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“What on earth?” Susan questioned, bringing her weathered manicured hands to her cheeks.
“Looks like someone was expecting our eventual arrival,” Kyrous stated.
I began to look for any type of clue that would help us determine why we were supposed to come to this place. All the windows were covered by thick drapes, giving a deeper sense of privacy to the room.
Spotting a wax figure like the one from the guard shack in the back-right corner, I walked over to it, noting this one was dressed up like a butler. It looked so lifelike, as if it could’ve been a real person.
I guess that was the point, though. He was holding a metal server’s tray. Right in the center of it sat a second tape recorder.
“Guys,” I called to get their attention.
“Hit play,” Mel urged, coming to stand behind me.
I glanced past everyone else crowding around me to Ciaran, who was staring intently. Not at the tape recorder or wax-figure, but at me. Licking my lips and promptly ignoring the way his eyes tracked the movement, I hit play.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what we might hear next. The voice that began to speak was identical to the one we’d heard on the shuttle.
Mold. Rot. Beautiful decay.
Someone, anyone, take a seat.
Have a bite, relax with a drink.
Blight House offers you a feast in exchange for an eternal sleep. Indulge just once, and you’ll be free to leave.
There was a soft whirring sound at the end of the last sentence, and then the tape cut off.
“I’m shit at riddles. What does any of that mean?” Margo asked.
“Don’t eat the food,” Kyrous answered, his tone flat.
“Too late,” a strained voice carried from the rear of the group.
We all turned, finding Heather partially leaned over the back of a chair. Only one strawberry was in her hand, bitten nearly to the stem.
“Heather!” Abby yelled, snatching the remainder of the fruit away.
“Is that the only thing you ate?” Leonard asked, moving to stand behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist like he was going to attempt the Heimlich maneuver.
Heather’s mouth fell open, no words coming out, sucking in a jagged breath instead. Leonard stepped away, his eyes widening as he stared at her face. An audible pft came from the passing of gas as she began to urinate on herself.
“What’s wrong with her?” Mel asked. I could’ve thrown something at her for failing to hide her morbid curiosity. Luckily, no one noticed. No one other than Grace and me, that is. Gracelyn took hold of her hand and moved her out of the way as almost everyone rushed to Heather’s side.
I stepped closer to Ciaran, both of us watching the whole scene play out like a picture reel.
Heather knocked the chair backward and keeled over, grabbing her stomach, coughing and gagging on seemingly nothing. Her nose began to run, tears streaming from her eyes.
Strings of saliva and red chunks of vomit spewed from Heather’s mouth, landing at Margo’s moccasin clad feet. I struggled to keep my face free of disgust, wincing when she fell to the floor with a loud thud.
What can we do?” Abby cried, crouching down in a valiant attempt to help her.
Her body broke into a fit of convulsions and foam coated her lips, reminding me of a rabid dog,
“What is happening to her?” Susan panicked, trying to keep her still.
Abby screamed Heather’s name hysterically. More urine saturated the floor, soaking through her thin leggings.
The convulsions grew so extreme she looked as if she were possessed, like a demon was fighting to rip her apart so it could get out.
Her body arched, lifting off the floor with a spine-cracking force, eyes rolling back in her head. When she fell limply back to the ground, death had snatched away her lifeline.
CHAPTER FIVE
She was lying in a putrid mess of urine and cardinal red throw-up. Abby ignored all of this, hugging her friend’s body and sobbing so loudly the piano music became nearly impossible to hear.
I’d do the same if it were Mel or Grace in Heather’s place. Fortunately, they were perfectly fine. I was no good with this kind of thing, therefore had no words of comfort to offer. I sincerely wished I did, but I just wasn’t wired to be empathetic.
Death never fazed me, and I’d always been impartial to someone’s emotional turmoil. I didn’t want to be this way. I loathed the version of myself who could so effortlessly handle these things.
I was working on being a better person, but I hadn’t made it far enough to be believably compassionate. I wouldn’t say that I was heartless exactly, but I needed to give a semblance of a damn about you for empathy to kick in. So, it was better I kept my mouth shut.
