Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Bargain

Originally published by Mothership Zeta, October 2015.

Malachai loved his work. He loved wandering among the trappings of enormous wealth and influence, seeing the baubles that humans would excrete to express their status. He especially loved watching those wealthy, influential mortals tremble before the might of his inescapable superiority.

Malachai worked exclusively with those humans who had found themselves at the limit of how much power they could posses. They called him to bend the rules of time and space around their whims, so that they might be even more feared and loved by the other mortals. Their desires were predictable—money, knowledge, talent, authority. These were the kinds of people who hunted down ancient parchments with the Words of Invocation inscribed upon them. These were the kinds of people who did not concern their consciences with the compensation Malachai required for his services.

They appreciated a bit of theatrical flair.

So when he received the summons from dispatch, he responded with appropriate formality. Curling smoke, crackling lightning, the wailing of damned souls—a standard business-casual entrance. He waited for his cue, which was usually the sound of a man discovering terror for the first time in his comfortable life. Once that terror had peaked, Malachai would announce himself. Any sooner, and the human would get swept up in proceedings before their fear really set the tone. Thus, on this and all assignments, Malachai waited to hear the panic and the wailing and the what-have-I-wrought’s.

He waited for quite some time.

He looked around, waving his hands to clear some of the lingering smoke—which was actually just high-quality steam. They never noticed the difference, and real smoke would have aggravated his asthma. The result was visually pleasing and left his suit wrinkle-free, but occasionally served to obscure a mortal who was too frightened to plead at the proper volume. Malachai arranged himself into a posture of menace and waited for the last of the steam to dissipate.

There was nobody in the room.

Malachai frowned in puzzlement. There were rooster-shaped salt and pepper shakers on a well-used round table, and a sign hung over the door that read “If you want breakfast in bed, sleep in the kitchen!” This didn’t make sense. He didn’t do domestic calls.

A massive brown Labrador lolloped around the corner, his tail waving frantically. Malachai narrowed his eyes and bared his fangs at the dog. He projected threatening thoughts, visions of Labradors being eaten by bigger, scarier dogs; visions of thunder and flooding and tigers pouncing on unsuspecting puppies; visions of the hounds of Hell shaking off their chains and storming the little kitchen in search of a mortal morsel.

The dog smelled Malachai’s shoes-and, ignoring Malachai’s pointed objections, his crotch-with great interest. He wuffled to himself about the results and sat. His tail thumped on the linoleum.

Malachai stared at the dog. Looked over his shoulder. Nobody there. Just him and the dog. He crouched in front of the beast and looked into the large, vacant brown eyes. First time for everything.

“Did…uh, did you summon me?”

The dog panted happily and continued thumping his tail.

“I summoned you. He’s a dog. He can’t read Archaic Latin.” A woman walked into the kitchen. Malachai was not good at guessing mortal age, but his best estimate placed her at around…three hundred years old? She was upright and walking, but relied heavily on a dull aluminum cane. Her back was straight, and her eyes were clear, and Malachai assessed her as aware of her encroaching mortality, but not concerned by it.

Malachai drew himself to his fullest, most intimidating height, and began billowing smoke (well, steam). He drew breath to begin his Terrible Introductions. The dog stood and nudged a cold, wet nose into Malachai’s hand.

“Oh, go on and pet him, would you? He’s going to start pouting if you don’t. And enough with the special effects. We have a lot to discuss and not much time.”

Malachai turned to the woman and allowed the fires of Hell to blaze behind his eyes. He hissed in a fashion he had picked up from a colleague with a uniquely crocodilian aspect.

The dog whined softly and nudged at his hand again.

The woman lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table and raised her eyebrows pointedly at Malachai. “Pet Baxter, and then let’s begin.”

The hellfire and hissing hadn’t worked. There was only one explanation: this was a mistake. The woman was old for a mortal—if he recalled his training, humans started to peter out around three hundred and fifty years or so—and she had probably intended to place an order for a new pelvis or lawn furniture or something. She just didn’t realize who he was. It had never happened to him before, but it wasn’t unheard of—someone means to say “Operator, please connect me to Home Shopping Network customer support,” but they have a stutter, and what comes out instead is an Archaic Latin summoning of a Pestilent Creature.

He turned off the theatrics, patted Baxter on the head, and smiled at the poor, foolish old woman. She did not smile back at him.

“Ma’am. I think you got the wrong number.” No need to scare her. Malachai liked to startle the hubris out of mortals, but causing cardiac arrest in little old ladies gave him no particular satisfaction. He would approach this gently.

“Oh?” A look of very mild concern crossed her brow. “Well, then, who are you?”

Malachai was not used to delivering this next part without a certain amount of panache, but he tried to subdue his tone so as not to shock the woman too badly. Only a small rumble of thunder trickled out; he was proud of his restraint. “I am the Great and Ominous Malachai, Devourer of Miscreants, Archduke of Nightmares, Usurper of Souls. I am He Who Is Called Despair!”

Her brow unfurrowed and she gave a satisfied nod. “It was you I wanted, all right. Please, take a seat. My name is Lydia. Would you like some tea? I have Lemon Zinger and Sleepytime.”

The Archduke of Nightmares patted Baxter’s flank as his Lemon Zinger steeped.

“Baxter is getting on in years, but he’s too dumb to realize it. Just like he’s too dumb to be afraid of you.” Lydia’s hands shook slightly as she lifted her own teacup. The teacup was misshapen and had “#1 Grandma” painted across the front in drippy glaze. “Or maybe he’s like me—too old to be afraid of you.”

Baxter laid his head on Malachai’s knee and sighed with deep contentment; the Usurper of Souls tried to shove the dog away to no avail.

Malachai felt awkward. He had always held a strong position during negotiations—he would arrive with smoke (steam), lightning, baying of hounds, et cetera, and then he would Speak his Title. The person who had summoned him would wet themselves or drop a glass or start gibbering tearfully, and then they would plead for mercy, and then they would offer the life of whatever chump they had available, and then the bargaining could begin. This woman did not seem to know the procedures. He fidgeted in his chair and scratched Baxter’s huge, blocky head.

“So, then, Frail Mortal—”

“Oh, please, no need to be so formal. Call me Lydia.”

“…So, then, ah, Lydia. Ahem. Do You Know The Covenant Which You So Foolishly Invoke At Your Peril?” He rolled the ‘r’ in ‘peril’ to make up for the loss of ‘frail mortal’.

“Oh, yes, Malachai. I know.”

“What Foolish Mortal Have You Designated To Fulfill The Bargain?”

“Myself.” Lydia folded her hands on the table with an air of finality.

“And Where Is The Foolish Mortal—wait, what?”

“I will pay.”

Malachai retracted his claws enough to gently lay a hand on her wrist. “No, no, Lydia, I’m asking you who you’re going to sacrifice. Look, I really don’t think you get how this works—”

Lydia looked at him coolly. “I understand quite well. You grant a request, and you take a soul. Well, I am making a request, and then you are going to grant it, and then you’ll take my soul as payment. This is not difficult to understand, dear.”

Malachai shook his head. He was deeply relieved to find that this was not going to work. “I can’t bill you in arrears. Payment up front. Sorry, it’s policy. Nothing I can do about it.” He stood to leave. “Thank you for the tea.”

Lydia rapped a gnarled knuckle sharply on the wooden tabletop. “Sit down, young man, we are not finished here.”

Malachai brushed dog fur off of his suit pants. “Look, lady, I can’t help you, I’m s—”

“Sit Ye Down, Pestilent Creature.” Her words were imbued with the Power of The Summoner. Malachai eased back into the chair. The Power of The Summoner had not been wielded against him in some time; he thought the practice had died out long ago. Baxter returned his head to Malachai’s lap and drooled agreeably on his knee.

“Now.” The old woman pursed her lips at the demon. “I know the bargain. I’m not stupid and it’s not complicated. I don’t need to be alive for my request to be granted.”

Malachai’s front two sets of ears perked in spite of his intent to sulk. So she did know the procedures. And the technicalities. Lydia noticed his interest and continued with greater confidence.

“I want you to save my wife. She has cancer, and she is going to die, and I want you to make it so that she lives.”

Heaviness settled over the room. Mortals and their cancer. They were always getting cancer. Tears shimmered briefly in Lydia’s eyes; Malachai looked at Baxter, giving the mortal a moment to collect herself. He rubbed the dog’s velvet ears.

“So, you want me to save her, and take you?” He did not lift his gaze from the top of Baxter’s head. Lydia sniffed delicately.

“Yes. I want you to make her young and healthy again. Not too young, mind you. She was happiest at around…thirty-five. I remember because it was our tenth anniversary, and she turned to me, and she said, ‘This is the best I’ve ever felt.’ And we laughed, because you know, we were supposed to be ‘middle-aged’ women now, and, and—” she broke off and put a hand over her eyes. Malachai was embarrassed for her. Fear displays he could handle, but this was out of his wheelhouse. Hoping to escape her tears, he crouched on the floor to rub Baxter’s belly. The dog made a deep groan like the timbers of an old ship settling.

Lydia laughed as she patted her cheeks with a napkin. “That’s a good sound, from him.”

Before he could stop himself, Malachai laughed, too. “I know. We have some hounds at HQ that make the same noise when we feed them thieves’ souls.”

When he looked back up at Lydia, she was smiling sadly. “So. I’ve said my goodbyes. I’m ready whenever you are. Deborah is just in the other room. Would you like to see her? Do you need to be in the same room to…do it? She won’t know you’re here, I’m afraid. Palliative care.”

Malachai did not want to see the dying female. He also did not want to take Lydia’s soul. For the first time in his career, he did not want to do his job. Lydia folded her hands on the table again, a gesture of infinite patience. He stalled desperately.

“Wait. How did you know how to summon me?”

Lydia smiled. “I’m a snoop. I found it in Deborah’s diary.”

“Where did she get it?”

Lydia shrugged. “How should I know? Is this important?” She was growing impatient. “We don’t have long. The doctors said she could go at any moment. Do I need to sign anything?”

Hearing her sharp tone, Baxter whined and dropped his ears—a portrait of canine guilt. Lydia scratched under his collar. “Good boy. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you.”

Malachai wanted to stall more but didn’t want Baxter to blame himself for Lydia’s frustration, so he came clean. “I. Geez. This is—I mean. I don’t want to take your soul, Lydia. This is a bad arrangement. Sacrifices—they’re meant to be selfish. Most people kidnap someone, or trick a spouse, or buy a baby on the black market. It’s supposed to be, you know.” He looked at her meaningfully, but her face remained blank. “Evil.”

Lydia frowned. “Well, I don’t want to kidnap anyone. And I only get one request, right? You can’t make us both young again. So why would I want to stick around? To be old and alone? No thank you.” She folded her thin arms across her chest with an air of decision.

Malachai didn’t like the feeling of conspiring with a Foolish Mortal, but he felt compelled by propriety. This woman was doing it all wrong. He lowered his voice.

“I could probably do it if you held hands with her, and if you phrased it just right. ‘I Demand That You Make Us Young And Hale Again, Pestilent Creature,’ something like that.”

“But you still need a sacrifice, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have anyone else to give you.”

Baxter rolled onto his back, hoping to elicit more belly rubs. Malachai looked down at the old dog, then back up at Lydia.

“…you can’t think of anyone?”

The office was massive. A wall of windows looked out over a sparkling city. The spotless desk was made from brushed platinum; the desk chair was upholstered in premium tiger leather. Several overstuffed armchairs were poised around a coffee table made from interlocking elephant tusks. A man in a white suit stood facing a towering fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. In the fireplace, a sheet of ancient parchment smoldered and crackled. On the panda-skin rug, his captive writhed, struggling to free herself from her bonds before she was to be sacrificed. The man turned as he finished the invocation, prepared to face the demon. He would dominate it. Bend it to his will. He would own this city. He would own the world.

Smoke (steam) billowed through the room. A peal of thunder sounded from somewhere near the brushed platinum desk, and a bolt of lightning split the ivory table in two. The hounds of Hell snarled their rage and wuffled their interest in belly rubs, and the man in the white suit could hear the creaking of their iron chains as they strained to tear his soul from his body with monstrous, gnashing teeth.

A figure appeared in the smoke.

No—two figures.

“I am the Great and Ominous Malachai, Devourer of Miscreants, Archduke of Nightmares, Usurper of Souls, Master of the Hound of Chaos!”

The man in the white suit cowered. A dark stain spread across the front of his slacks.

The Hound of Chaos farted softly.

“Baxter, damn it. You—sit. Baxter. Sit.”

The man in the white suit coughed. “Uh, Please, O Ye Harbinger, I Beg Your Mercy.”

The Hound of Chaos sat and thumped his tail against the platinum desk. The Devourer of Miscreants fed him a treat and clicked a little metal tab before rounding on the man in the white suit.

“Frail Mortal! Do You Know The Covenant Which You So Foolishly Invoke At Your Own—Baxter, down. No, don’t pet him, he needs to learn not to jump up on people. Baxter, sit.”

Malachai gave up. The Hound of Chaos was well on his way to being a suitable companion—but he had no sense of theatre at all. The Archduke of Nightmares let out a sigh as the man in the white suit rubbed the Hound’s velvet ears and repeatedly affirmed his status a Very Good Dog.

It had been worth it, though. It had been worth it to see Lydia and Deborah holding each other. That had been his first time seeing mortals weep with anything other than terror, and it had been worth the farting and the crotch-sniffing and the endless, constant shedding.

And, besides, Malachai thought. Even if Baxter lacked a sense of theatre, he really was a Very Good Dog.

Haunted

Originally published in Fireside in March 2016

Content note: This story explores themes of domestic violence.

The children grab each other when they walk past me. They dare each other to run up and touch me. Bring back proof, they say. Something from inside.

When he came inside, he kept his shoes on. That was my first clue. She took her shoes off, and looked around like she was standing in a cathedral. He rapped his knuckles hard on a wall, and I flinched.

“Old houses like these, Marthe—you never know what might be in the walls. Rats. Fungus. Dry rot.”

I was indignant. Aghast. Fungus?

But she ignored him. She crouched right down and spread out her fingers on the floor. She pressed them to her nose, inhaled the spicy smell of oak and beeswax. She curled her bare toes and smiled at the floor before looking up at him.

“This is it, chèr. I can feel it.”

I felt it, too.

He rolled his eyes and clomped across the floor. Dirt fell from the soles of his shoes, dulling the sheen of the wood, making me shudder.

I should have known right then.

Marthe screams at night. Cries. Stands at the windows and twitches the curtains. I try to wrap myself around her, to comfort her, but I don’t think she can feel me anymore. She just paces the halls, remembering what happened to her over and over again. Making me remember.

The first time he hit her was devastating for both of us. The plaster trembled with the echoes of Baptiste’s hand striking her face, and my walls continued shuddering long after she’d retreated to the bathroom. She clutched the edges of the sink as she sobbed. The porcelain warmed under her fingertips. I remember.

It took her a long time to stop crying. He cried, too. He apologized. He said it would never happen again. He said he needed help. He said he was sorry. He said he was sorry again and again and again.

Perhaps he was sorry. It’s hard to tell, in hindsight.

A few kids from the neighborhood—I still think of them that way, although I suppose they’re grown-up enough to be drunk now—force the front door. They’re dressed for going out, not for coming in, but it’s late enough and they wobble enough that I suspect this incursion was not part of the original plan. They have a camera. They film me from lots of different angles, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I try to tell them to go away, but the only result is a whisper of wind down the chimney that makes them shriek and clutch at each other before dissolving into laughter.

It’s not long before Marthe appears. She’s trying to ask them a question—I can’t make it out, but I know her very well by now, and her howls are not of protest or fear. She’s confused. She doesn’t know why they’re filming her.

They lock themselves in the bathroom, thinking they can shut her out. They don’t realize that the bathroom is hers more than any other room in the house. When they realize that they’re trapped in there with her, they break the window and climb out.

The broken window lets the cold in, and the rain. The wall starts to mildew. I remember the accusation of fungus, years ago. I think Marthe must remember it, too, because she runs untouching fingers across the mottling plaster. The sound she makes would be terrifying to someone who didn’t recognize it as weeping.

It took about a year before he stopped saying he was sorry. And once he stopped being sorry, everything fell apart.

It was a little thing that killed her. Baptiste got home from work and dinner was on the table, but it wasn’t quite warm, and that was all it took. She saw the fury in his face, and she tried to lock herself in the bathroom—but he was too close behind her, and he pushed his way in.

He always kept his shoes on. I should have known, just from that. He treated the wood on the floors the same as he treated the dirt outside, the same as he treated his wife. Marthe, though, she always took her shoes off, and let her toes pick up the imprint of the woodgrain. She stroked the bricks of the lintel with her fingertips. She let her hand warm the wood on the banister for a moment after her feet landed on the bottom stair. She loved me.

Fallen, half-rotted figs mixed into the soil as he dug the hole; her grave was sweet-smelling, ant-infested. The ants never crossed the threshold, never came inside, but they had the run of the yard. They built a new anthill over Marthe’s barefooted corpse, and they ate the figs that fell before the sticky-sweet juice could drip through the soil to her parched lips.

There should be children running up and down my stairs. There should be breakfast-smells in the morning and toothbrushes on the sink and backpacks next to the front door. But I don’t get those things. Instead, there is only Marthe: a memory of suffering that paces through the rooms and tries to stare at herself in mirrors.

I love Marthe, of course I love her—but she is a little selfish. She tortures herself by remembering what happened to her over and over again. She does not acknowledge that I suffered, too, and that I should be allowed to move on. I can’t move on as long as she’s here, reliving the memory of her death over and over again. I’ve tried to tell her but the little drafts I’m able to push through the chimney are not enough to catch her attention.

She won’t leave.

The “for sale” sign has put down roots in the front yard. My hopes soar whenever a couple from out of town stops to look. It happened just the other day—a pulled-over car, a tall man shading his eyes to look up at me. His partner, also tall, pulling out his phone to call the number on the sign. They had a child’s carseat in the back. I notice these things.

But then Marthe stood in the upstairs window and made a horrible noise, and the tall men got back into their car and left. With them went any hope of feeling sock-feet slide down the smooth floor of the entry hall; with them went the dream of someday-crayon-scrawl on the walls. Toothbrushes, backpacks.

And I’m still alone with Marthe.

That night, Baptiste used a full roll of paper towels to wipe what was left of Marthe from the bathroom tiles. He threw the soiled paper into the kitchen trash by the fistful, like carrot peels. Then he took a long shower, and he reheated his cold dinner in the microwave, and he ate every bite. He climbed into their bed and laid down right in the middle of it, and he slept like a stone as I mourned the woman who had loved me.

Marthe sat under the fig tree for a week. The freshly-turned soil didn’t compact under her weight, but the ants moved around her, like a stream parting around a boulder. She watched them for hours, unblinking, unmoving. I’m not sure when her gaze shifted from the ants to the windows. At first, I thought she was watching Baptiste; but later, I realized that she was watching me.

Baptiste told everyone that Marthe had run off with a boyfriend. That she had been unfaithful. He pretended heartbreak, and these people who hadn’t known Marthe at all believed him. Comforted him. When he said he had to move back to Atlanta to get away from it all, his friends threw him a going-away party, at which he got very drunk. After they’d all gone home, he threw up in the breakfast nook—red wine and bile. The stain was awful. The next morning, he called a realtor, and the sign appeared, staked into the lawn.

The very first people to consider moving in were wonderful—a family. They had two children, little ones with sticky hands and wide, wary eyes. I was delighted. Not all houses are meant to hold families, but I am. I loved the idea of them exploring the attic, or finding the crawlspace between their bedrooms. Building a fort out of pillows and whispering secrets inside of it. They saw that there was a backyard and burst out into it before their parents could stop them.

They ran to the fig tree, and the older child started to tell his little sister all about treehouses and tire swings. His foot was flattening the top of the anthill. Marthe stood not far from them, watching; her head was cocked at an unnatural angle, and her eyes had taken on a hard, hateful gleam.

The boy could not have known that he was standing on Marthe’s grave. And Marthe could not have known how badly she could hurt a person without touching them. It was nobody’s fault, really. She didn’t mean it. She didn’t know her own strength.

She didn’t mean to hurt him.

I have been empty save for Marthe for six years now. Six years does not seem like such a long time, but when the years echo, six is too many to bear. Six winters of sleet and cold, with nobody spicing cider over the stove. Six summers in which the ceiling fans collected dust and the ice trays went unfilled. Six years of Marthe.

It’s terribly lonely. I never would have thought that I could be lonely with Marthe, but I am. She doesn’t love me anymore, not the way she did when she first moved in. She only notices the things that break—the window, the mildew, the mice that chew holes in the baseboards. It’s been a long time since she’s stopped to linger in the patch of sun that comes in through the kitchen window. I can’t recall the last time she rested her cheek against the green doorframe that stands between the kitchen and the backyard. She used to love lingering in her home, but now it is torturous to her.

And to me, of course. I forget, sometimes, because I’m too busy attending to Marthe. But it hurts me, too.

It is December when Baptiste comes back.

He pulls up to the driveway and walks inside, and I am alight with dread. I don’t want him to see me. The front door has swollen with the humidity that precedes winter storms here, and he has to put his shoulder to it to get it open. He walks inside—shoes on, but at this point, I can’t blame him. He holds up a camping lantern and looks around, taking in the state of me. Filth crackles under his feet. Insects scatter before him. Water damage blooms brown across the ceiling over his head.

I am a ruin.

I realize, under his scrutiny, just how bad it’s gotten. I realize that no family will ever decide to make me their home; how could they? I am irreparable. I am unloveable. I am haunted.

The thunder that booms outside covers my shuddering sob. Baptiste startles at the way the walls shiver around him. I find that I cannot make myself hate him, even though this is all his fault. The part of me that should hate him is drowning in shame. There is no air for hate. His lip is curled, and I cannot muster indignance this time. He’s right to sneer.

There is another peal of thunder, and a downpour begins. Water drips from the ceiling onto Baptiste’s head and I let out another mortified sob. Because what is the point of a roof, if it can’t keep the water out and the warmth in? Marthe stands on the stairwell, watching Baptiste take in the shambles that used to be their home. She presses the back of one trembling, incorporeal hand against her mouth. Her eyes are wide, and she stares at him without blinking.

When Baptiste uncaps the first plastic jug, my first thought is that he’s cleaning me. It is an absurd notion, and doesn’t survive for long. The liquid Baptiste pours out of the jug stings—the fumes are strong enough that he turns his head to one side, burying his mouth and nose in his elbow. Marthe is still watching him, motionless.

As he uncaps the second jug and moves into the kitchen, splashing every surface, I begin to understand. Marthe cocks her head to one side, and that hard, hateful gleam enters her eyes again. She crouches down and lays an untouching hand on the warping wood of the foyer floor. She, too, is starting to understand. Her expression has shifted from fear to fury. She looks toward the kitchen. The water that drips from the ceiling falls right through her, splashing in the puddles of gasoline.

Baptiste empties five jugs in all, upstairs and down. He is thorough. Marthe watches him the whole time. He startles at the occasional thunderclap, mutters to himself. I tremble with the anticipation of what is to come. I push a draft into the places where mice and birds have nested—my sole living occupants. I hate forcing them out into the storm, but it’s the best I can do for them.

When all the jugs are empty, Baptiste goes into the bathroom. He eyes the mildew that bruises the wall around my broken window, and I want to crumble under the weight of his disdain. He turns in a slow circle, clears his throat.

“Marthe? Are you here?”

She is. She’s right in front of him. He doesn’t realize, but she’s right there, close enough to kiss.

“The realtor says that the house won’t sell because people think it’s haunted. I told him that’s ridiculous, but…he told me about the boy. What you did to the boy. I don’t believe in ghosts, but—if you’re here, Marthe, I just wanted to tell you.” He shakes his head, makes a face like he’s going to spit. “Jesus, this is ridiculous.”

She is staring right into his face, but he can’t see her. She’s not letting him. Not yet. Her eyes are animal, insect, glittering. He’s shouting as if she might be down the hall somewhere.

“I wanted to tell you that you haven’t won. I know you’re still trying to ruin my life, but you won’t. You can’t. I still have the insurance on this shitty house you made us buy. I might not be able to sell it, but who cares? It’s worth more to me now as a pile of ashes.”

A lot of things happen all at once, then.

Marthe lets out a howl, right in Baptiste’s face, and she lets him see her.

Baptiste screams, dropping his lantern. The bulb in the lantern shatters, and the light dies.

Thunder cracks overhead, directly overhead, immediate, and that means:

Lightning.

The white arc illuminates everything. If any children had been foolish enough to come peek into the haunted house during the storm, they would see the fungus rotting my walls, the filth and leaves scattered across the tile where Marthe’s blood once pooled, the sagging ceiling. They would see Marthe, plain as day, her feet a few inches above the ground, her mouth stretched impossibly wide with rage. They would see Baptiste, on the floor, slacks dark and clinging, as he scrambles towards the bathroom door in a crab-scuttle of terror.

It’s only an instant. Then the illumination from the lightning is gone, and Baptiste is pounding his way down the stairs in the dark.

It’s curious: even though the white light is gone, all is not dark. There is still a flickering glow coming through the window. It is the fig tree, which has grown unchecked for six years and which leans against me like a drunk friend at the end of a long night. The fig tree, which is now split down the middle. The fig tree, which, despite the continuing rainfall, is blazing bright with fire.

The flames climb the tree’s branches quickly and then, just like that, they are touching me. By the time Baptiste is at the bottom of the stairs, the fire is hot on my shingled siding. I am not afraid for myself. I am afraid for Marthe, a little—where will she go? What will happen to her, when she has no halls to wander, and her tree is a blackened stump? I resent her too much to want her to stay; I love her too much to want to see her forced out.

It’s hot. It’s too hot, and then the fire goes from being outside of me to inside of me, and then it hurts.

Baptiste is at the front door, both hands on the knob, yanking. It won’t budge. The doorframe swells when it rains, and the door is stuck fast. Marthe is standing behind Baptiste, watching him struggle. Her focus is absolute; she does not notice the flames that are tripping their way down the stairs.

It hurts, it hurts, and now there is fear curling alongside the pain. What will happen to me? Will I be stuck here, like Marthe, wandering the remnants of my own foundation?

Baptiste is screaming. His eyes are wide, because he sees her. He has realized that he cannot get out through the front door, and he has turned around, and he has been confronted by his spectral wife. He did not believe that his house was haunted, not really. But now he must believe. Now he sees, by the light of the fire, the animal rage in her eyes.

Marthe didn’t realize, before, how much she could hurt that little boy who wanted to climb in her fig tree. She regretted hurting him so badly. She wailed under the tree for days. But now, she knows what she is capable of. This time, she will have no regrets.

I am thankful that the pain of the fire keeps me from attending too closely to what Marthe does to Baptiste. I am distantly aware of his screams, and I am certain that he will not be leaving before I am—how did he put it?—“A pile of ashes.”

There is nowhere the flames cannot find. There is nothing I can hide from them. Baptiste was thorough, and the gasoline is everywhere. The fumes are thick in the air and it won’t be long before I am gutted. The rainfall is slowing, and there is nothing to stop the flames from spreading, consuming, destroying.

Marthe stands over Baptiste’s now-unconscious body and stares down at him, her face glowing with triumph. She will stay, then. She will stay to watch him die.

I will not. I am surprised to find myself drifting away from the pain—the pain, which had seemed so omnipresent, but which turns out to be escapable. I wander away from it, following the trail of the smoke that pours out of me, joining the diminishing thunderclouds in the grey sky. I am looking down at a burning house that used to be me, and I realize that this is how I can fix things with Marthe.

I cannot make her leave me. But I can leave her.

It does not happen all at once. I snap back to myself several times—when Marthe’s favorite mug, left behind in a kitchen cupboard, shatters. When a mouse that did not leave with his fellows succumbs to the smoke and dies in my eaves. When my roof, the thing that made me more than just walls, the thing that made me a home for Marthe, finally caves in. I come back to myself during those moments, and in those moments I suffer. But then I leave again, drifting back up with the smoke, and the leaving is easier each time.

After the roof has caved in and the fire has begun to smother itself, I stop returning. I turn away from Marthe, who is still standing in the ruin of the foyer, exultant. I cannot worry anymore about what will happen to her. I leave my ashes behind. I let the self that has seen so much pain dissipate with the clearing smoke.

And I am not haunted anymore.