle of soap.

She barely blinked. She sudsed up everything with a little plastic wash poof, careful to keep the soap out of her eyes, because she couldn't stand the thought of closing them again, even when she washed her face. All the while, her heart kept a steady, terrified beat. She told it not to. She told it how stupid this was. Her heart didn't care. It must've known something she didn't.

“I'm going crazy,” she admitted to the bathroom, for she couldn't look stop looking for the shadow. It might flicker again, and next time, she needed to see it. If it came back, she needed to know what to call it.

She finished up fast. She turned off the water. It slowed, dribbled, dripped, and then stopped.

Dahlia's towel was moist with the hot fog that filled the washroom and spilled out past the bed frame and the AC unit. It was scarcely dry enough to serve its purpose, but when she was as water-free as she was going to get, she used it to turban up her hair.

Underwear, socks, and a tank top.

She wore nothing else yet, as she glowered around the room. She was calmer now. Without the water running white noise, without being naked, without being penned up in that tiny pink room … things felt quieter, and she felt stronger.

“This was stupid,” she concluded.

She refused to think about the blind horror, the trigger-light sense of hysteria. There was more to it than that. She didn't want to wonder why she'd been so certain, so bet-your-life positive that there was someone in the bathroom with her, waiting to do her some terrible harm.

What kind of harm? She didn't know. And why bother imagining it? Don't borrow trouble, that's what her dad would've suggested. Nobody was waiting to ax-murder her, strangle her, beat her to death, or drag her to hell.

Goosebumps reminded her that she had fleece pajamas waiting to be worn, so she added those to her attire, pulled on a pair of slippers from her bag, and felt more human. Less vulnerable.

Still, she jumped out of her skin when Gabe knocked on the door.

“Hey, Dahlia? You okay in there?”

“
YesIamokay,
” she said, entirely too fast. “I'm almost finished. I'll be back downstairs in a second.”

“All right. We just … we were starting to wonder. We could hear you, downstairs—were you moving furniture around?”

“Yes. There was a rat. I freaked out, sorry.”

“Rats?” His voice came through the door with a high-pitched note of dismay.

She shoved the end table away. It scraped and scooted loudly, and the ordinary sound helped bolster her bullshit. She turned the knob and opened the door far enough to display her bathed and unharmed condition. “Rat. Singular. Just the one, so far. I didn't mean to worry anyone.”

“Naw, it's cool. God, Dahl … how hot do you take your showers?”

She looked back and saw steam congealing on the windows; small droplets of water were starting to slide and streak. Her hands were lobster pink, and the rest of her probably was, too. “Hot enough to boil pasta. The plumbing here may be old, but I give it my seal of approval. So, did you guys leave me any bourbon, or what?”

He smiled at her, looking relieved for no good reason whatsoever. Nothing had tried to jump
him
in the bathtub. (Nothing had tried to jump her, either. It was all in her head. All in the house. All in someplace, or another.)

“Half the bottle's got your name on it.”

“There's that much left? So I take it your father hasn't reappeared.”

She shouldn't have said that. His grin faded. “Not yet, but I figure he won't be back before midnight.”

“Yeah, you're right. That's fine, though. With him out of the way, you can take the attic, if you want. Leave him a note, and let him sleep alone someplace where he can snore his head off and not keep anyone awake.”

“But you said rats … and now you've
seen
a rat…”

“Pretend they're squirrels with naked tails. Or take down that door in the hallway, and see what's behind it. All I'm saying is, your dad will come back when he comes back, and you might as well be asleep by then—someplace where he isn't likely to bother you. Settle in, get comfortable. Don't worry about him, or me either.” She shook her head, and the towel unspooled into her hands. “I'm going to comb out my hair, pop a couple of allergy pills, and head downstairs to work on that bottle.”

“Yes ma'am.” He gave her weak smile and disappeared down the hall. His feet were heavy on the stairs, pausing at the landing, then stomping down the rest of the way to rejoin Brad.

Dahlia let out a long, hard sigh, and went to go find a comb.

She settled for a plastic hair pick dredged from the bottom of her messenger bag, and tackled her unconditioned mane as she strolled downstairs. The guys were talking quietly. She heard the tone of the conversation before she could make out any words. They weren't whispering, but there was an undercurrent of secrecy to it. She waffled back and forth between sneaking up on them to listen in, and announcing herself like a civilized person—but the blue plastic pick slipped from her hands and clattered down the steps, making the decision for her.

“Dahlia?” Gabe called.

“Who else?” she said back. She hoped it came out light and friendly, and not as strained as it felt. “Someone pour me up another slug, would you?”

“Brad can do it. I'm not old enough to serve alcohol.”

“Very funny.” She thanked Brad, who handed over the same plastic cup she'd had before, now refreshed. “And if you two want any more, you'd better pour it now. I'm turning in, and I'm taking the bottle with me.”

“Already?”

“It's not that late, but I'm old and tired. Tomorrow will be another long, hard day, so you might want to think about doing likewise. Find someplace comfy and make yourselves at home.”

“We already have,” Brad insisted. He did in fact look comfy, arms and legs cushioned by the sleeping bags and backpacks.

“Fine, then. Stay put, and when Bobby gets back he'll yank his stuff out from under your ass, trip over you, and generally make you wish you'd gotten a hotel for the night.”

Everyone agreed she had a point, so with a final round of Maker's they went their separate ways—Brad to the bedroom nearest the hall bath, and Gabe to the attic. Whether or not he'd stay there, Dahlia didn't know; but he wanted to give it a try, rats and bats and all. There was still something of a little-kid-adventurer in him, and she loved that. She hoped he'd be safe and happy, and sleep well despite the bugs and the threat of rodents.

Or anything else.

When she got back to “her” room, she made a request of the house while she unwrapped her sleeping bag and set up her bedding. “Look out for him, okay? If there's any good spirit left in this place, and I believe there
must
be, then I'm asking you: Watch over him, and keep him safe.”

She didn't do much praying, and wasn't sure there was any God on the other side of the ceiling who might be listening, but she believed in ghosts, both good and bad. Besides, the house was listening. She believed that with something steadier than her heart.

By the time she killed the lights and fell into bed, she'd almost forgotten about the photo album. She remembered it just in time to wish she'd opened it before she fell asleep.

 

6

D
AHLIA AWOKE AROUND
one in the morning.

She squeezed her phone's side buttons to light it up, then let it go again, considering a tap of the flashlight app. The master bedroom was utterly dark; not even the moon flared in through the windows, and the soft patter of rain smacking on the glass told her why. Groggily, she recalled her earlier terror in the bathroom, but she didn't feel anything like that now. She didn't think she'd heard anyone or anything moving in her room, rodent or otherwise. She couldn't figure out what had disturbed her.

She wriggled out of her sleeping bag and went in sock-soft feet to the door. She hadn't braced it before bed, and the end table was still where she'd pushed it when she'd greeted Gabe. She poked her head out into the hall and realized that there was a little light downstairs. The foyer's chandelier, probably—not the big pendant in the main living area, or else she'd have seen the glow peeking around the door.

Voices drifted up, along with the faint illumination from a floor away.

A door closed, loud as a gunshot.

No, not really. Dahlia wasn't sure why she thought of it that way, or why it made her jump. She knew the voices: Gabe and Bobby. Bobby's surprised her. The bars didn't close until 3:00, so he really had his big-boy pants on tonight. He'd probably expect some praise for this admirable level of responsibility, come morning.