Clare frowned and made her way into the kitchen. “What old button?”
Eric was bent over the stove, his back to her. “The one on the counter.”
Clare’s gaze slid downward and a ripple of pure dread went through her center.
The coin was no longer a coin. In its place rested a large wooden button. It was old and pitted, the holes for the thread elongated with wear and time. She reached out to pick it up and stopped.
Eric turned from the stove and surveyed her. Clare cleared her throat, unable to look away from the button. “It was down by the beach. Thought it was neat and picked it up.”
“Cool. Looks pretty old.”
“Yeah, I think it is,” she heard herself say, and retreated to the living room. She was having trouble breathing, oxygen lodging like something solid in her throat. She leaned against the mantle and took another sip of wine. It helped and she drew in a long, shuddering breath. It had been a coin when she’d picked it up, she was sure of it. But now . . .
You’re losing your mind, a cold internal voice said. Just like your father was.
She drained the remainder of her glass, drowning out the voice in three long swallows. There were two possibilities about how a button was now sitting on the counter instead of the coin she’d found near the beach. One, the voice telling her she was losing her grip on reality was right. Her mental gears had slipped and resulted in a full-on hallucination, trigging the intrusive memory. Or two, somehow the coin had been swapped for the button.
Of course the second notion was insane in itself. No one had come into the house and switched it with a button. The security system had been armed and she’d been sitting right here almost the whole time.
So it was number one, then. Her eyes glazed as she watched the fire.
What she’d feared all her life had finally come to fruition. The past wasn’t finished with her. Since she’d escaped the cult’s final reckoning, her father hadn’t been able to fully fulfill his twisted prophecy all those years ago. But he was still reaching out beyond the grave, still manipulating and forcing his will on her—not physically, but through the ghost of his genes, of which there would be no running away from this time.
“Clare?”
She snapped free of her thoughts, coming back to the comforting confines of the living room. Eric stood in the kitchen, concern in his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“It’s ready.”
She stood and made her way into the dining room to a dinner she wasn’t hungry for.
Chapter Eight
Shadows capered on the ceiling like imps in some folktale better forgotten.
Clare watched them dance, eyes wide and sleepless. The remainder of the night drifted through her mind. Her lack of appetite, Eric’s attempts to draw her free of her malaise, the episode of their favorite show flat and meaningless. All she could concentrate on was the idea that she might be losing her grip on reality. As she’d watched the television characters trundle through the plot she wondered if she could really trust what she was seeing. If her consciousness had come unmoored from reality, from the here and now, how could she know if something was real or not?
She glanced at Eric, who slept soundly beside her. He’d tried to initiate sex when they’d finally gone to bed, his lips gently moving up her bare shoulder to the spot just below her ear that normally drove her wild, but she’d brushed him off with a kiss and apologized quietly. When she’d rolled away he’d nestled in behind her, holding her close until he’d fallen asleep and she’d separated herself as to not disturb him. She had a momentary urge to wake him and tell him everything, expose her fears of what was happening, but just as quickly the impulse passed. What would he say if she told him she was losing her hold on sanity? What would he do? The biggest part of her believed he wouldn’t even blink, that he’d fall into the calm mode of calculation and problem solving he operated in day in and day out. That he would love her no matter what her state of mind. But a smaller, uglier part of her believed the opposite. She imagined him turning away, of leaving her on her own. And though that part of her was the minority, its voice was so much louder than anything else.
A car rolled by on the street. The Millers’ dog barked once and was quiet. The whole world seemed asleep except for her. She reflected that the loneliness accompanying insomnia was of a special breed. It hollowed you out and made you feel not only empty, but also wronged, since the elemental gift of sleep had been denied.
She turned over. Then flipped back the other way. Her head ached from the wine and her thoughts were an endless merry-go-round. Shanna’s face surfaced in her memory and she stilled, letting the recollection drift fully into view.
They’d been in Shanna’s bedroom, the walls a drab beige, her narrow bed, a simple bookshelf, and the desk where Shanna did her Bible studies the only adornments. Mrs. Mary, Shanna’s homemade stuffed bear, sat on the bed, watching them with dark button eyes. She was holding Shanna’s hands in her own, the little girl’s eyes wide as Clare spoke in a hushed whisper, telling her what she’d seen their father doing in the basement earlier that day. She wondered then, as she did now, if she’d gotten through at all to the younger girl. Or had the indoctrination been so deeply ingrained there’d been no chance of convincing her she was in danger? That they both were.
As she’d begun circling the idea of running away, a board creaked outside the room and she’d frozen, cutting off the words in mid-breath. Sing, she’d mouthed to Shanna, and they began to sing the hymn they’d learned the day before. She’d watched the two stripes of shadow beneath the door linger for nearly a minute before sidling away. And her fingers hurt from gripping her sister’s hand, the will to continue the song flowing through her touch.
“We sang in the dark,” she breathed to the quiet bedroom, and a chill crept through her as if a window unto winter had been opened.
She slid free of the bed and walked into the bathroom, needing to move. At the window she raised the blind and looked out onto their street, a sudden premonition the twisted man would be standing there, staring up at her, so strong she nearly lurched back from the glass.
But the street was empty, shadow-dappled yards devoid of movement. She thought of the button still resting on the counter downstairs and felt its pull like a magnet. What would it be if she went down there right now? Would it still be the tarnished button, or would it be the coin, its cross replaced by an open eye looking directly through her?
Clare shook herself free of the notion, but part of her wanted to go and check, make sure the button hadn’t changed somehow in the dark. Maybe she’d sit up for the night and keep her phone handy in case the twisted man came back. Then she could prove he was real. Not so much to Eric, but to herself.
No. She wasn’t going to give in to compulsions. It would only send her further down the rabbit hole of doubt and fear. Besides, it was late and sleep no longer felt like an indistinct island in the distance she would never reach.
When she returned to bed the sheets were cool on her side while Eric radiated heat from his. The contrast was comforting and she settled deeply below the covers, finally feeling weariness overtake her continuous thoughts.
Light pried gray fingers beneath her eyelids and she blinked.