I knock him around a bit, pull his hair, pinch his thigh, yell in his face, drag him off the bed, shake him around. Still nothing. He just hangs there, limp as a rag doll, mouth slack and eyes closed.
“I’m gonna cut your balls off if you don’t quit this act,” I snap. “I swear it, man. I’m not fucking around.” I shove his limp body into a jumble on the bed, then pull my knife from my back pocket andflip out the blade. “Here goes.” I poke the tip of the blade against his crotch. “Feel that? I’m not kidding. I’ll do it unless you drop this act.”
But there’s no response. He doesn’t flinch, even when I dig the knife into his thigh until a couple red drops bloom through the pajama bottoms.
So…he’s not faking. Which makes me feel like an asshole for putting him through all that. But I had to be sure.
There’re a few possibilities I can think of. One, the guy has a twin who’s a shapeshifter. Two, he’s doing that astral-projecting thing I saw in a movie once. Three, he’s been waking up sometimes and leaving the house to do things, then returning here to collapse back into his comatose state. Which makes no sense.
None of it makes any sense.
I rearrange the guy on the bed and pull the sheets over him. Then I check the window. It’s not made for keeping folks in—easy enough to open and there’s no screen. I fetch Hindley’s tools and some wood scraps, and I board up the window. There’re a couple extra padlocks in the basement, so I fetch one and install it on the guest room door.
Hindley staggers out of his room while I’m testing the padlock. I’m surprised the noise I’ve been making didn’t rouse him before now. But when he drinks hard and takes drugs on top of that, he sleeps like the dead.
“The fuck you doin’?” he slurs.
“Renovating,” I reply.
“You think that’s funny? This ain’t your house and won’t ever be as long as I got somethin’ to say about it. I don’t care what Dad wanted. It’s mine, and—” He breaks off the sentence abruptly, as if he said something he didn’t mean to.
“Wait, what does that mean? ‘What Dad wanted’?” My heart starts pounding again as the words sink into my brain.
“Never mind,” Hindley mutters. “Fuck. I don’t care what you’re up to. Just give me that key in case I need to check on him.”
“You never check on him,” I retort, but I hand it over anyway.
Hindley shuffles past me, heading for the stairs and leaving me with my whirling thoughts.
I never did see Buckland’s will. Hindley’s sleazebag of a lawyer read it aloud, but I never actuallysawit. The family said Buckland Lockwood left me nothing. Everything went to Hindley. It hurt at the time, but I didn’t question it. After all, Hindley was Buckland’s son by blood.
Maybe I was wrong to accept it quietly. Too late now, though. If there was an original will that made me the heir to anything, Hindley would have destroyed it long ago. Even he isn’t dumb enough to keep a document like that around.
It means something, though—the idea that Buckland might have left me the house or even a share of it. Might have meant more to me years back, when he died. Knowing about the will might have given me a sense of belonging that I’ve never really had. As it is, I don’t feel much more than a flicker of gratitude to the old bastard. I’m out of here soon anyway.
Something crashes downstairs, and Hindley roars several curses. Then he shouts, “Heathcliff, you dickwad, get your ass down here! My right ankle tattoo’s buzzin’! Looks like we got a job to do.”
20
Cathy
I collapse onto the sofa at Aunt Nellie’s, too exhausted to climb the stairs to my room. Going to church has always been mentally exhausting and emotionally torturous for me, but today it sapped every bit of my physical energy, too.
I blame most of that on Edgar. As Aunt Nellie and I were stepping through the church doors, he greeted us with a beatific smile. “So pleased to have you with us today.”
He took my hand, rubbing his thumb over my skin, and leaned close to my ear. “An outburst like last time will not be tolerated. I know who your friend Cliff is now…or should I say Heathcliff Lockwood. A family with the most perverse kind of power. We haven’t executed any supernaturals in a while, but I might make an exception, just for him.”
My whole body quivered with startled terror, but I couldn’t summon the will to do anything but nod meekly. During the service, I considered his words, and I fretted over not knowingwhatkind of supernatural the Lockwoods are. Did Heathcliff ever hint about what powers he has, besides strength? As far as I can recall, Dadnever explained the Lockwoods’ nature or abilities. He only said they were dangerous, buthow? What can they do that’s so dreadful?
Speaking of dreadful, the congregation looked wretched today—haggard and hungry, thinner than usual. Between them and my racing thoughts, I was so distracted that I barely listened to the sermon. Edgar didn’t preach; it was some other guy, an Ian Holcum. Aunt Nellie elbowed me significantly when the man stepped into the pulpit, so I assumed it was Edgar’s friend the folklore expert. He didn’t talk about gods or ancient myths, though. From the scraps I can recall, the message was mostly about the symbolism of blood and sacrifice throughout Scripture. Creepy stuff.
Now that I’m back at Aunt Nellie’s and I have time to lie here quietly and think, it seems odd how little of the message I heard. Usually, even if I’m distracted during a sermon, I can remember a few parts word-for-word. But when I think back to this morning’s message, it’s blurred. I have a vague impression of the topic but nothing distinct. I can’t remember a single phrase the man spoke during the forty-five minutes he spent in the pulpit.
I do remember most of the congregation giving me looks of hostility or pity as Aunt Nellie and I made our way out of the sanctuary. But that was to be expected after my last visit.
My body feels tired and weak, like I’ve just recovered from the flu, but it’s like my mind is starting to wake up, burning brighter through the fog that has wreathed my brain since my last debilitating banshee episode. I’ve felt so soft and sleepy and passive for days, but I’m starting to regain strength, to remember what I want and what I need to do.
Heathcliff. I need to get in touch with Heathcliff. Except I don’t know his number, so I’ll call Daisy. Even though we’re practically strangers, somehow I know she would help me get away from here.
