Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 9

Paige was at the sink when Grant emerged.

He walked over and grabbed a towel off the door to the Sub-Zero fridge.

“You lose power out here too?” Grant asked.

“Yeah. Happens occasionally. Old house, comes with the territory I guess.”

“You should get that checked. You’d be surprised how many old houses in the city burn down every month because the wiring is for shit.”

The left sink brimmed with dishes that had just begun to smell.

They fell into a familiar pattern—Paige washing, Grant drying.

Steam peeled off the surface of the murky dishwater and fogged the window behind the sink.

It felt good to have his hands doing something, and the strangeness he’d encountered in the bathroom was fading away like the memory of a dream.

As his sister handed him a plate, he said, “Can I be honest with you?”

“I hope so.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“You should have that put on a T-shirt.”

“You don’t look well, Paige.”

“Ouch.” She handed him the cast iron skillet. “Oil this for me.”

Grant grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the windowsill and sprinkled a few drops across the surface. Then he tore off a paper towel and began to massage it into the iron.

“I swear I didn’t come over to fix things, but I can’t ignore it either.”

Paige let a plate slide into the dishwater and turned to him.

“And here I was just beginning to think that maybe this was the start of something different. Good job. You really took my guard down.”

“You look terrible, Paige. You’re pale, thin, weak. You can barely walk.”

“I’m tired.”

“Are you eating?”

“Did you just see me eat?”

“Then what’s going on?”

Paige braced herself against the counter and stared at the wall. Grant recognized that stony expression. Total system failure. Whenever Paige felt cornered, she went on lockdown, and there was no getting back in.

The chime of the doorbell cut through the jazz, snapping Paige back into the moment.

She went over to the Bose, muted the speakers, and headed up the hallway into the foyer.

Grant hung back.

A client dropping by?

Paige said, “Can I help you?”

A man’s voice crackled over the intercom. “I’m looking for Grant Moreton.”

“Just a minute.”

Paige turned and stared down the corridor. Even in the lowlight, he could see the rage in her eyes.

“Someone’s here for you,” she said.

He started down the hall.

“How would anyone know you’re here?”

Grant passed the staircase and moved into the foyer.

“No idea.”

Keep digging that grave.

“Is this another cop?” she asked.

“Of course not.”

Grant slid the chains out of their guards and unlocked the multiple deadbolts.

“Don’t just open it for him,” Paige said, but he was already turning the doorknob.

Don McFee stood on the front porch, rain pouring behind him, pooling in the street, in the small square of grass that constituted the front yard.

The man’s face was half-shadowed under the hood of his Barbour coat, the jacket’s oiled surface beaded with rainwater.

“This is a terrible idea,” Don muttered under his breath as Grant let him in.

Paige said, “Who’s this?”

“Don McFee,” Don said, extending his hand. “You must be Paige.”

“What’s going on, Grant?”

Grant closed the door after them.

“Don is a friend of mine.”

Paige glared at Don.

His coat dripped on the hardwood floor.

“You better be here to take Grant home.”

Don looked at Grant and then at Paige. His head was shaved. Kind but intense eyes peered out from behind a pair of frameless lenses. He wore a calming presence that Grant could never reduce to its components or attribute to any particular quality. The guy just oozed Zen.

Don said, “I wonder if I might be of some help to you first?”

“Excuse me?”

Don looked her up and down. “I’ve been a substance abuse counselor for sixteen years.”

“Oh my God.”

“Please just hear me—”

“And what? Grant called you and told you I was using?” She looked at Grant. “Is that what you did? While you were in the bathroom?”

“Are you using, Paige?” Don asked.

“Get the fuck out of my house both of you.”

Grant said, “Paige, just talk to—”

She lunged forward, and with both hands, shoved Grant back against the door.

“I can’t believe I trusted you.”

“He can help. He’s helped me.”

“Did you hear me ask for help?”

“Paige—”

“Did you?”

“Your brother’s concerned,” Don said. “And I have to agree with him. You don’t look well.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Nobody’s leaving,” Grant said.

Paige turned away from them and moved quickly into the living room, stopping at an end table that rested against the couch.

She lifted a cordless phone off its base.

“Really want to give the cops your address?” Grant said.

Paige held the phone against her chest and shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, her body language had relaxed, as if some of the fight was flooding out of her.

She looked at Grant. “I appreciate your concern, okay? But there is nothing wrong with me, and I am asking both of you to please leave.”

Don stepped in. “Paige, I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re underweight, your complexion is unhealthy, and your hair is thin. My job isn’t to scare you, but your body can’t handle much more than it’s already been put through.”

“I’ve been clean for three years.”

Don moved slowly into the living room. “All the more reason to find out what’s going on. Wouldn’t you at least agree that your physical appearance is a cause for alarm?”

Paige stared at the floor, and for the first time since walking into this house, Grant sensed a change in her. It didn’t hold the power of an outright admission, but at least she wasn’t swinging back, trying to tear his throat out.

“How do you feel right in this moment, Paige?” Don asked.

She collapsed onto the couch. Let out a long sigh.

“Honestly? I’m tired,” she said. “I’m weak all the time.” Grant thought he registered emotion—coiled and charged—bleeding into her voice. “Even when I was strung out it never felt this bad.”

Grant hung back while Don continued toward her with the greatest care—as if approaching a wounded animal. Don unzipped his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He settled down on the couch beside Paige.

“Have you been to see a doctor?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Are you afraid to go?”

Paige had been staring at her hands. Now she looked up at the ceiling.

“No.”

“Don’t you think it would help you to find out what the problem is?”

“It doesn’t matter. A doctor’s not what I need.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sick the way you think I am.”

Grant exchanged a glance with Don, and then said, “Paige, if you say you’re clean then I believe you.”

“I’m not talking about drugs.”

“Then I’m lost,” Don said. “What’s making you sick?”

She shook her head.

When it was clear she wasn’t going to answer, Don said, “Paige, how about we just try the hospital? You don’t have to tell them anything. Just let them examine you. Take your vitals.”

Paige sighed. “I can’t.”

“You can. I’m parked right around the block. All you have to do is stand up and walk out that front door. Grant and I will do the rest.”

Paige finally looked up, tears shining in the firelight.

Her eyes darted to the door. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know it’s diff—”

“You don’t know. You have no idea.”

“Then tell us,” Grant said.

Her eyes flicked from Don to Grant and back. “I can’t leave the house.”

“Why?”

“I get sick if I try.”

“You look pretty sick right now.”

“This is nothing compared to what happens if I go out that door.”

“Have you ever had a panic attack, Paige?”

“Yes. That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Paige.” Don touched her shoulder. “There is no judgment in this room.”

“I’m not worried about you judging me. I’m worried about you committing me.”

Grant said, “Whatever it is, I already believe you.”

She looked at Grant. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“Something’s keeping me here.”

“Physically keeping you from leaving?” Grant asked.

She went silent, but her eyes were pleading, desperate. Grant came over and knelt on the floor beside her.

He said quietly, “Paige, is there something you can’t tell us?”

Those words ripped her apart.

She leaned over into the cushion, and everything seemed to release at once in a rush of tears.

Grant pushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“What is it, Paigy?” he whispered. “What’s doing this to you? Is it a client?”

She shook her head. “It’s in my bedroom upstairs. Under the bed.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know. Something that shouldn’t be.”

Grant noted a sickening chill plunge down his spine, prompted by a realization he’d been fighting against all his life: his sister was crazy.

He glanced down at the mattress poking out from underneath the couch.

“You’ve been sleeping down here, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re afraid to go upstairs.”

She nodded into the couch.

Grant looked up at his friend.

Don said, “Paige, I just want to make sure I understand exactly what you’re saying. Something under your bed is keeping you from leaving the house.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know what it is?”

She shook her head.

“Are you talking about a flesh-and-blood person?” Grant asked.

“I told you. I don’t know.”

Don said, “Sometimes, we sink down to these bad places in our lives and we lose the ability to distinguish between what’s real and what’s—”

“I know how fucked-up this sounds, okay?”

“Do you want my help, Paige?”

“That’s the only reason you’re still in my house.”

Don said, “Then come with me.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs.”

“No.”

“We’re going to walk into your bedroom—”

“I can’t—”

“—and I’m going to show you there’s nothing in there that has an ounce of power over you. Then we’re going to do whatever it takes to get you better.”

Paige sat up. She was trembling. “You don’t understand—we can’t go in there together.”

“Then I’ll go by myself.”

Paige struggled to her feet. She said, “You don’t have my permission to go upstairs,” but the edge in her voice was ebbing.

Don said, “I fully respect how real this feels to you. But I’m going to go up there, have a look, come back down, and tell you that everything’s okay. That there’s nothing in your room. That, as real as this may feel, it’s in your mind.”

All the fight was leaving her.

She looked scattered and helpless.

Don crossed the living room, which had fallen into near-darkness now that the fire was dying.

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase.

“Which room, Paige?”

“Please don’t.”

“Which room?”

“Turn right at the top of the stairs, round the corner, and go down to the end of the hall. My bedroom is the door at the end.”

“Grant, would you come with me?”

Grant followed Don.

The staircase lifted out of the foyer into darkness.

“She’s cracked,” Grant whispered as they climbed.

Each step creaked like the hull of an old ship.

“She doesn’t look well, and this paranoid delusion about something keeping her in the house is disturbing.”

“So what do I do?”

“Consider an involuntary commitment.”

“Seriously?”

“I can help you with the paperwork.”

“Great. Maybe she can room with Dad.”

The meager light that warmed the foyer fell away behind them.

They climbed the last few steps into complete darkness and stopped, waiting for their eyes to adjust.

Grant looked over to where Don stood, but could make out nothing of his shape.

“Let’s find a light switch,” Don said.

Grant heard him shuffle over to the wall and begin feeling his way along it. Grant followed suit, groping across wallpaper but his fingers only grazed a few picture frames. He continued down the hall and then around a corner, both hands guiding him along like a caver without a light. At last, he barked his shin against the leg of a table, rattling its contents.

“You okay?” Don called from the other side.

“Yeah.”

Grant’s fingers moved across the surface of the table until they came to what felt like the base of a lamp.

He followed it up, found the switch.

Weak yellow light filled the hallway, barely enough to reach the far end.

The ceiling was high and the walls so close together it almost looked like an optical illusion. Grant was struck with a fleeting imbalance, like standing in a funhouse, the proportions all wrong.

The carpeting was thick, burgundy, and old.

The wallpaper peeled in places, the Plaster of Paris underneath far more appealing than the maudlin floral print. Along the opposite wall, a cast-iron radiator belched out waves of heat that did little against the chill. Grant had fumbled down the hallway farther than he realized. The bedroom door loomed straight ahead, its thick frame detailed with scrollwork that matched the wainscoting.

It sounded like Paige had begun to cry down on the first floor.

Johnny Cash punctuated the moment with a muffled rendition of “Ring of Fire.”

Grant’s heart jolted.

He turned to find Don staring down at the wailing cell phone in his hand.

“It’s just Rachel,” Don said.

“I think Paige is crying. I’m going to head back down.”

“Sounds good. Let me deal with this call, and then I’ll handle things up here.”

Grant walked quickly back toward the staircase, secretly glad to be leaving that drafty hallway.