The Face in the House

23

Everything felt heavy. Not his body — he wasn't in a state to feel something so solid — but everything around him. 

As murky sleep faded slowly from his mind, and before wakefulness could flood him, he imagined he was at the bottom of an ocean. A dark ocean. He supposed he must be dead, because his lungs didn't struggle or burn or burst with water. And he didn't feel cold.

Everything just felt heavy.

He lingered in the black ocean a while longer, even after memories of the night started to leak inside his brain, disturbing his strange, gloomy peace. It wasn't until a chill touched his spine that he allowed the leak to burst into a roaring breach.

His heart raced. His breathing quickened. His limbs stiffened.

Malcolm was awake. And he was afraid.

When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see the dark ocean from his dreams, thick and inky all around him. But as his eyes adjusted, he started to make out shapes. A chest of drawers against the far wall. Stacks of boxes to his right. A bed, identical to his, to his left. And beside it stood . . . what?

Like everything else in the room, it was nothing more than a silhouette, a darker blob in a sea of darkness. The only difference with this particular blob was that he couldn't quite make sense of it. He stared at the figure, tall and thin, a while longer, trying to make it make sense.

It wasn't until the figure moved that Malcolm sprung out of bed, limbs tingling with adrenaline, heart racing with fear. In the same moment, reality hit him, swept over him like a wave.

Owen.

"It's okay, it's okay," a voice said through the darkness.

Owen was dead.

Owen died.

Malcolm let his body sink back into bed, the voice of his dead brother strangely calming his fright.

Dead brother.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Owen continued, voice just above a whisper. "It's uh . . . kind of hard not to. Considering."

Malcolm watched the figure move tentatively towards him. At this distance, Malcolm could just make out his brother's features between the shadows. He looked . . . afraid.

Malcolm cleared his throat. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was standing over his brother's body in a casket. Any last words? He didn't know what to say. Nothing he could say would be enough.

So, he went with: "So . . . he did it? He brought you back?"

Owen nodded.

Malcolm swallowed. His tongue felt too big.

"How do you feel?" His voice came out in a whisper.

Owen was silent for a moment. Somehow, Malcolm thought, the silence was shockingly loud. It felt full in his ears.

"Itchy," Owen said finally.

"Itchy?"

Owen was quiet again, and the agonizing emptiness returned to Malcolm's ears.

"I thought I lost you," Malcolm said, and his voice cracked. Tears spilled.

He felt his brother climb onto the bed, felt his arms embrace him.

Malcolm sobbed. It was a pure, unrestrained release of emotion.

The tears fell in quick, racing rivers down his face, into his mouth. The saltwater filled the room from floor to ceiling, until Malcolm drowned again at the very bottom of that black, black ocean.