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“I don’t wanna go in there.” Her daughter stared at the gaping maw of the hidden place, which seemed to exhale a dusty breath. The girl crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself warmer, protecting the soft places.
I don’t want to go in there, either, kid, Christ.
Move, hide!
Be patient. Be patient and calm and they’ll listen. That’s how it works.
“I know,” she whispered. “But we’re going to be brave and safe together, okay?”
“No, I don’t wanna.” Her daughter backed away a step.
“No,” said her son, hiding behind her leg. He peeked out at the opening as though something could spring out of it at any minute. Eat him up.
In her desperation, her impatience, she understood the impulse of mother prey animals to devour their children to protect them, feeling a horrible need to swallow them whole, to hold her children inside her again.
I’ll eat you up I love you so.
Then, simultaneously, all three looked up at the ceiling. From above them came the unmistakable sound of footsteps. A familiar noise in the house, but twisted. Because it was an un-family sound.
The man was in her daughter’s room.
Together, they stopped breathing. They listened, heads tipped up, eyes unblinking as if that would let them see through the ceiling. All three frozen in the fearful reality of the moment.
She knew it was impossible, but drifting down like dust loosened from the floorboards came the certainty that the steps had a personality. They were strong. Impatient. Angry. They were the movement of someone who had been promised total control, and was being denied what he saw as his due. Someone who wanted to tinker with the things that really mattered. Wanted to play a game with stakes.
They heard a soft thump of something being dropped—thrown?—as it landed on the too-small area rug. They heard it roll onto the wood floor with a metal clatter.
Then, a roar, a guttural fury.
Because her daughter’s room was empty. Because the little girl’s bed was still warm.
“Get in,” she hissed, “right now.”
This time they didn’t hesitate.
4
She threw the blanket and pillow through the dark opening, vanishing them. Crawled into the hidden place and reached hands out to help her son, then her daughter, inside. Told the quietly crying children to move farther in, to make room so she could clear and close the panel, frantically shushing them. She swiveled on hands and knees to pull the panel shut. But she turned too fast and hit her head hard on the corner of something invisible. Hit it violently enough that she thought she’d be sick. Brutally enough that she saw colors.
Anger, pulsing anger, dripped down her body. It made her fingertips spasm and her spine throb deep the way it always did when she hit her head. Stubbed a toe. Whacked a shin. The need to blame something, anything, for her own thoughtlessness. For the pain. Anything other than herself.
Goddamn stupid…thing.
You have to move. You have to get it shut. Did you bite your tongue? No. Then why do your teeth hurt? Why do you taste copper?
She put one hand in front of her forehead to protect herself, moved slower this time, and hit nothing. She pushed the panel closed. In the stunningly complete darkness, she slid her fingertips around the panel’s edges to check it was lodged just right, felt its tight and even seal. She was grateful at how unexpectedly easy it had been to shut. Recalled how difficult it was to close the panel from the outside.
We’re invisible now.
She leaned the unhurt side of her forehead on the rough wood of the hidden door, exhaling with relief.
A little rest.
How long had it been? Time stretched and pulled.
Think it through. You heard him, then it was less than a minute before you saw him. He stood maybe two minutes on the landing before walking away from you. And you grabbed the kids. What, another two, three minutes before you got down the stairs, got them in here? That’s all it was. The whole world shattered in less than ten minutes.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
