Part 3 (2/2)

”That b.u.m took off twenty-five years ago.” Charlie shook his head. ”Told Mom he was going out for a pack of cigarettes. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”

”Mmm-humm. Goodnight.”

Charlie stared at the ceiling for fifteen minutes. Sleep wasn't coming back so easily. ”Megs, I'm a little restless, gonna watch some TV.”

”Make sure you come back,” she muttered, half asleep.

He hopped to the floor. ”Funny.” A nice gla.s.s of milk. That'll help me sleep. He walked to the kitchen, poured a gla.s.s, and listened. The house was still, only the occasional groaning of old wood and whispering ventilation. Charlie stood at the sink with his gla.s.s of milk, imagining people in the dark shadows outside. Nonsense.

But-it won't hurt to check.

After swallowing the last few gulps of milk, Charlie hurried down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. All was quiet, a deep blue silence that hung like old drapes over everything. He flicked on a light and squinted with the bright flare. The room smelled different. Old. A memory sputtered in Charlie's brain.

He worked his way around the bas.e.m.e.nt, past the unused exercise machine, the ancient console TV, the stacks of boxes-books that never made it out after their last move. He stooped and snagged a book from the nearest one, held it to his nose, and inhaled. No. The bas.e.m.e.nt smell was different the musty odor of old paper. My bas.e.m.e.nt, back home-the old house on Lindbergh. Charlie shuddered at the sudden memory.

In the laundry room he found a door. Pulling his pajama collar against the cold, his feet nearly frozen to the concrete, Charlie stepped closer. Funny, I don't remember... One hand touched the k.n.o.b; the bra.s.s was warm, out of place. He turned the k.n.o.b and pulled the door open without thinking. A few feeble rays of light poked through the doorway, but couldn't really penetrate the black veil.

He found himself through the door before having the thought to go in. Devoured by a new darkness, a more complete quiet, Charlie Pinder said ”h.e.l.lo” to puncture the silence.

”Thank G.o.d, Charlie.” The voice was raw, wet and raspy. An old man's voice. Charlie felt a boney hand clasp his arm. ”Free at last,” the voice said. The hand released him. Charlie heard a door click shut. The room fell to black again.

Charlie waited for a moment. His eyes did not adjust; no tiny beam of light streamed in to reveal his prison. After a while, he groped about on his hands and knees, touching the edges of the room, finding each corner, wall, and crevice. The door was gone. He sat down.

Someone will come and find me.

Chapter 18: Unchecked Expansion.

The sound of breaking gla.s.s yanks Curt from his sleep. Bolting upright in bed, he turns to face Gail, her eyes also blown wide with surprise.

”Downstairs,” he mutters.

She nods.

”A burglar?”

”Maybe,” she whispers. Without taking her eyes from her husband, she fumbles for the cell phone on the nightstand beside her. ”911...”

Curt hops out of bed.

”Curt,” she pleads.

”I have to check.” His scowl says too much: Three tours in Iraq and I come home to some sc.u.mbag in my own home. There's your freedom. He ignores her voice chattering into the phone. At the top of the stairs he pauses and listens for another sound. Nothing. The house is cold.

Too cold.

Curt takes the stairs one at a time, his ears ready the whole time. He wishes for the 9mm in his nightstand drawer, the one Gail isn't fond of, especially loaded with a four-year-old in the house.

He hears the other sound when he reaches the first floor. Wind?

The thing is on the kitchen floor, swollen and blue, stretching across the room. The small table they'd inherited from her parents is clearly broken, smashed under the thing's weight. One leg juts out at a strange angle. The kitchen window above the sink is broken, and chill breeze cuts through the opening.

Curt spies a slip of cardboard on the floor, approaches carefully and picks it up. The blue thing undulates like jelly after someone taps the side of the jar. He can almost hear it breathe.

The slip of cardboard is from the package. They'd bought the Magic Growth Sponge at the checkstand earlier that day to keep Sophia quiet. She'd begged; he'd given in. It was supposed to grow into a cow after soaking in water. A f.u.c.king cow.

Curt read the label in the dim moonlight: Continuous Growth.

The thing swells...

”Bring the gun, Gail.”

Chapter 19: Thaw.

He woke from the dream and immediately rolled over to find her, but she was gone. His hand found damp sheets and a soaked mattress.

”Molly?” His heart thrum-thrummed in his chest, and he feared the silent house would be the only answer.

”In the kitchen,” she called.

He hopped from the bed, nearly skidding into the wall when his socks slipped on the hardwood.

She was there, standing at the kitchen window, her white arms folded across her chest.

”I had a dream.” He reached out and touched her shoulder. His eyes sank to the puddle on the floor at her feet. ”I was worried about this.”

Her eyes, walnut brown so dark they often looked black, stayed on the window. ”Nothing's melting out there.”

He pulled his hand back. He'd expected a puff of frost as she spoke, but nothing. His mouth opened and closed while he tried to find the right words. ”Look--don't go. I'll turn off the heat.

Wear my coat. Just--just don't leave me, okay?”

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