He went on, “You’re going to sit there quietly and let me handle this.”
Paige dropped her head.
“All right,” she said.
Grant let go of her and started down the steps.
Halfway to the bottom, he heard a shuffle behind him, swung around to see Paige dashing toward the front door.
He went after her.
Paige grabbed the doorknob as he hooked his arm around her waist.
She bucked against him, jutting the back of her head into his face.
His nose and eyes burned and he tasted blood on the back of his tongue.
For a second he stood there dazed, arm encircling her midsection as she tried to wrench herself loose. He bent down, hoisted her up and over his shoulder.
She felt impossibly light.
“Stop!” she screamed, pounding her fists against his back.
Grant carried her down the steps and onto the hexagonal flagstones that comprised the walkway.
With each step, Paige’s thrashing became more violent.
A throb of pain bubbled up behind his eyes, a pressure more intense than the deepest water he’d ever experienced.
Grant stopped, the pain so sudden and vibrant it wiped his focus.
He was completely disoriented, a dull mud unfolding over his brain.
He looked around, standing in the rain with Paige’s now-limp body slung over his shoulder.
Grant took another step forward.
The pressure in his head intensified, like someone turning a crank.
A core of white-hot agony blooming in his gut.
He managed one more step before his knees buckled and hit concrete, Paige’s body thudding to the ground in front of him.
Everything buzzed, the world electrified.
He wanted to crack his head open right there on the flagstone, let the pain spill out and wash away in the rain.
Grant threw up on the stone—a violent, spewing rope of alcoholic bile—and his forehead came to rest on the wet rock. He’d let one of the beat cops tase him as a result of a bet gone wrong—this was worse by a factor of five.
Was this what Don had felt?
A whisper, barely audible, found its way to him through the downpour.
He lifted his head, saw Paige on her side, staring at him through wild, desperate eyes, her face inexplicably thinner, degenerating right in front of him as she convulsed.
“What?” he groaned.
“Get us ... inside.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s gonna kill us.”
Her words cut through the gauze that packed his head and sparked a moment of blinding clarity.
We’re going to die out here.
Grant struggled up, half-standing, hands braced on his knees.
It felt like his brain was peeling away from the walls of his skull.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
No answer.
Grant pushed Paige onto her back and grabbed her wrists.
Her eyes threatening to roll up into her head.
“Push with your feet,” he groaned.
They made it six inches on the first pull, Grant lunging back toward the steps while Paige kicked at the slick stones.
Even less the second.
It went on like this, their progress measured in inches, Grant pausing between each effort to catch his breath and wince through the pain.
The rain added what felt like pounds to her body. He could hear the thin fabric of her pajama bottoms tearing as her legs slid across the concrete.
By the time he reached the first step, their clothes were soaked and hanging like lead drapes.
“Almost there, Paige.”
He dragged her up the steps.
The last pull sent him sprawling back onto the porch, where he lay for a minute, staring up at the light, trying to catch his breath.
“Paige, you okay?”
She coughed and rolled over to face him.
“Better,” she said.
The pain in Grant’s head had relented, but the fog lingered. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d just dragged what looked like a dead body across the front yard in a crowded neighborhood at God knows what time of night. The thought was enough to give him the final shock of adrenaline he needed to throw Paige’s shivering body over his shoulder again and haul her inside.
Grant shut the door behind them and stumbled into the living room.
Fell to his knees, lay Paige on the warm hardwood in front of the fire.
He sprawled across the floor beside her.
They lay shivering in a silence broken only by the crackling logs and the ticking of rain against the windowglass.
In the stillness, Grant noticed the same pressure in his head that he’d felt at the beginning of the evening as he walked up the steps to Paige’s front door—a stuffy tightness, like sitting in the canned atmosphere of a fuselage at cruising altitude. He held his nose and tried to pop his ears but nothing happened.
Paige said, “I wanted so bad to be crazy.”
“I thought you were.”
“I know.”
“When I walked in here tonight it looked like you hadn’t left this house in a long time.”
Grant’s pulse rate was dropping out of the red.
“Not in two weeks.”
“Is that when this started?”
“No, it started a month ago, every day intensifying until I couldn’t even go beyond the front steps. Until I was confined to my house like a prisoner. You went in my room, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Grant.”
“I swear.”
“Then why is it affecting you?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. Don’s really dead?”
“He is.”
“How?”
“He broke the mirror in the guest bathroom and used it to cut his throat. He was a great man, Paige.” Grant could feel the emotion pressing in. “A great friend. Oh God, his wife.” A tidal wave of grief was bearing down, but he pushed it back.
Not the time. Need to think.
Grant shuffled closer to the fire. His cold, drenched clothing still clung to him, but waves of heat were washing over his face.
“I woke up one night,” Paige said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “and it was just there.”
“What was?”
“A presence.”
“In your room?”
“Under the bed. Remember tag? How when you were it you’d sneak up on me while I was hiding? Get real close. Scare the shit out of me.”
“Sure.”
“Whenever you did that, a split second before you grabbed me, I’d get this premonition that you were there. That’s what it feels like everywhere I go in this house.” She was becoming emotional again. “Like something is right behind me all the time. I swear I can almost feel its breath on the back of my neck. I dream about it constantly.”
“You’re certain this isn’t just in your mind?”
“Are you imagining this? Was Don?”
“And you sleep down here now?”
“When I’m able to sleep at all. Whatever it is, it’s made my bedroom home.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“No.”
“And all those leftovers in your fridge?”
“I’ve been living off delivery for two week. I’d have starved to death if I didn’t run a cash business.”
“How often do you try to leave?”
“I test it every day.”
“And the same thing always happens?”
“Yeah. In the beginning, I could make it to the street. Tonight, the pain started the moment I stepped out on the porch.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s worse than that, Grant.”
“This seems pretty bad all by itself.”
“I don’t know what it is, but I know what it wants.”
“What’s that?”
“People. My clients. And the longer I hold out, the sicker I get.”