The Face in the House

42

It was too dark to see her, but he could see her perfectly.

Her scream was familiar, animalistic, furious, wretched, desperate, and full of hate. Her figure matched -- only vaguely human. He could see the suggestion of arms and legs, a torso and head. Everything in the middle was wrong, distorted in such a way that he knew her image was burned permanently in his brain. To look upon her was the feel with her, her very aura demanded that. He felt her rage, her anguish, her pain, and her twisted, murderous soul.

There were dark, deep pits where her eyes should be, but Malcolm had no doubt she could see everything around her. Her mouth gaped open in her everlasting scream, toothless, jaw painfully unhinged, as if she struggled against her own form to convey the magnitude of her pain. The burnt remnants of a nightgown failed to cover her body. Her feet hovered over the ground, with nails so long they curved like claws.

Stronger than the fury that emanated from the figure in waves, there was an incomprehensible power. Malcolm could feel it coming off of her, like she was made of it. She exuded power in her very substance, and he knew that she had been in the house all along, building strength, waiting for the moment she could appear and destroy them all.

That moment was now. He could feel the force of her draining them.

Poole continued to work on Owen, but the figure turned her full attention on him.

"You promised," she hissed, whispered somehow, though her scream never wavered.

Poole was knocked to the ground by the force of her, which hovered over him.

"I'm sorry . . . Arabella," Poole said, crying, shouting over the incessant shriek. "I failed you."

"I trusted you! You buried me! You buried me!" Her voice echoed and melted into the scream.

Malcolm fought the urge to cover his eyes -- he couldn't risk uncovering his ears.

"I'm sorry!" Poole sobbed.

"You buried me and I felt it . . . every passing second . . . you damned me, Edward Poole. You damned me! You damned me!"

Malcolm felt air leave his lungs in a violent gust. She was going to kill him, she was going to kill them all. The shriek alone would shred his brain, or he would suffocate - -whatever came first. He looked at Owen's body, still unmoving.

No. He wasn't going anywhere without Owen.

He fought against his instinct to hide, to cower from the monster. He stood, knees popping, a force beyond himself pressing down on him.

"Hey!" he shouted,and he realized in horror he had nothing to say. All he needed was a distraction, to give Poole the chance to finish the procedure.

He could deal with her.

She turned away from Poole and turned her horrible, all-seeing gaze toward him.

"You fool," she hissed, the whisper somehow louder than her scream. "He'll damn you too."

"Maybe you deserve to rot in hell," Malcolm shouted, voice barely breaking through the force of her being.

A noise that could only be a laugh emitted from the cavernous mouth, a cross between a girlish giggle and a death rattle.

Behind them, Poole was back on his feet, dutifully continuing his work on Owen. The sight of it brought Malcolm strength.

"You're afraid," he said, voice level despite the urgency in his chest.

She hissed and screamed and giggled, a horrifying, sickening combination.

"There's a power that lives in this house, that owns these grounds, older than you, stronger than you . . . !" he shouted so loud his throat burned.

He hardly knew what he was saying, but the words rang true. There was something else here. Something older than this being . . . this Arabella. Something old as the earth, something dark, but painless, unafraid.

She closed the gap between them, and he felt her hands on his throat, throttling him with an otherworldly strength.

"Death . . . will . . . take you," he croaked.

Her grip faltered, loosened the slightest degree.

"Let . . . it . . . take you," he said.

"No!"

The scream intensified as she let him go, tossing him away like a rag doll. His body slammed into the concrete wall, and he felt blood trickle from the back of his head. He felt his consciousness waver, the room tilted on its side.

But then Owen was in front of him, supporting Malcolm's head, holding it upright. Owen slapped him, hard.

"Are you with me?" Owen said, and his brother's concerned face came into focus.

"You smell like death," Malcolm said, then shook his head.

Owen laughed, still grimacing against the force of the woman. Arabella.

"It worked?" Malcolm's mind was still catching up with him. It was hard to think, it was hard to even breathe, with the maddening screaming echoing throughout the room.

"I think so," Owen said. "Only one way to find out. We have to get out of here."

Malcolm's heart dropped to his stomach at the prospect. Even with the murderous form of a woman screaming in his ear, sucking the very life out of his lungs, the idea of leaving the house put him in a state of utter and complete panic.

"Fight it, Mal," Owen said, still holding his head up. "Fight the feeling if you want to live."

But his voice sounded so far away.

And then Owen was gone - - knocked away by the woman of his nightmares. She had Owen suspended feet above the ground, pinned against the wall, her gaping mouth inching closer to his face. She was stealing his life, stealing him away, the thing he just got back.

Malcolm stood to fight, but he had nothing to fight her with. His knees were weak with fear and exhaustion, but before he could collapse, Poole was there, lifting him.

"She's buried here," he said, pushing a shovel into his hands. "You have to dig. Destroy her body. It's the only way to end this."

Malcolm just stared at him. His mind was working at a ten second delay.

"Dig. Now." Poole commanded, then ran toward Owen and Arabella.

The simple instruction was easier for his mind to process. He started digging, and soon the loose stone of the cellar gave way to thick, damp soil. He dug and dug and dug to avoid looking at anything else, comforted by the rhythm of the action. He couldn't have looked up if he tried, he was entranced by his endeavor. His mind protected itself against the fear of Arabella, against the fear of losing Owen.

The screaming didn't stop, but the sound was all he knew now. He dug and dug, covering himself in black dirt and sweat and blood as newly-formed blisters popped on his hands.

When he finally hit bone, and the shovel cracked backward, he was knocked from his trance. He could hear her shrieking again, louder than ever. The ancient bones of a woman were spread before him, half-unburied. He looked around him, soil walls surrounding him, and found he was deep in a grave of his own making.

Malcolm screamed a scream that rivaled Arabella's. He had dined with death each and every night he stayed at Thornewood House, but now that he saw its face, he knew he didn't want it. He wasn't ready. He wanted to live, he needed to live.

He needed to get the hell out of there.

"Malcolm!" Owen's voice, above him.

Owen helped him out of the grave, he had escaped Arabella's wrath. Behind them, Arabella was cornering Poole. Malcolm locked eyes with the butler, who nodded. His throat constricted.

"Let's go," Owen said, pulling him by the arm hard enough to bruise.

Malcolm didn't fight. He let his brother drag him toward the door.