Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
The switch on the circular saw is faulty.
It turns on by itself sometimes, even the Januarys commented on that at Thanksgiving, their tones blithe and mocking at the boy trying to fix an impossibly ruinous house.
Trying to fix an impossibly ruinous girl.
The saw has turned itself on.
She did nothing wrong.
She simply watches as the house screams and screams around them and blood like clotted sour milk hits her face and runs down her cheeks as the hot tears she cannot cry.
There is a monster in the basement; she has been here all along. Immortalized in mold-furred photos, her eyes bitten out by black rot.
If they ask, she can explain what happened—a faulty saw, the switch turned itself on. A faulty saw, the switch—
your fault
the
switch
your fault
turned itself on
she did nothing wrong she did nothing wrong she loves him she loves him
The saw roars up his chest, the blade spinning as it chews right through shirt and buttons and up to his throat, slicing up as he lurches backward.
Cloth and ribbons of skin catch in the metal teeth until it stalls with a garish, metallic clunk.
It cuts across his face. There is a flash of cheekbone before all she can see is blood and all she can hear is the screaming, the endless, electric screaming, which comes not from the walls after all.
Her hands clap over her mouth and her knees buckle as he falls, his body folding in on the saw, the soft parts of him all opened up for ribbons of red to slither out.
He is all over the floor. Soaking into the soiled, mildewy water.
The house laps greedily, surprised and pleased by this unexpected offering.
It thought it was getting her.
She’s still screaming through her fingers as she looks at him. His face is in the water. He’ll drown.
Roll him over.
No, she can’t touch him, can’t look, she can’t—
The screaming cuts off abruptly and she stands there, poised in listless grace, a snapshot of a ballerina on pointe as the curtains close on the tragedy of the third act.
Around them the walls pulse, thick and mucousy, heartbeat picked up to fervent speeds over the glory of this ravaged moment.
The house contracts, narrowing the basement like a swollen throat, intestines stirring for digestion as liquid spouts from the walls and begins to pour onto the already saturated floor.
She didn’t want this. She never wanted this. The faulty switch— It was—
your fault
There is the smallest whimper.
She looks up.
Jude stands a few feet behind Bren, and she realizes with a detached sort of horror that he was there the whole time, creeping closer because he wanted Bren.
Blood freckles Jude’s small face, soaks the front of that colorful striped sweater, circles his mouth as if he, too, has gorged himself at the house’s bidding. His trembling hands flutter near his eyes as he stares down at Bren.
Then he starts screaming.
It’s angelic, almost, this high, plaintive wail piercing the stillness that had fast settled over the basement. It is a knife, slid into her ribs, rooting around for the softest meat to shred before it pulls out. Her baby is scared. She must do something.
Pick him up.
Movement snaps back into Elodie with a rush of oxygen to her dizzy brain and she moves, wild and wolfish.
She lunges around Bren and snatches Jude into her shaking arms. At first, she thinks he’ll fight, but he is a malleable thing, his legs knotting around her waist without hesitation.
She pushes his face to her shoulder, though it’s a pointless gesture by now.
He has already seen everything.
And he saw who did it.
She runs up the slick concrete stairs, her heart a torn-up, liquid beat in her mouth, and she explodes out of the pantry. Red prints follow in her wake. A crazed, hot fear lives in her now, and she cannot think past the need to get out, get out, get out—
With Jude still clutched to her chest, she bolts for the front door, snatching at the knob and letting out a muted snarl when it doesn’t open.
Keys, she needs keys. Predictable in the comfort of his home, Bren has done as he always does and dropped his keys on the little hall table.
She grabs them, but not a single key fits in the lock.
The house doesn’t want them to leave.
Dry, sick sobs rack her entire body as she stumbles, half trips, toward the stairs and then staggers up them, Jude’s weight suddenly mountainous in her arms. Everything is wet.
The floor, the walls. They stream with water as if a faucet has been left on—or a maw yawns wide while saliva runs down jaws toward the morsels it means to swallow.
With one last push of frenetic energy, she runs into the master bedroom and slams the door.
Locks it. She plunges into the en suite and climbs into the claw-foot tub, keeping Jude tight to her as she sinks down against the cold porcelain.
His screaming has stopped, damp little hiccups escaping from his shuddering body.
She croons to him, kissing the top of his head and rocking gently as the bathroom encases them in a hollow quiet. Tend to Jude; that’s all that matters now. When she nuzzles his cheek again, she tastes the copper of Bren’s blood.
She rocks and rocks him, humming something that could be a lullaby if not for the unsteady lurch of her hoarse voice.
“Mama has you,” she whispers. “Nothing will get you.”
She will tell no one what happened. They’ll simply vanish in the night, taking Bren’s car as far as they dare and then abandoning it for buses and trains.
if the house lets you go
Jude lays his head on her breast, his breathing hitching.
Delusion has eaten her up. What is she thinking?
They will never leave this house, not when it has tasted them and wants the rest of the meat it hasn’t yet sucked off their bones.
When their absence is noted, when Bren doesn’t come into work and Ava grows worried, people will come to the house.
They’ll break down the door. They’ll see all she has done and they will blame her.
She will be torn from Jude; she will never see him again.
And then they will ask her son what happened.
did the saw turn on by itself or did your mother—
A soft, aching dusk has crept across the house and even as the world tilts toward night, Elodie’s eyes remain dry, her heart calming to a dull, steady beat.
She rests her cheek against the top of her son’s head, rocking in a slow, gentle rhythm.
He fits against her like a puzzle box. He is made of her, his lungs sewn from hers, her heart only beating because his does. He is hers only.
He is never allowed to be Bren’s.
“We’ll have a bath.” She is calm; she is controlled. She stares at the blood sliding down the wall and she does not blink. “Then Mama will make you some nice warm soup.”