It was the first time Mark had seen her since he'd come back, and he felt the same rush of cold fear he'd experienced before. This was outside, in the sunlight and open air, with his father hard at work between them, but he felt the same way he had years ago, alone in the dark hallway.
Scared.
His father put down a pallet, reached into his back pocket, and grabbed a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He noticed Mark standing there and motioned him over. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up. Why don't you give me a hand here.
My back's killing me."
Mark nodded, moved forward. His attention was still on the girl in the doorway.
Your father does it.
He looked away from her, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, he and his father each taking one end of the remaining pallets and stacking them on the ground, but he kept seeing her out of the corner of his eye, kept seeing her dirty shift flip up, and he wondered if the old man saw it too and was just pretending not to.
He makes it hurt.
Finally, they finished. His father wiped the sweat from his forehead once again. "I'm going into town to pick up another load and get your mother. Don't wander too far. I'm going to need your help when I get back."
Mark nodded as his father opened the driver's door of the pickup and climbed in. The engine rattled to life, and Mark stood there as the truck bounced up the slight slope to the drive.
He turned back toward the chicken coop.
The girl was still in the doorway, but now she was unmoving, staring at him. "Mark," she said, and he remembered that voice, remembered the way she'd said his name, and a chill surfed down his spine.
She moved slowly forward, away from the coop, toward him, and he took an involuntary step backward.
She stopped. And then she was on the dirt, on her hands and knees, shift flipped up, and just as before, she looked slyly over her shoulder. "I still like it best up the ass."
He had no desire to copulate with her in any shape, form, or manner, but he was seriously tempted to kick her as hard as he could. The thought of his boot connecting with her midsection, knocking her over, knocking that smile off her face, hurting her, making her pay for what she'd done, tempted him sorely, but he knew it would not really accomplish anything. She would not really be hurt--whatever she was--and he would only be snowing his hand, revealing his true emotions.
And that, he figured, was probably the most dangerous thing he could do.
So he remained in place, staring impassively at the girl, and she laughed obscenely, a dirty nasty sound that was at once seductive and derisive, dismissal and promise.
She thrust her buttocks out at him, and he turned away, began walking back toward the House, and the wild sound of her obscene laughter followed him all the way.
He was waiting for his parents in the kitchen when they returned.
Both his mother and father walked in, each of them carrying a sack of groceries.
He took a deep breath. "Mom. Dad. We need to talk."
His parents looked at each other, then looked at him.
It was his father who spoke. "What about, son?"
"About the House."
"I still have those pallets to unload. I thought you could help me--"
"About the girl."
Again, his parents looked at each other.
"Sit down," Mark said, motioning toward the seats he'd pulled out for them at the kitchen table.
They talked.
He did not press his father on the girl, but he described what had happened to him in the hallway, and made it clear that that was why he'd wanted to get out of the House, to run away. And that was exactly what she wanted, he explained. She wanted to weaken the House, wanted to break apart their family, wanted to get them out.
"But I'm not going to let her," he said. "I love you. I love you both."
"I love you, too," his mother said.
His father nodded, put a hand on his arm.
Mark started crying, and tears obscured his vision, and he closed his eyes and rubbed them, and when he opened them again he was alone in the kitchen. The windows had remained, but there was no porch outside, no chicken coops, only a white blanket of fog, and he understood that he had returned.
He felt warmth on the back of his neck, and he jumped up and turned around, but it was Kristen, standing there, smiling at him.
"You did good," Kristen said. "You did fine."
He smiled wryly. "Is everything resolved?"
"Do you still resent them?"
"No."
"Then I guess so." She hugged him, and he felt warm sunlight, but he thought he could hear, from somewhere in the whiteness outside, an echo of that wild, obscene laugh, and he was not sure that it was entirely in his head.
Kristen pulled back, looked at him.
"Only one more thing," she said.
He faced her. "What's that?"
"You have to find the bitch," she said. "And kill her."
Daniel Daniel followedDoneen out of the house into the rain.
There were no barriers keeping him from leaving the building, and once outside he could feel the chill, feel the wind, feel the water against his skin. The air even smelted like his street during a rainstorm, and it was these tactile sensations more than anything else that killed any idea he might have had that this was not really his house, that none of this was really happening.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"To see someone."
"Who?"
"I told you: you're going to have to trust me."
"And you'll leave Tony and Margot alone?"
"That's the deal."
He followed the girl through the small yard, through the gate, to the sidewalk. There was a gang of young toughs leaning against the wall, huddling together in the rain, too cool to use umbrellas but not too cool to wear heavy jackets. They seemed to be waiting for someone.
Daniel thought of Margot and Tony inside the house and wanted to tell these hoods to hit the road, find someplace else to hang out, but he knew they would not be able to hear him.
ThenDoneen skipped ahead, turned left on the sidewalk, stepped up to the gang of youths, and to Daniel's surprise, started talking to them. They gathered around her in a semicircle, leaning down to listen.
They could hear her!
The tallest one straightened, turned toward him, and Daniel's heart skipped a beat as he saw wild purple eyes beneath unnatural, impossibly thick hair. The creature smiled, and his overlarge mouth was filled with tiny sharpened teeth.
She'd tricked him, he realized. She'd set him up.
He turned and tried to run back toward the house, but was stopped halfway down the walk by another invisible barrier that split open his nose and lip and knocked him flat on the ground.
"Kill him!"Doneen yelled from the sidewalk. "Kill him!"
He was too stunned to even lurch back to his feet before the gang surrounded him. They were from the Other Side, he knew. He saw strange hair and strange faces and unbelievable colors in their eyes. He lashed out, tried to kick the closest one, but the creature avoided him easily, and then they were attacking him.
He was kicked and punched and clawed, but he was too busy trying to protect his face and stomach to clearly see what was going on.
Then he was picked up, several strong arms lifting him into the air, and they started biting him.
He screamed as fangs tore into his forearm, as razor teeth ripped the flesh of his cheeks. The pain was unbearable, unbelievable, and an artery in his leg started gushing as sharp teeth chewed through his thigh.