Page 9 of Follow Her Down
“I hope it’s you, fucker,” I say.“Either way, I promise you’ll see me coming.”
I finish my cigarette and grind it out under my boot.Time to go.I have preparations to make, a house to settle into, ghosts to befriend, a basement to open, and my first shift on the job later today.
When I pull into my driveway, I find that the house looks different in full daylight, less menacing but more decrepit.Paint peels from the siding like dead skin, and the overgrown yard swallows the stone path.It should look abandoned, forgotten.Instead, it looks alert, as if it’s been waiting for my return.
Inside, the air has changed.Warmer now, with currents that shouldn’t exist in a sealed house, especially since I didn’t turn on the heat.I move through the rooms slowly, listening to the walls settle around me.
Upstairs, I check on the footprints.Most are still there, perfect crimson marks, but one near the center of the ceiling has smeared, as if someone dragged a finger through it while I was gone.I know I didn’t touch it.I can’t reach that high.
“Making changes to the decor?”I ask.
Only silence answers, but it’s a listening kind of quiet.
I unpack a few more things from my duffel bag, and from a hidden pocket, I remove a framed black-and-white photograph ofhimwith his eyes cut out and place the photo on the floor, angled so it’s the first thing I’ll see when I wake.A reminder of my ruin.A promise of my metamorphosis.
As I finish unpacking, the room grows even warmer.The heating vent in the middle of the floor rattles slightly, then it goes still.
I approach it, kneeling to examine the rusted metal grate.No air should be coming out, but when I place my hand near the vent, warm air caresses my skin.Warm, damp air, like someone’s breath.It smells of earth and something metallic.Something like blood.
I press my ear to the vent.For a moment, there’s nothing.Then, very faintly, I hear it, like a rhythmic scratching.Like fingernails or claws on metal.
“It’s you,” I whisper.“Hello down there.”
The scratching stops.The warm air continues to flow, and I wait, perfectly still, listening so intently that I can hear my own heartbeat.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it, a single word floats up from the darkness:
“Penny.”
My real name, the name of the person I was before, in a voice like stone grinding against stone.
How does it know that?I smile, pressing my palm flat against the vent.
“Yes.Where are you?”I ask.“Should I come find you?Or will you come to me like you did last night?”
The warm breath against my hand intensifies, becoming almost hot.The metal grate vibrates under my touch.Then, with a grinding sound, it begins to loosen, screws turning themselves counterclockwise, metal pulling away from wood.
I sit back, watching as the vent cover works itself free and scoots over the floor.The rectangular opening gapes like a wound in the floor.There’s darkness beyond, but it’s not complete.Something moves in there, shifting shadows that suggest a form without revealing it.
“Soon,” comes the voice again, a little clearer now.
A man’s voice.Or something trying to sound like one.
“Soon,” I agree, though I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.
The darkness in the vent seems to pulse, expanding slightly beyond the opening, reaching tendrils of shadow toward me.I don’t move away.I let one touch my cheek, and it’s cold but solid, like smoke given weight.
Then it retreats, slithering back into the floor.The vent cover scrapes back into place before reattaching itself, screws turning until they’re tight.
Normal.Everything normal again.
Except for the smell that lingers—earth, blood, and now something else.Something that reminds me of candle wax and burned hair.
I stand, brushing dust from my knees.
“What a charmer you are,” I say.“But what if you scare me so much that I run away?”
I wouldn’t.I’m not going anywhere until I’ve destroyedhim.Not even if this house is haunted by something that knows my real name.
