The lantern light fell upon the Big Thing, which had moved into a corner. It produced a flute, which it raised to its lips. The flute made no sound, but the Big Thing danced anyway, legs kicking and feet shuffling, happy in whatever way it could be.
The baby mewled somewhere behind Micah. It, too, had survived the blast. Of course it had. Micah heard it slapping closer to him, though he could not chart its approach.
A chill raced through his body when a cold tongue brushed his calf. He flinched, unable to help it. No, he thought. Do not get weak-kneed already. It will get worse. His eyes fell upon the Reverend’s body covered in a dusting of black soot. So much worse.
The Big Thing had stopped playing its flute. It seemed to bear Micah no ill will for the explosion that had trapped it here. Perhaps it could get out easily enough. Perhaps a few tons of blown-apart rock and a lack of breathable air meant nothing to it. The thing stared at him in the fluttering light.
“It must be said, you are strong,” it said in obvious appreciation. “Stronger than any of your kind we have encountered.”
The baby made a gargling rasp—a note of agreement? Something coiled around Micah’s ankle and constricted mercilessly.
“That does not matter, does it?” Micah asked.
The Big Thing shook its head almost sadly. “Time and pressure will split the strongest rock,” it said distantly. “In fact, time alone is sufficient.”
The baby slid between Micah’s spread legs. In the lantern’s light—which was now dying out, Micah noted with worry—it didn’t resemble a baby at all. It was much older and more unspeakable. His eyes couldn’t grasp the true shape of it, or didn’t want to; his gaze skated off its awfulness, shying from it like a nervous horse. It began to mount him. Micah moaned. He couldn’t help himself. The Big Thing retreated to the far side of the chamber. A chalice had been grooved into the rock. It folded its enormous body into that indentation, tucking its legs up to its chin. It closed its eyes and went stilclass="underline" a toy in a cupboard waiting for its owner to take it out and play with it again.
The lantern’s flame blew sideways, frayed by an unfelt wind. It would go out soon. Micah was terrified at the thought of being alone in the dark with this thing. The light made it slightly less maddening. Would he die when the air ran out? He hoped to God it would be so.
The thing had reached his knee now. Its body was wet and hard like a naked tendon. It made a snuffling noise that a dog might make rooting for scraps under a dinner table. This, too, almost made Micah laugh. Instead he cried. He realized he’d actually been doing this on and off for some time. It was of no matter. He could cry all he liked.
The flame whumphed and spluttered, the kerosene nearly gone. The thing was slipping inside of him now. It didn’t hurt so bad. The red ropes might have something to do with that. He didn’t dare look, but he could hear his insides shifting with a soft squelch. He took a few hiccuping inhales, the sort a boy makes before he dunks his head underwater to see how long he can hold his breath.
Oh God, he thought wildly. Please let them be safe. Please let them live without wondering, without too much burden, without without without—
The lantern’s light winked out. Darkness overtook him.
In that darkness, a voice:
Shall we begin?
EPILOGUE
HOMECOMING
1980
1
ELLEN SHUGHRUE reentered her own body at five minutes past ten on the morning her daughter returned home.
She would never remember the dream she was roused from. All that remained was a sense of darkness and the incessant fluttering of wings. And inside that swirling turbulence, her husband’s calm and ever-present voice:
Without without without…
She did not crack her eyelids. As usual, her eyes were already open. Ellen simply fled back into consciousness like a person flung out of a mine shaft. The sunlight streaming through the window was so powerful that she let out a pained hiss. She blinked—Mother of Christ, that hurt! Her eyelids grated against her eyeballs like fine-grit sandpaper, causing tears to flood down her cheeks. When was the last time she’d slept in late enough to have the sun wake her? It was her habit to be up before dawn. Had she had a few drinks with Micah last night? Her head throbbed like an abscessed tooth.
A wave of guilt swept over her: here she was lying in bed with a hangover while Petty was up and no doubt wondering why her mother was still lollygagging in bed. Didn’t they have something this morning? Ellen struggled to recall. A piano lesson, soccer practice, or—?
Her sister came into the bedroom. Sherri’s hands fluttered up to her mouth. Her eyes were wide with shock.
Something was wrong. Ellen realized this all at once. Her sister shouldn’t look that damn old. Sherri, she… Lord, she was an old biddy. Her sister’s hands were bony, the skin stretched tight over the bones. The fine lines at the edges of Sherri’s eyes had become deeply trenched crow’s-feet.
“Are you…,” Sherri said, awestruck. “Ellen, are you awake?”
Why the hell wouldn’t I be awake? I know I slept in a bit, but let’s not make a capital case out of it.
This was what Ellen was going to say. But when she tried to speak, her voice was a papery rasp. Her mouth was dry as dust. Her vocal cords felt rusty, a bit like an engine in a junkyard that had seized up from disuse.
She groaned and rolled onto her back. Oh! That hurt, too. Fuck a duck. She tried to sit up. Couldn’t. She nearly laughed—how weird. Her muscles were slack. She managed to lift her arm off the coverlet. She would have screamed, were she capable. Her arm was a fleshless stick—Christ, what the hell had happened to her? Who had stolen her life, her body?
“Calm down,” she heard Sherri saying. “It’s going to be okay.”
Hands shaking, Sherri picked up the phone on the dresser and worked the rotary dial.
“Doctor? It’s Sherri Bellhaven. She’s awake.” Shaking, nodding her head violently. “I don’t know—I just came in and she’s up. Okay, okay, okay-yup-yup-yup.”
She hung up. “The doctor’s going to be here soon. You need to keep your eyes open, El. Please, just keep your eyes open. Stay awake.”
What are you so worked up about? Ellen wanted to ask, resisting the urge to panic. I don’t feel the least bit tired. I’ve had a full night’s rest. The sleep of the damned, it feels like.
A twentysomething man came into the bedroom. Ellen wanted to snatch the covers up, feeling somehow naked, but her arms wouldn’t obey. The boy was handsome and trim with sandy hair. He was staring at her in disbelief.
“Aunt Ellen?”
No. It couldn’t be. Nate? Nate wasn’t old enough to drive a car or smoke cigarettes. This couldn’t be her nephew. It was someone else. An imposter. Someone was playing a filthy, mean-spirited trick on—
Ellen experienced a sickening whiplash sensation. Just how the hell long had she been asleep?
“The doctor wants you to sit up,” Sherri said. “Nate and me are going to help you up, okay? Now, this might hurt a little.”
Ellen managed to nod. Fear was crawling over her scalp now. Not fear of falling asleep—she wasn’t sure she’d ever fall asleep again—but fear at how much time was gone from her, this terrible sense of loss, of her life having been snatched away from her.