Malorie looks to the other housemates. Then back at Tom.
“You guys believe that there are creatures out there?”
“Yes,” Tom says. “George, the man who owned this house, he saw one. Just before he died.”
Malorie doesn’t know what to say. She instinctively brings a hand to her belly.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” Tom says. “And I’ll tell you George’s story soon. But the radio has been saying the same thing. I think it’s a consensus now. Something living is doing this to us. And it only takes seeing one for a second, maybe less.”
Everything in the room seems to get darker for Malorie. She feels dizzy, light-headed.
“Whatever they are,” Tom says, “our minds can’t understand them. They’re like infinity, it seems. Something too complex for us to comprehend. Do you see?”
Tom’s words are getting lost somehow for Malorie. Victor pants heavily at Jules’s feet. Cheryl is asking if she is okay. Tom is still speaking.
Creatures . . . infinity . . . our minds have ceilings, Malorie . . . these things . . . they are beyond it . . . higher than it . . . out of reach . . . out of—
But here, Malorie faints.
eight
Malorie wakes in her new bedroom. It is dark. For one blessed moment, the last one she experiences, Malorie wakes with the idea that all of this news about creatures and madness was only some nightmare. Foggily, she remembers Riverbridge, Tom, Victor, the drive, but none of it becomes clear until, staring at the ceiling, she realizes that she’s never woken in this room before.
And Shannon is still dead.
Sitting up in bed slowly, she looks to the room’s one window. A black blanket is nailed into the wall, keeping her safe from the outside world. Beyond her feet, there is an old vanity. Its pink color is faded but the mirror looks clean. In it, she is paler than usual. Because of this, her black hair looks even blacker. At the base of the mirror are extra nails, screws, a hammer, and a wrench. Except for her bed, this is the extent of the furnishings.
Rising, she swings her feet over the mattress’s edge and sees, on the gray-carpeted floor, a second black blanket, folded neatly. It’s a spare, she thinks. Beside it is a small stack of books.
Facing the bedroom’s door, Malorie hears voices coming from downstairs. She does not know these people yet, and she can’t place who is speaking unless it’s Cheryl, the only woman, or Tom, whose voice will guide her for years.
When she stands up, the carpet is coarse and old beneath her feet. She crosses the bedroom and peers into the hall. She feels okay. Rested. She’s not dizzy anymore. Wearing the same clothes she passed out in the night before, Malorie makes her way down the stairs to the living room.
Just before she reaches the wooden floor, Jules passes, carrying a pile of clothes.
“Hi,” he says, nodding. Malorie watches as he walks to the bathroom down the hall. There, she hears him dunking the clothes in a bucket of water.
When she turns toward the kitchen, she sees Cheryl and Don at the sink. Malorie enters the kitchen as Don pulls a glass from a bucket. Cheryl hears her and turns around.
“You worried us last night,” she says. “Are you feeling better?”
Malorie, realizing now that she fainted the night before, turns a little red.
“Yes, I’m okay. Just a lot to take in.”
“It was like that for all of us,” Don says. “But you’ll get used to it. Soon, you’ll be saying we live a life of luxury.”
“Don’s a cynic,” Cheryl says good-naturedly.
“I’m really not,” Don says. “I love it here.”
Malorie jumps as Victor licks her hand. As she kneels to pet him, she hears music come from the dining room. She crosses the kitchen and peers inside. The room is empty, but the radio is on.
She looks back to Cheryl and Don at the sink. Beyond them is a cellar door. Malorie is about to ask about it when she hears Felix’s voice coming from the living room. He is reciting the home’s address.
“. . . Two seventy-three Shillingham . . . my name is Felix . . . we’re looking for anyone else who is alive . . . surviving . . .”
Malorie peeks her head into the living room. Felix is using the landline.
“He’s calling random phone numbers.”
Malorie jumps again, this time at the sound of Tom’s voice, who is now peering into the living room with her.
“We don’t have a phone book?” she asks.
“No. It’s a constant source of frustration for me.”
Felix is dialing another number. Tom, holding a piece of paper and pencil, asks, “Want to see the cellar with me?”
Malorie follows him through the kitchen.
“Are you going to take stock?” Don asks as Tom opens the cellar door.
“Yeah.”
“Let me know what the numbers are.”
“Sure.”