Revenant

David lay in bed listening to the wind sough through the eaves of their new home. The first storm of winter arrived in the evening, dropping the season’s first snow. A moderate wind had steadily increased to gale force as the snow transformed from swarming fireflies into the scouring blizzard now raging outside.

Annie lay on her side facing the wall, her bottom pressed against his hip, contentedly asleep. She’d gotten a lot accomplished today and was rightfully proud of herself. David was proud of her, too. He’d done most of the heavy lifting, but Annie’s direction gave each movement purpose. He hadn’t done so badly either, for once forcing himself to keep up with the quick and efficient pace she set. Almost everything was unpacked.

By himself, it would probably have taken most of a week. Procrastination, she told everyone, was David’s major fault, a truth he never denied.

Both exhausted, they’d gone to bed early. Annie dropped right off, but the ache in David’s muscles kept him awake. Lying still, he listened to the huge house’s presence. Like a wizened old woman, it creaked and groaned as its wooden skeleton adjusted to the sudden temperature change.

Annie had fallen in love with the place already. David hoped his attitude toward it would improve with time. The closer he examined its structure, the more he realized what he’d gotten into. Major repairs would be required, beginning with the roof. First chance, he’d get to it.

Someone whispered his name.

David froze.

Straining his ears, he heard the wind’s eerie whistling outside. Too distant. The sound had come from inside the house.

Stealthily, he slid from the bed. First checking on Darby and Clifford, he then searched both floors. Everything was locked up tight, without any sign of intrusion. Finally, he returned to bed. Annie hadn’t stirred.

Continuing to listen, he heard only the mounting storm. As he finally began to drift off, David replayed the sound.

He couldn’t place it, but the voice sounded familiar.

#

The chair propping Clifford’s bedroom door open moved an inch and then, as if pulled by an unseen string, quickly slid out of the door path. The light from the hallway faded as the distance between door and jamb narrowed. When the final gap vanished, the latch snicked shut.

The boy opened his eyes.

Like a mutating organism, the night pulsated, blossomed, thrived. A rancid odor permeated the air. Furtive black-on-black movements changed the room into a darkly cryptic puzzle. With deepening distress, Clifford searched the throbbing mystery that surrounded him.

A creaking noise sliced through his awareness. The closet door was opening. He couldn’t see it distinctly. He didn’t have to.

As he watched, long fingers slipped over the top of the door. Spectral light glimmered around the hand that crept into view, and a panicky sob became trapped in his throat.

The door creaked again as the crack widened. A preternatural glow illuminated the space revealed by the gap.

His voice at last came unstuck, and Clifford squealed. The rising pitch shot beyond the range of human frequency. Gasping for breath, he halted jerkily, then gulped great lungsful of poisoned air.

A bright foot stepped into sight. Clifford’s screech split the night.

“Daddy. Help!” Stretched vocal cords left the words almost unrecognizable.

The glowing hand pulled back then the foot disappeared back into the closet.

Light flooded the bedroom.

“Cliff. What’s wrong, baby?”

His mother was on her knees beside the bed. Her arms wrapped around him, and he let himself be pulled close as she rose to her feet carrying him in her arms. He peeked under her armpit at the closet door. It was still partially open.

Clifford pointed. Diaphragm spasming, he had difficulty speaking.

“Closet!”

He heard footsteps. As he peeked out from under his mother’s arm, his father popped into sight. Clifford watched him rifle through the closet before turning back with a puzzled expression.

“What, Cliff? What about the closet?”

Clifford lifted his head but his voice still wavered.

“Something’s in there.”

“No, there’s not. Nothing’s there.”

Watching his father look above him at his mother, he felt her shoulders lift as reply.

They didn’t believe him.

Clifford had changed his mind. He didn’t like this house after all. As he lay still, he let the comforting arms continue to rock him.

What did the one in the closet want? Did it want him? Tomorrow he’d switch bedrooms, he decided, but would he be any safer there? Wrapping his arms tighter around his mother, he shook involuntarily. He didn’t know any of the answers.

But Clifford feared that he’d soon find out.

#

Rapid gibberish gushed from one corner then a putrid balloon of odor burst, tainted air expanding throughout the room. In the darkness, something scuttled toward the bed where the girl slept.

The thing in the night looked down upon her.

As it watched, the smooth blanket slipped beneath her chin, over smallish chest buds, and down to her waist. The bottom of the blanket pooled onto the floor as it uncovered her, slithering over hips to thighs then beyond her knees. Finally, like a newly shed snakeskin, it lay fully upon the floor.

Cold fingers stroked the girl’s soft hair. Unaware, she continued to sleep until long fingernails grazed her temple.

#

At the quick pain, Darby’s eyes fluttered open. As she came awake, the stench in the room filled her nostrils. She heard scurrying sounds and reached to switch on the bedroom lamp.

She felt burning and raised her hand to the side of her head. Touching wetness, she lowered her arm to look. Surprised, she saw a crimson smear on her fingers. Blood?

The closet door was cracked open. Had she left it that way? She remembered the noises.

Scooting off the bed, she took quick steps to the closet and flung back the door so hard that it bounced back from the wall, shuddering. Nothing. But Darby saw a blouse hanging from one shoulder on the wire hanger. She knew she hadn’t left it that way. Had Clifford been in here again?

Closing the door, she walked across the cold floor, pushed back the curtains, and raised the window to let out the foul smell. Crossing her arms across her chest, she shivered in the frigid air as she tried to look outside, but blackness made it appear as if the world ended just past her window. She turned, walked back to her bed, and looked at the blanket on the floor. Had she kicked it off in the throes of a nightmare?

Still shaking, she picked up her robe and belted it over her cotton nightgown.

Lifting her arm, Darby touched the tackiness on the side of her head. Did she also scratch herself while asleep? Evidently so. She examined her fingernails. As usual, they were bitten to the quick, but she noticed one nail that extended beyond the fingertip. Raising it to her mouth, intending to bite off the excess growth, she realized that the coppery taste was her own blood and grimaced in disgust. Wanting to rinse away the offensive taste, Darby turned to go to the bathroom.

Should she wake up her parents?

Why? For making herself bleed? No. But she would talk to them in the morning about making Cliff stay out of her room.

As she walked into the hallway, Darby didn’t hear the faint creak behind her as the closet door unlatched then opened a tiny crack.

Within a low babble, soft laughter trickled out before the door closed again and carefully clicked shut.

#

“Mommy! Daddy!”

David and Annie looked toward the doorway into the living room. Annie dropped the handful of forks she held. Like tiny bells, they resounded as they struck the hardwood floor. Rising quickly, she was directly behind David as they hurried from the kitchen.

Their eyes locked onto the stairway and they tried to make sense of the situation. As if they’d run into an invisible barrier, their forward motion abruptly halted.

Darby was fleeing down the steps, blue cotton gown riding the air, and a white gauzy substance floated in pursuit. It thickened, finding a form. Just before she reached the bottom stair, smokelike arms reached toward her and a laughing face materialized.

Darby stumbled then fell on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

As fast as it had materialized, the fog dissipated, filmy arms and face dissolving. Almost immediately, a cold wind surged into the living room.

Glass shattered as picture frames fell from their mountings. Clifford sat up on the sofa as one of David’s house shoes rose into the air and began to describe unstable loops in a widening circle around the room, rising then falling before rising again.

Loose objects everywhere started to jitter and move. A large ceramic ashtray lifted from the coffee table, seemingly flung itself against the far wall with suicidal force. Magazines flapped their way into the air and like patient vultures began to circulate near the ceiling.

Near the ceiling, the space between every object was filled by an opaque murkiness of some slimy substance that settled lower with every movement.

Annie rushed to the couch and took her traumatized son into her arms. Her action broke the insane room’s hold on David, and he leaned down to help Darby rise from the floor. He saw her wince when she tried to put her weight on her left leg. Probably sprained it, David thought.

“Lean on me,” he yelled above the racket within the room. “Annie, get into the kitchen.”

He didn’t think that exiting the living room would matter much. Whatever force was causing this strangeness could simply follow them wherever they went. But they had to try to get away, and the back door was closest. They’d have to run from her.

Her? That didn’t make sense.

Yes, it did. The laughing face in the gauzy substance had been a female’s. There was something else about that face, he thought, but he couldn’t grasp the meaning of that right now.

“David. Go!” Annie said.

One of Annie’s arms supported Clifford’s back as the other curled beneath his bent knees. The boy’s eyes were clamped shut in an obvious refusal to accept the situation.

She pushed against David and repeated, “Go!”

Slipping an arm around Darby’s waist as she leaned her weight against him for support, David finally began moving toward the kitchen. The wind whipped their clothing, and whirling debris pelted them. Entering the kitchen, he was surprised by the calmness of that room. Behind them, the noise increased in volume and activity. The living room seemed to be tearing itself to shreds.

After stepping around the scattered silverware that she had dropped onto the floor, Annie rushed to the hooks that held their coats. Boots and heavier gear were in the closet beside the door, but David decided against them and pointed toward the back door to outside. They couldn’t afford the time it would take to don coveralls or snowsuits. She might not wait. She might come in here at any moment.

She? She who?

Annie tossed him Darby’s coat. He helped her into it as Annie finished zipping up Clifford’s coat then slid her arms hurriedly into her own. She was already unlatching and tugging on the back door as David struggled into his own coat.

The blast of frigid air was a brutal slap in their faces as wind-driven snow lunged into the house.

Clifford and Annie moved through the open doorway and then, like a magic act, they were gone.

Leaving the door open behind them, David and Darby followed.