It was next to me, and I toed at the debris until a pair of piercing blue eyes stared up from a face that was cold and stone white.
Shree-hee-hee! Shree-hee-hee!
I picked up the unbroken bust and looked into its face, watching the cornea of the left eye dilate-wide, narrow, wide, narrow.
Shree-hee-hee! Shree-hee-hee!
I noticed for the first time a whisper-thin seam around its hairline and, holding the statue tightly, I unscrewed the head of Frank Sinatra.
Inside, a mini video camera focused and refocused its lens behind the left eye.
The tape was stuck, winding forward and backward, shrieking loudly.
I removed the camera, pressed the Stop button, and the chatter-laughter stopped.
I understood suddenly why my parents had kept the tacky gift from a long-dead nanny. It was Elzy’s parting gesture of protection, a nanny cam, hidden inside the head of the only man she had ever loved. The mini camera was charged, with a tape inside, so of course my parents knew about it and had used it. My hands were so clumsy with fear that I almost dropped the camera as I slid it back inside the skull and screwed it shut. And then I was standing in my borrowed disco-queen dress holding Frank Sinatra’s head, sweating and trembling at what might lie beyond the living room. If my mom and dad and Lou were in the house, surely they would’ve appeared by now. They would’ve heard me calling out to them, would’ve heard the chatter-laughter of the stuck tape, would’ve rushed into the room, turned on the lights, and explained it all as a freak occurrence, some kind of bizarre burglary. Or they had done the intelligent thing that I had not-walked in on the scene, followed their primal instincts, and fled.
Or they were still in the house.
They were here, somewhere, unable to come to me.
All of the possibilities contained in that word, unable, flooded my brain and guts and got my feet moving.
I thought of the layout of our house-front door to hallway, living room on the right, twisting staircase on the left that climbed to a second and third floor. The oak-paneled dining room lay straight ahead, the white-tiled kitchen behind it, and a hundred-year-old basement beneath it all. I would go room to room if I had to, despite who or what could be waiting behind a door, and I remembered Lou’s baseball bat in the closet. The idea of a weapon was reassuring but it meant that I’d have to put down Frank Sinatra. For some reason I felt safer holding him than a club.
I entered the dark hallway, trying a light switch that responded with no light. Our house was built in 1911 and sat among others just as old or older, all guarded by ancient oaks and giant elms. It was a “stained-glass and turrets” neighborhood, as my dad said, which was beautiful with brick, copper, and slate, but which could also be really creepy. In the daytime, when the sun shone through thick green branches and lawn mowers snored reassuringly, it was as idyllic as a movie set. But late at night, when the train did not rumble as often and shadows fell oddly from oversized trees, it became very real that many lives had passed through those old homes. Standing in the hallway, I recalled times when I had been in the house alone, overcome by the feeling of being watched or that someone had passed close by. I longed for that feeling now, hoping that if I turned around my family would be standing there.
When I did, I saw blood.
It was smeared on the wall.
On the floor were fat spattered droplets the size of fifty-cent pieces.
I followed them through the swinging door of the kitchen, where the drawers had been tossed, cabinets cleared, cutlery scattered, dishes and glassware busted and crushed. The refrigerator was tipped on its side, open and leaking, the oven door yawned, and the pantry door was splintered off its hinges. Through the middle of it all, the white tile floor was fouled by a long scarlet line, as if someone had been dragged or had drug himself.
The blood stopped abruptly at the basement door.
Something far below the floorboards rustled and moaned.
Unbidden, one of Doug’s many “rules of the movies” came to mind-never, ever, ever go into the basement.
Another moan sounded that was an expression of pure suffering. I hesitated, and then pulled open the basement door and stepped into blackness, the old steps creaking below my feet. I called out to my parents and Lou as I descended, but all I could hear was someone breathing heavily, lungs in crisis, and a sort of scratch-shuffling as if pulling himself across the gritty floor.
“Dad?” I said. “Mom?”
“Rooooo. .”
The nearness of it made me jump, and I squinted into a dark corner where Harry lay curled in a ball, the bloody trail ending beneath his panting mouth. There was something odd about his position; he seemed to be protecting his side and belly. I knelt down and lightly touched him.
“Roooo-ooo!”
It was a scream instead of a moan. He worked his jaws weakly at my hand, mustering up whatever energy he had to try and bite me, trying to protect himself. And then he saw it was me, and the old hatred in his eyes was replaced by something that was, if not happiness, at least relief. Lifting his head, I saw blood streaming from his nose and muzzle, covering his neck and darkening his normally white chest. I looked closely at shadows covering his side, thinking it was dirt until I realized it was boot prints.
Someone had tried to stomp Harry to death.
I felt his ribs and, thankfully, nothing was broken on the inside.
The blood was superficial, from kicks and cuts on his mouth and face, and maybe from whoever had tried to kill him, too.
I never petted Harry before, but now I gently stroked his neck until he lowered his head. When he did, his body shifted and I noticed that he was lying on Lou’s old Etch A Sketch. When my brother was seven, he taught himself to make wavy lines, then circles, and then, twisting the knobs in perfect harmony, tiny, gracefully crafted cursive letters. One afternoon he left it on the couch and I picked it up. Lou was obviously studying the Constitution in school at the time, because it read, “We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense. .” I hadn’t seen the toy in years; my mom must’ve stored it in the basement. Carefully, I eased it from under Harry and he nosed my hand, letting me take it. The basement was so dark that I had to hold it inches from my face. When I did, I saw Lou’s writing, which was not graceful or crafted but scrawled and mostly illegible. Trying to make it out, I realized that Lou had been here, in the basement, and that he had written it in a hurry.
Squinting, I made out, “. . we are not. . beware. . the house. .”
I read, “. . ski mask. . tried to kill. . high-pitched. .”
The air moved with a whiff of foul meat, followed by a noise so faint it could have been my own breath, like a mouse moving inside the wall, or a footstep trying not to be heard.
I glanced at the Etch A Sketch and my skin froze, seeing the words, “If you hear. . then run, Sara Jane. . Run!”
And then Harry was on his feet, growling low in his belly with blood dripping between his bared teeth, and lunged past me into the blackness. I heard a muffled curse, Harry’s jaw snapping at his target, and then something fell and a shelf went over, smashing to the ground. There was a violent, kicking struggle with Harry grunting and his opponent making no noise at all. I squeezed the bust under one arm like a football and was about to sprint up the stairs when everything stopped, all sound and motion sucked out of the basement as a pair of large, rough hands locked around my neck. Two powerful thumbs dug into my larynx-I could feel my throat being crushed-and all I could do was struggle like a rag doll. Within seconds, flashbulbs of orange and purple popped in the darkness as oxygen left my brain. And then there was a jarring impact, a split second where the hands loosened followed by a growling-ripping noise. I was free, on my knees, gasping and hacking up blood.