The Face in the House

20

Malcolm ran out of the house, practically dragging Owen to the car. It was still raining, but colder now. His bones felt wet.

He got in the car and started it up in one motion. He realized he was clenching his jaw.

"That was so fake," he said as he peeled the car onto the road.

His emotions were a confused knot of fear and anger. He couldn't deny that he had been afraid, that the performance had gotten under his skin. They had put on a good show, and that fact only angered him more.

Owen was silent, slumped against the window. He looked pale.

"It wasn't fake," Owen said quietly, as if half-asleep.

Malcolm glanced at his brother warily, then turned back to face the road. His hands gripped the steering wheel and his foot pressed the gas pedal. He wanted to put as much distance between them and that house as possible. As fast as possible.

"Whatever you say," Malcolm sighed.

The road was dark. He thought about the seance, wondered how they'd done it. Smoke? Lighting? Cleverly-placed mirrors? Probably a combination of the three. He was bitter that they'd tricked him, bitter that they'd frightened him. But most of all, he was bitter that they'd tricked his brother, reduced him to a small, scared child.

He felt the ring box that held the spider in his pocket. He had planned to release it in the house, to return it to its home. Now, he was embarrassed, ashamed he had ever believed at all. Still, the spider nagged at him. He wished he hadn't forgotten to leave it at the house. Now it sat, the box brushing against his leg, a reminder of the inexplicable. He could call the seance a clever bit of theater, but he still had no explanation for the spider. Fear crept up his spine.

Maybe I don't want to believe anymore, Malcolm thought, growing cold. Maybe I just want to go home.

Suddenly, Owen gasped beside him, startling Malcolm out of his thoughts.

"Whoa, you okay?" he said.

Owen gasped again, a choking, desperate influx of breath. Then he doubled over and vomited on his lap.

Malcolm nearly swerved off the road. He corrected as Owen groaned beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw his brother start to shake, his body seizing violently. He hit his head against the window, hard.

Sick panic roiled through him, blinding him. The world was dark as it flew by, faster, faster, faster. Owen's head continued to beat against the window, thud, thud, thud.

He slammed on the breaks, the car screeched to a stop in the middle of the road. He unbuckled his seatbelt with trembling hands and reached over Owen's convulsing body. He cradled his brother's head in his hands, hoping to stop the banging.

"Owen. Owen! Look at me," he said, and his voice sounded like a child's.

Owen's eyes rolled. Malcolm slapped him across the face.

"Hey, hey, hey, stay with me," he said, feeling his brother going limp. "Hey, stay with me!"

His voice twisted into a scream as Owen lost consciousness. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

"It's okay, it's okay, we're going to the hospital," he said to Owen, said to himself. "It's going to be okay."

But Owen wasn't breathing. Malcolm held his own breath to keep from sobbing, from screaming. He felt for Owen's pulse but he couldn't find one. He breathed air into his brother's lungs, but his body wouldn't accept it.