Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .
He reached the bottom, then darted toward the long string that fell from the ceiling, attached to a single light bulb. He pulled the string, waiting in dread to see what the light would reveal. When the bulb clicked on and the room brightened, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The single room in the half-basement was maybe twenty feet wide, and Tick couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
The room was cluttered with boxes, bags, plastic tubs full of old clothes, a horizontal pole holding up dusty coats on hangers, a rack of shoes which hadn’t been worn in years, a pile of Christmas decorations that hadn’t quite been put away yet. He wondered if his mom even knew her wonderful and faithful husband had neglected that duty for months now.
But the pulsing continued, stronger now, though nothing like what he’d felt on the street. Still, it was powerful enough that the energy surrounded him, throbbing, and he couldn’t tell from which direction it came.
Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .
He slowly turned in a circle, scanning every inch of the room with his eyes. Boxes, tubs, junk. Nothing else.
The pulse stopped. Cut off.
It didn’t slow, didn’t fade. It stopped, abruptly. A powerful silence filled the air. Tick’s skin tingled, as if it had grown used to the almost comforting vibrations of the energy waves and wanted them back. He heard his own breathing as he continued to turn, and for some reason that creeped him out. He felt stuck in one of those nightmares where you know you’re dreaming, but you can’t wake up.
His instincts came to life, telling him to get out of there. He—
“Atticus. Higginbottom.”
Tick turned sharply toward the sound, stumbling backward until he hit the stairs. His knees buckled, and he sat down on the third step. He sucked in a breath, feeling as if something had been shoved down his throat, clogging it. The barely female voice that had spoken his name had been monstrous. Dry. Raspy. Painful. As if every syllable sent waves of flame through its owner’s body. And it was slightly . . . muffled.
He couldn’t see anyone in the basement. He swept his head back and forth but saw nothing. No one. His hands gripped the lip of the step beneath his legs.
“Two words,” said the horrible voice. “A name. How different my life would be if I’d never heard them uttered.”
Tick concentrated on a certain spot, a dark shadow behind a pile of boxes he hadn’t noticed before. Probably another project his dad should have organized and put away months ago. But there was enough room back there for someone to stand. To hide.
“Who’s there?” Tick asked, relieved his voice came out with no cracks. Relieved he could talk at all.
“An old friend,” came the reply, the harsh voice softening to a bare whisper, like the crackling of dead leaves in the distance. “Someone who wanted to be your friend.”
Tick knew his mouth was open. He knew his eyes were wide, full of terror. Every inch of him screamed that he should run. He should book it up the stairs and yell for his parents to call the police.
It was her. It was her.
He couldn’t move his eyes away from the tall length of shadow. Something moved in the darkness. A human figure formed, then stepped into the light. A robe of dull yellow covered every inch of her body, the hood pulled up and over her head, almost hiding the face.
Except there was no face. At least, not a human face. The figure wore a red mask of metal, its features pulled into a smile that somehow looked more frightening than a scowl of anger.
“Mistress Jane,” Tick whispered, his senses having turned numb. He knew it was her before she nodded ever so slightly to confirm what he’d said. So he hadn’t killed her after all.
But that mask. And her voice. What had he done to her?
He waited for her to speak, to explain why she’d come. But she only stood there, completely still, her hands hidden within the folds of her robe. The red mask was impossibly shiny, almost as if it were molten metal. Liquid. Wet.
One of the eyebrows twitched, moving half an inch up then back down again. As he stared, the smile on the mask slowly melted into a frown, into a grimace. The eyebrows slanted with unspoken rage.
How did she do that? Tick could feel blood rushing in his temples, in his neck. What was she going to do to him?
Still, she said nothing. She didn’t move.
Tick couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Jane . . . Mistress Jane . . .” He was stuttering, searching for words. If his hands hadn’t been firmly holding onto the stair beneath him, they’d have been trembling uncontrollably. “I promise I didn’t mean to do whatever I did to you. I lost control—I don’t even know what I lost control of. My mind wasn’t working right. I don’t know what happened.”
He paused, hoping for a change on that mask. If anything, it looked angrier.