Page 112 of The Staircase in the Woods

His belt was undone.

From the other side of the room, a rattle-and-clink of bottles. There was a low wooden cabinet there. The fridge was upstairs, but down here, that IKEA-level cabinet had in it a bunch of bottles of liquor. Mostly cheap, nasty stuff: Goldschläger and Yukon Jack and Jäger, maybe some schnapps, stuff Nick loved and that all of the rest of them hated but drank anyway—and usually ended up throwing up. (Even now the memory of the taste of them was so visceral, Owen could taste the sour-sweet bile at the back of his throat.)

Owen turned his head—which took what honestly felt like a Herculean effort, like the whole roomsmearedas he looked that way—and expected to see Hamish, or Lore, or Matty there. Maybe even himself. (And there, a new question:Am I in here somewhere? Some teenage version of me, an Old Timer penknife in his hand, his arms bleeding from the cuts, his feelings hurt from his father’s vigorous disdain?) But it wasn’t any of them.

It was Nick’s father.

The man stood there, shoulders sagged, a troubled look on his face. He had a polo shirt on, with a tropical print. No pants, just underwear, and he was tugging on the elastic of them, pulling them up tighter as he stood, fetching a bottle of what looked like peach schnapps. Jacquin’s brand, with the squared-off bottle.

He looked to his son, asked, “You want some, kiddo?” Pause. “You know, if it hurts, this helps.”

Nick just stayed in that chair, staring at his knees.Throughthem. Through his body, through the floor, to some great emptiness beyond them all.

He shook his head in a small, barely perceptible way.

“If you’re sure,” Nick’s father said, then spun the cap off with his thumb and took a swig of it. He headed toward the staircase, then shot a look at Owen—

Rightat Owen.

He winked.

Then headed upstairs and was gone.

Owen turned to look back toward Nick—

And Nick from Back When was here. Directly in front of him. Damn near nose to nose. Still had that snot oozing. Still had tears brimming at the bottom lids of his eyes. “You never noticed,” he said, his voice a raw, chewed-up sound.Like night bugs. Like cicadas. “And it kept happening. The things he did to me. But it didn’t break me, Zuikas. Not till I came here.”

And then Nick was gone. But the imprint of him remained, like a feeling in the air, a strange pocket of disturbed space. It shimmered like a cloud of flies.

Again, his gorge rose. Owen wanted to vomit. The taste of that peach schnapps crawled up the back of his tongue like a wet slug.

He pivoted back to the door from whence he came, shoving it open and stumbling into a filthy guest room piled with rags and mess, smelling of a gas leak—he gagged, not even making it to the bed before he threw up what he had eaten from the pantry. Everything swam around him.

Sweat streamed off his skull as his consciousness bled out—veins of shadow closing in like the black mold from the Black Mold Bedroom.

He cried out in the agony of both pain and the revelation of how much pain was here in this place and in the world beyond. And in all that, he thought of Nick. Poor Nick. Nick in that basement. Nick with his father.

64

Nailbiter Neverborn

Owen staggered through the house, room to room, barely looking, moving forward, always forward, even as his mind looped and looped—

Thoughts like carousel horses, round and round, the calliope playing.

Nick was in pain and you missed it. Nick was in pain and you missed it. Nick was in pain and you missed it.

Always up your own ass, Owen. Always about you you you YOU YOU, never about them. Selfish selfish, preening little ghost-boy narcissist, pale skin like a grub, sad body like a beach-dead jellyfish, selfish selfish, a lamprey leech eating eating eating. Parasite. Tick. Jealous of Matty. Hungry for Lore.

Doing nothing to earn their friendship.

Doing nothing for their love.

Wanting but not giving, weak little fucking shit, wish you were never born, wish you were never born, never born, NEVERBORN.

Can’t do shit can’t make shit won’t accomplish shit too cowardly to even kill yourself, instead you do it bit by bit, chewing this nail, biting that lip, grinding your teeth down to powder, picking a scab, plucking a hair, and the cuts, the little cuts, the Old Timer cuts, gentle cuts so that none can see, can’t even be smart enough so you cut yourself to get some fucking attention for once, I mean, wow, what the fuck, Owen. You could’ve killed yourself, but you didn’t. You could’ve shown others yourlittle injuries, but you didn’t. Just more Owen, classic Owen, basic bitch Owen, doing the minimum and getting nothing out of it. Coward. Fool. Fuck up.

Nick was in pain and you missed it.

---