The Face in the House

29

After that night, it was an unspoken agreement that they would continue to host seances. They were tense, and they proceeded with the utmost caution. Malcolm thought Teddy was going to check every guest's pulse every thirty seconds, and they all made pains to tone down the scare-factor.

They celebrated indulgently after the next seance, when they ushered the guests out the door with all of their lives intact. Once four or five more sessions went off without a hitch, the tenants of Thornewood House finally felt that they could breathe a sigh of relief.

Frankly, business was booming. Malcolm could hardly believe the word-of-mouth buzz they were generating in nearby towns. Murmurings of a woman who had been scared to death during a seance likely had something to do with the heightened popularity, something Malcolm chose to believe was talked of as an urban legend. They had so many inquiries, they were forced to develop a waiting list. They hosted seances almost every night of the week, except Sunday, which was spent counting their earnings and planning their Next Big Thing. Teddy was always looking for ways to keep the show fresh and exciting, especially as they started seeing repeat customers.

One Sunday, Malcolm lounged in the upstairs bedroom. It was early evening, and the sun was nearly set, not that it made much difference what time it was to those at Thornewood House. There, Malcolm thought, it always felt like the dead of night. He was reading an old book he'd snagged from one of the house's many, towering stacks. The book wasn't doing it for him. The story was as dry and dusty as the old paperback smelled, and he yearned for internet connection. He had always wanted to be a book nerd, but video games had always been his preferred pastime.

His mind drifted away from the page. Owen seemed happier the past few days, he'd noticed. He was starting to look more like his old self, before the stroke, before the trip . . . before he got sick, even. It occurred to him then how his brother must feel, to be released from illness and the weakness of recovery. A soul, unbound to any mortal flesh, any mortal affliction. It sounded . . . oddly nice.

The thought took him to an uncomfortable place. He shifted gears, wondered what Poole was up to in the basement. No matter where his mind shifted, it landed on death. Dead brother. Dead butler. There was no escaping it in the house. The house had a way of making you wonder why you'd ever want to escape it.

A scent caught his nose, rousing him from his spiraling thoughts. He wondered if someone was baking -- it smelled so much like burnt sugar -- until it intensified so unnaturally as to put him on edge. He laid the book on the bedside table and sat up in bed. His head swam against the smell, sweet to the point of nausea. The roon spun around him, and he closed his eyes to keep from vomiting.

Then he heard it: an animal sound, shrieking, wailing, crying, growling . . . it was soft at first, far away, until it intensified and filled his head. It was pure desperation, a blood-curdling, bone-chilling, grave-pulling cry. He put his hands against his ears, trying to block it out, but it came from inside his skull. He fell to his knees, numb to the pain of the impact, and pulled at his hair, certain that if the noise didn't stop it would shred his brain to pieces. He opened his eyes and saw a figure before him, standing in the darkness, stiff and still. He shut his eyes against it.

A new noise joined the hellscape, a deeper cry but just as desperate, just as inhuman. It grew louder, and louder, and louder until it drowned out the other, took the place of it, and he nearly let it take his mind, take his consciousness, when he realized it was him, screaming in utter terror.

"Malcolm," a voice called.

The screaming stopped. The strange smell dissolved. He was on the floor, panting and sweating.

"Malcolm, can you tell me what happened?"

He opened his eyes and found Poole looming over him. His arm was around Malcolm's neck, supporting his head like a pillow against the hard floor. His other hand laid upon his chest. Malcolm wondered if he was dreaming.

"Can you hear me?" Poole said.

Malcolm blinked as the memory surfaced. It was fuzzy, the intensity of what happened was already wearing off, as if it had all been a dream.

"I'm okay," he managed. He tried to sit up, but his head pounded.

"Sit still. Your brother's gone to fetch some ice for that," Poole said.

Malcolm nodded and rested back against the butler's arm. It was warm. Weren't dead things supposed to be cold? he wondered.

Snickers was perched on the bed. When Malcolm looked up, the cat promptly left the room, as if he were just checking to make sure he wasn't dead.

"I'm . . . not sure what happened," he said. "I was reading, and then I smelled something, and then I heard . . . screaming."

Poole nodded. "Yes, that was you, I believe."

Malcolm sighed. "Right, I got that."

Poole leaned over him, as if inspecting his face. Malcolm's breath caught in his throat. Poole took his free hand and brushed lightly over Malcolm's eyebrow. The feel of his touch sent a thrilling shiver up his spine. Their eyes locked. He saw a gentleness in the butler's eyes, a vulnerability that surprised him. When he took his hand away, there was a smear of blood on his finger.

They sat like that, comfortable in this warm discomfort. They broke apart when Owen entered the room with ice. Teddy followed close behind, her forehead creased with concern.

"Is he okay?" Owen said as he rushed toward them.

"I'm okay," Malcolm said, and gave his brother a reassuring smile.

He took the ice and placed it on his pounding head. Everyone surrounded him, which made him feel both loved and nervous. They informed him that he had fallen head-first against the hardwood floor.

"What happened, though?" Teddy asked.

"You said you smelled something?" Poole pressed.

"Y-Yeah, and I heard something too. Before I screamed, I heard something else . . ." Malcolm said, struggling to find the right words. "It was like an animal dying or something. I couldn't get it out of my head."

He shuddered. Owen looked worried. Poole looked grave.

"The smell," Teddy said, her voice just above a whisper. "Was it . . . like honey? But awful?"

The description matched reality better than he could've managed.

"Yes, exactly. Exactly like that."

Silence followed. Their gazes drifted from each other's worried faces, to the floor, to the ceiling.

"There are many things about this house," Poole said, breaking the silence, "that no living, or once-living, creature could even begin to understand."

Later, the tenants of Thornewood House convened in the seance room. The commotion was enough to put everyone on edge, and no one wanted to sleep alone. Teddy lounged in the upholstered chair, Owen sprawled out on the rug beside it, and Malcolm took the couch, at everyone's behest. That night, no one spoke the word "seance." Instead, they talked about their favorite games, swapped dating horror stories, and discussed which TV shows they'd watch if they had cable. The sleepy conversation took everyone's minds away from Thornewood.

Soon, the group quieted as they drifted off to sleep. Malcolm rested his eyes, he could hear Teddy's deep, restful breathing, and Owen's gentle snore. He nearly drifted off to sleep himself, when he was interrupted. He opened his eyes and saw Poole standing over them. Malcolm watched as the butler draped a blanket over Teddy, another over Owen. When Poole came to Malcolm, he paused.

"I thought you were asleep," the butler said in a whisper.

"I am," Malcolm said, and he wanted to believe it. In dreams, he could be as daring as he wanted to be.

"Oh?" the butler said.

Malcolm pretended to be dreaming as he reached out and touched Poole's hand.