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The poem had been her favorite as a child, but now in the dark, coming out of nowhere as it had, its tempo emphasized by the unfamiliar sound ringing in her ears, the hushed weeping whispering through the house, the stairs below seeming to drop into nothingness, the words sounded creepy and watery and weird. Professor Kenyon and his keen interest in the macabre origination of nursery rhymes had probably brought this one to mind.
Professor Kenyon! And the test! What’re you doing, Jules! You should be studying. You’re going to flunk English Lit and you’ll be thrown out of college. What then?
She kept descending.
One creaking step at a time.
Never had the staircase seemed so steep or long…
On the first floor, the plop of drips was louder, more distinct, the crying soft and weak. She eased through the foyer where moonlight cast drab shadows through the stained glass flanking the front door. Her mother’s grandfather clock, positioned near the base of the stairs, ticked loudly, the second hand clicking as it moved, not quite drowning out the worrisome mewls emanating from the back of the house.
What is this?
Who’s crying?
What’s that horrid incessant noise?
Why was Cooper outside?
Head thundering Jules inched down the hallway toward the den. Passing the archway to the kitchen, she caught sight of the knife block on the counter by the stove.
She slid her mother’s favorite carving knife from the block and wrapped her fingers around the hilt.
Three Blind Mice. Three blind mice.
See how they run. See how they run.
They all ran after the farmer’s wife,
She cut off their tails with a carving knife…
Her heart thundered, but she wrapped her fingers around the knife’s cold hilt. Across the worn kitchen tiles and down two steps to the short hallway that led to the den, she walked, her frozen footsteps inaudible.
The sounds were getting louder.
Crying.
Dripping.
Sobbing.
The rapid thud of her heart.
Was there a blue light barely visible through the covered French doors? Was the television on? Did she hear music? A familiar beat?
This is your home. There is no reason to be afraid.
But that was a lie. The bone-cold fear spreading through her was testament to the fact that something wrong was going on here tonight… something dark and evil, something that kept her from calling out, something that made her fingers hold the knife in a death grip.
Every muscle tight, she slowly opened the door to the den and peered inside. An L-shaped couch poised next to a recliner, all bathed in weird, flickering light from a television that had been left on, the sound muted, while the scenes of a home movie flickered on the screen and Michael Jackson’s voice whispered from the speakers.
“Billie Jean is not my lover…”
For a second she was caught in the shaky images flashing upon the television screen.
She saw her own face, smiling, laughing as she ran away from whoever was holding the camera. Sunlight filtered through trees along a creek. But she wasn’t alone.
Cooper Trent came into view. Tall. Athletic. His body was lean and tanned, corded muscles in his shoulders and arms and thighs, a ropey scar running down his back. She, beside him, was running and laughing, splashing through the water. Her skin was almost luminescent it was so white, her dark hair unwinding from a scarlet ribbon that fluttered and caught in the breeze, her breasts visible, full and firm, dark nipples erect.
