Eerie (6 page)

“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.

Chapter 10

Paige was curled up on the couch, and as soon as she saw him, she turned away and wiped the mascara stains from her cheeks.

Grant sat down on the hardwood floor at eye level with his sister.

Laid his hand carefully on her shoulder.

“I don’t know how I got to this point,” she said. “You ever feel that way?”

“Absolutely. I’ve had my share of spinouts. All that matters is you’re moving forward. Things are going to get better.”

“I sound like a crazy person.”

“You should’ve seen me a few years back.”

She wiped her cheeks again and rolled over to face him.

“But did you ever feel like you didn’t know what was real?”

He shook his head.

“It sucks.”

“You and I have never been crybabies about anything, but we haven’t exactly lived the nuclear family dream.”

“So?”

“So cut yourself a little slack, all right?”

“I don’t want to be crazy.”

In their entire lives, Grant couldn’t think of anything his sister had said to him—even during her drugged-out ravings—that hit him so hard. It was a killshot, and he could feel his heart breaking as she stared at him. Yet another moment of Paige in agony, and not a damn thing he could do to make it better.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“I’m trying.”

“Will you let me help you get help?”

For a long time, she didn’t say anything. Just stared at him as her eyes glistened with a reinforcement of tears.

At last she said, “I will, Grant.”

He leaned in, kissed her cheek.

The room had grown dark and cold.

All that remained of the fire was a single log with glowing ember veins.

“Is there more wood?” he asked.

“There’s a wrap in the pantry.”

Grant went to the kitchen and dug three logs out of the bundle. He carried them into the living room and dragged away the screen. The bed of coals put out the faintest purple glow.

He arranged the logs on the grate, blew the embers back to life.

The new wood caught easily.

Grant turned, letting the heat lap at his back as he watched the firelight play across Paige’s face. She looked beyond tired. Like she could sleep for months.

What was taking Don so long? Had he found drugs?

“Remember when we squatted in that abandoned house for a few weeks?” he said. “No electricity. Just a fireplace.”

“Yeah. We burned wooden crates that you found behind a grocery store.”

“Things have been worse than this, Paige.”

“But I don’t look back on that and call it a low point.”

“Seriously?”

“Those were the moments when I knew we’d be okay. Life could get shitty but we were in it together.”

“We’re in
this
together too.”

Grant heard footsteps on the second floor.

Finally—Don on his way down.

The footfalls accelerated.

Was he running?

Grant instinctively looked up at the ceiling as if he could see through it.

Something crashed to the floor.

A door closed hard enough to shake the walls.

Grant looked at Paige.

She’d sat up, arms crossed over her chest and her face screwed up like she was going to vomit.

“Stay here,” he said.

“Don’t go up there. Don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Grant crossed to the foot of the stairs and jogged up as his sister called after him.

At the top, he rounded the corner.

Stopped.

“Don? Everything okay?”

The table had been knocked over and the lamp lay on its side, bulb still intact, casting an uneasy triangle of light across the ancient carpeting.

Stepping over the debris, he moved quickly down the hall, the darkness growing as he strayed from the lamp.

The door to Paige’s bedroom was still closed.

He stopped in front of it.

Tried the knob.

It wouldn’t turn.

He pounded on the door.

“Don? You okay?”

Nothing.

Grant reared back, on the brink of digging his shoulder into the door, when the bright chinkle of breaking glass stopped him.

The sound had come from another hallway.

He rushed through in near-darkness, and only as he approached a door at the end did he notice the faintest thread of light along the bottom of its frame.

He burst through into a sparse bedroom. The duvet was pristine and the air musty and redolent of a rarely-used guestroom.

“Don?”

A splash of light spilled onto the hardwood floor through a cracked door in the far wall.

Four steps and he was standing in front of it.

Grant pushed the door open all the way with the tip of his boot.

The mirror was shattered, a web of fractures expanding out from the center.

Shards of crimson glass lay in the sink.

Don sat on the floor facing the doorway, his legs spread out, back against the clawfoot bathtub.

He was staring at Grant and holding a piece of the mirror to his own throat.

“Don? What are you doing?”

Don’s eyes looked so strange—roiling with an incomprehensible intensity.

“Don.”

Don spoke softly, “All your life you believe certain things about the world, only to learn how wrong you were.”

“You went into Paige’s room?”

Don nodded slowly. “I looked under the bed.” He shut his eyes fiercely for a second and tears slipped down the sides of his face. “And now it’s in my head, Grant.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can feel it pushing me to … do things.”

“What things?”

Don shook his head.

“Put that piece of glass down,” Grant said.

“You don’t understand.”

“I know who you are, Don. I know your kindness. Your strength. I know that you couldn’t walk into a room, see something, and decide to hurt yourself. You’re stronger than this.”

“You believe that, Grant? Really?”

“With all my heart.”

“You don’t know anything. Don’t ever go in there.”

Grant edged toward him. “Don—”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. Now give me the—”

Tension flashed across Don’s face—a burst of sudden resolve—and then he pulled the glass through his neck.

It was like a velvet curtain falling out of his throat, streams and tributaries branching down his plaid button-up and flooding out onto the checkerboard tile.

“No!”

Grant rushed toward him and ripped the triangle of glass out of Don’s hand. He knelt beside him and held his palm across his friend’s throat, trying to stem the tide, but the cut was too deep, too wide, and smiling from ear to ear.