“Where ya goin’, boy?” his father rasped into his ear.
Lance screamed and pulled his arm away. He felt his skin tear in his father’s grasp and he pitched forward, turning and bringing the gun up as he fell. The muzzle flash and roaring of the shot were simultaneous. As he skidded on his back, still in motion from the fall, he saw in the fire that flew from the end of the gun’s barrel that the room was empty.
His ears buzzing with the concussion of the report, Lance scrambled backward until he was in the light of the living room. The box of books had been pushed out of the doorway and now sat to one side, almost where it had before he entered the room. Lance’s chest heaved with panic, lungfuls of air discarded as soon as they were taken in. The shotgun still sat in his hands, the smoking barrel pointed at the dark rectangle before him.
The door began to swing shut and Lance’s finger twitched on the trigger. No shot exploded from the end of the barrel. In blind terror, he remembered he needed to rack another shell into the chamber, and did so just as the door met its frame and clicked closed.
Without another look back, he struggled to his feet and ran for the front door, snagging his key ring as he went.
He could feel something in his hand and he knew what it was before he looked. The knife gleamed in the light shining through the living-room windows. Its edge grinned up at him in a smile that said so many things. Wonderful things. It spoke to him, asking for something. He could almost hear its voice, a high singing sound of flesh unzipping. A clicking overrode the knife’s voice, and he looked up.
The door was opening again, but this time it held no fear for him, only anticipation. Lance felt himself gliding over the floor and into the room. The door shut behind him and he almost sighed with relief. He wasn’t alone here.
The room’s darkness didn’t impede his vision as he thought it would, and now he could see why. A large window had been cut into the far wall, giving the room an open feel and a breathtaking view of the lake. He could see a man standing knee-deep in the water, his back to the house. The window wavered for a moment, as if he were viewing it through high heat.
Something else had changed in the room. The chair now faced the window, and a woman sat bolt upright upon it, her arms fastened in the shackles. He didn’t need to see her face to know it was Mary.
The knife felt heavy in his hand as he approached her. Its tip pointed at her, as if to say, Yes, that one. As her features came into view, he was surprised to see that she looked calm. Her eyes rested on the lake outside the window, and even though blood seeped from wounds on her ankles and wrists beneath the steel that held her, she sat placidly.
“I’m not the one you know. You haven’t found her yet.” Her voice sounded dead, like something filtering out of a grave. He felt indecision sway the resolve that had been so strong mere seconds before.
“Who?” he asked.
Mary turned her head and looked at him. “You know who,” she said, her form blurring as she swam in and out of focus.
Movement to his right caught his attention, and he saw that his grandfather now stood on the far side of the chair. He still wore no clothes, and his eyes never left Lance, who felt air brush his shoulder.
“You’re more like me than you know, boy,” his father whispered beside him. “Got that anger down deep where it burns. Let it out, it’ll feel real good.”
Lance nodded, the words making so much sense. The knife had become a part of his hand now. He couldn’t imagine ever letting it go; it would be like losing a piece of himself. He looked down at the chair and saw his grandmother now sitting before him. Her translucent crown of hair wavered around her, as though she were floating in water. Her mouth hung open, and suddenly, all Lance wanted to do was cut her tongue out so she had a reason not to speak. He started forward, the blade catching the light, and stopped when she turned her head to look at him.