Page 10 of My Girl
My eyes catch on a boulder. The gray stone is about waist high with a brown, almost black stain on top of it. The executioner’s block.
I don’t know much about the first family—the Galloways—who lived here, but I know that theyalsotragically died in a murder-suicide. Images of the mother fill my mind—bent over the boulder, the father with a hatchet in his hand, her decapitated head rolling over the desert sand.
I zoom in on the camera app, focusing on the brown-black stain on the stone. It’s probably not blood, but there’s something exciting about knowing that itcouldbe the only evidence left of the Galloway mother, an evilness still lingering in this place…
Chills run down my back. Something is here. A presence watching me.
I swing around, using the phone’s light to see.
The peeling paint. The boulder. The back door.
I’m alone.
I pause the recording and turn off the light, scowling at myself for being so nervous. It’s just an old house and me. There’s nothing to worry about.
Still, Ned’s reference to the architect’s warning surfaces in my brain. She was right; therearebad vibes around this place, an urge that sinks into your skin and festers inside, burrowing down until there’s no way to dig it out.
I should leave.
But not yet.
I slip back inside and take a deep breath. It’s not like it’s any safer inside of the house, but at least I’m not exposed.
A door to the side of the kitchen catches my eye. Scratched blond-colored wood, as if someone struggled to move something through the doorway.
I open it.
Stairs lead down to a pitch-black basement.
A man’s sniffle—almost like a broken horn—echoes through the air.
My heart races. There’ssomeonedown there.
But I have the advantage: they don’t know I’m here.
It’s probably someone sleeping. Someone without a home. Someone who needs shelter. Nothing to worry about.
But I can’t let it go. Ihaveto see. The ghosts of the past—ofmypast—are calling me, dragging me down to the depths of the house. I hit the record button on my phone, though I leave the flashlight off this time; I don’t want the person to see me. I cross my fingers that with enough editing, I can get a decent image.
My feet descend those stairs at a snail’s pace.
Consequences,my mother’s voice repeats.Your choices have consequences.
The stairs creak. I stiffen in place.
“Is someone there?” a man croaks. “Please! Help us!”
Help withwhat?
Outside, the faint chirp of desert insects dissipates, replaced by a panting breath. A person filled with fear. And the languid, easy breathing of another that I can just make out.
What are they doing down there?
The rhythmic beat of skin against skin begins. A moan. A heavy object slung into another. More skin beating together like a tarp flapping in the wind.
Are they having sex?
I squint my eyes. I can’t see anything. My eyes haven’t adjusted yet. The more I listen, the more positive I am that it has to be people having sex, or at the very least, a man masturbating.
