My body quakes.
The wood rattles.
Waking Shane is a possibility, but at this moment, I don’t care.
Minutes or hours pass by, I can’t tell, but the sky outside the window changes shades of blue.
A quick look down at my feet shows my twisted sock and the bloodstain on it staring back at me.
I force myself up onto trembling legs. My knees quake as I take each step to the mirrored cabinet above the sink, but my foot doesn’t hurt. The weakness is caused by other reasons.
Collecting the phone on my way, I tuck it into the big pocket on my front.
My reflection shows a patchy red face and bloodshot eyes with mascara stains around them beyond the flicks of toothpaste on the mirror, courtesy of Shane and his grubby morning routine.
I rub at the mascara and add another stain to my glove that can sit alongside the dried paint.
I splash my face with water, making me look even less presentable as I glimpse at my reflection.
My mouth drops.
My mother stands behind me with as many tears as I have on her pretty face, and her throat gaped open and bleeding. Still, she’s smiling like a crazy person.
I can’t breathe, looking at her.
One tiny breath escapes, and in its place, the smell of death fills me and seeps into the already musty room. Her body slowly turns, revealing my dad standing behind us both with a gaping slit across his stomach.
Air struggles to get free from my lungs, and I feel like his big hands are around my throat. But they hang limply at his side, his broad shoulders slouching. He takes a step, my name in his accent echoing in the room.
I bolt, ripping open the door and proving my theory about the ancient lock.
Shane’s body feels like a brick wall as I collide with him in the kitchen. His arms come up and seal around me, but the safety he once brought isn’t here.
Terror has me trembling as I push him away from me.Loneliness makes me want to reach out to him, but the person I thought he was no longer exists.
“What is it?” he asks, in a voice still heavy with sleep.
My mouth opens to talk, but a jumble of words that make no sense is all that comes out.
His response to them is, “Have you seen my phone?”
My cheeks burn with emotions. I say nothing, letting the hurt and anger show on my face.
“It’s fine. I’ll find it in a sec. Gotta pee.”
“Don’t go in there!” I grip his arm, my fingers bruising against his badly done tribal tattoos with desperation.
He stares down at me, my head low with shame, as the whisper comes out.“My parents are in there.”
Shane always hates it when I say this kind of stuff, but the lack of patience in his tone is insulting. “God, Lancie. Let go. I gotta piss.”
Shaking me off, he continues into the bathroom, widening the door.
He stops, blocking me from seeing around him, and then he rushes back to me and gets too close to my face.
The kitchen table prevents an attempt to step back, and somehow, he moves impossibly closer.
“God, this ghost shit has to stop! I get that last night creeped you out, but there’s no one in there. Certainly not your parents, who’ve been fucking dead for ten years.”
