Her mind bent away from the possibility that House put it right here, for her to see.
I can reach you anywhere, it was saying. Even in this safe room.
In the middle of the night even, her own fear echoed back. When you think you’re alone, it reminded her.
No, she thought in rebellion. Maybe the House did take it, but surely Gavin saw it somewhere—maybe on the piano, maybe in the kitchen—and knew it belonged to Belinda Blue. He brought it in here, into his sanctuary, to keep it safe. House wasn’t above being threatening like that—Delilah wasn’t lying to herself about that anymore—but this was Gavin’s safe space at home.
Taking a step closer, Delilah pulled up short just before reaching for the fawn, distracted by a small bubble in the paint. A trick of the light or a hiccup in her mind made her think for a beat that it had moved from lower on the wall to just below her line of sight. Blinking, she looked back up at the fawn, reaching for it on the windowsill. Just beneath her hand, the bubble moved again, a tiny ripple skirting sideways barely a centimeter.
The bubble definitely moved, Delilah thought, heart punching her breastbone, blood rushing so fast in her veins that she felt dizzy, nearly manic.
Reaching forward, she touched the small blister with barely a fingertip to quiet her suspicions. It felt odd beneath her skin, more like stone than plaster or paint, and with a relieved exhale, she pushed a little harder, just to be sure.
But with the added pressure, the bubble gave, indenting the tiniest bit before it cracked open with a sickeningly wet squelch, and before Delilah had a chance to process what she was seeing, her hand was covered in scores of tiny, glossy black roaches. They spilled over her hand, between her fingers, and into her palm, thousands of feet making a tiny scratching noise on her skin, exploding up her arms and over her shoulders in a wave that sounded like a roar, scurrying into her hair.
Delilah screamed, throwing her arms, shoving her fingers in her hair to tear at the bugs, but there were so many. They were so small; she could feel their feet, could hear them on her skin. She felt the cold stream of them down her forehead, over her closed eyes, and slammed her mouth shut just before they began pushing, pushing, pushing at her lips.
In her shirt. Down her legs. She was covered, her skin pulsing from the outside in with their frantic scurrying. Finally, unable to take it a second more—they were still coming out of the wall, an endless stream; were they going to eat her?—Delilah opened her mouth, crying out in terror, running to the door and throwing her shoulder against it, hurtling herself out into the hallway.
But. . . she wasn’t in the hallway at all. She’d left the bathroom only to enter a room she’d never seen before, with walls lined floor to ceiling with dusty books, a desk. It smelled old and stale with damp paper and the cloying scent of decay. Delilah could barely see past the creatures covering her face, but in the corner she caught a flash of a figure, hunched and dark, and she screamed, sprinting to the far end of the room to open another door that led her only into the nursery. Door after door she tried, wailing for Gavin, trying in vain to push the roaches from her skin. Where was he? What was she seeing? She tore open a door that opened to a brick wall. A door beside it opened to a mirror, revealing the horror of her body, covered head to toe in inky, slithering black.
She whipped around, running back into the strange library and feeling along the wall until she found another doorknob. It turned easily, flying open in the wind to a forty-foot drop directly onto the concrete below. Wind roared around her, pulling her off balance as the cold night air hit her face. Delilah jumped back from the ledge, gasping in terror.