Page 3 of Follow Her Down
She doesn’t say, “Enjoy your new home.”Even she can’t manage that lie.
Then she’s gone, fleeing through the rain to her car without looking back.I watch from the window as her taillights disappear down the driveway, swallowed by the storm and the trees.
Alone now, I listen to the house, the rain on the roof, the wind moaning through cracks in the windows, the subtle shifting of old joints.And beneath it all, something else.A waiting sound.
“It’s just you and me now,” I say to the emptiness.
I explore slowly, methodically, the way I do everything.Everything is outdated, and the ceilings all have water stains, brown blooms spreading like cancer.
I stop in front of the basement door next to the laundry area.It’s been nailed shut, boards crisscrossed over its surface like a warning.Or a cage.The wood around the nails is splintered, as if someone tried to tear them out.
I press my ear against the door, but I hear nothing at first.Then a soft scratching sound, like fingernails against wood.Or claws.
The hallway light flickers overhead, casting shadows.I check the thermostat mounted on the wall nearby.It’s set to seventy degrees, but the temperature display reads forty-two.Cold for October, even with the storm.
Something brushes against my ear, a whisper of air, too deliberate to be a draft.I spin around.
Nothing.No one.Just the empty hallway stretching back to the foyer.
Then I hear it.A footstep from below in the basement.One heavy tread, followed by another.Then silence.
I back away from the basement door, one step at a time, keeping my eyes on it.The boards seem to bulge outward, though that must be a trick of the light.My back hits the opposite wall.I wait, my breath held.
Nothing moves.Nothing breaks through.
Slowly, my lips curve into a smile.
It’s getting dark outside, the storm bringing night early.I have a few supplies in my car, like an air mattress, a duffel stuffed with clothes, some groceries.I didn’t hire movers because I sold almost everything before I left Kansas City, so now all I have is myself, this house, and a plan.
I make trip after trip in the rain, carrying things inside.The storm shows no sign of letting up, lightning still cutting jagged wounds in the sky.
By the time I’ve set up the air mattress in the main bedroom and eaten a sandwich, it’s fully night.I don’t bother turning on lights as I move through the house.Darkness and I are old friends.
I’m not healing.I’m not growing.I’m hunting, and I need the dark to see what I’m after.
I stand at the window, watching rain streak down the glass.In the distance, through gaps in the trees, I can see the lights of Wichita.Somewhere down there,heis going about his evening.Eating dinner, perhaps.Watching television.Sleeping peacefully in his bed.
Not for much longer.
Thunder cracks, so close it rattles the windows.For an instant, lightning illuminates the yard—and a figure standing at the edge of the trees.Tall, still…and watching the house.Watching me.
When the next flash comes, there’s nothing there.
I smile again, wider this time.“Come in out of the rain,” I whisper against the glass.“I don’t bite.”
Later, I lie on the air mattress, listening to the storm rage outside and the house creak around me.Sleep feels far away, so my thoughts drift tohim.How he’ll look when he sees me again.If he’ll even recognize me.I’m not the same woman he destroyed.I’ve evolved into something new.Something that can hurt him back.
The ceiling above me darkens, a shadow spreading like ink across the peeling paint.It moves wrong, not following the path of tree branches outside the window, not cast by anything I can see.It pools directly above me, thickening until it seems solid.
I don’t move.I don’t breathe.
“I know you’re watching,” I whisper into the darkness.
The house creaks in reply, a long, drawn-out groan of settling wood.Or an acknowledgment.
From downstairs comes a sound—the basement door rattling in its frame.Just once.Hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.Then silence.
I close my eyes and smile into the darkness.“Home sweet home.”
