Amity (21 page)

I smiled.

Jules let go of my arms. Behind me, I heard her retch. “What the hell?” she asked again, her voice kind of choked.

That static was back, a hornets’ nest in my head. “I didn’t—”I stopped.

I didn’t do this
was on the tip of my tongue, just a reflex, really, but the truth was …

I couldn’t remember.

Maybe I did.

“I’m going to be sick.” Jules moaned, running out the back of the boathouse to the edge of the dock and leaning over just in time. She dropped down to her knees and spewed for real this time, shoulders heaving all up.

I heard a bang.
The shotgun
, I thought, and then realized—
of course
—the boathouse door just slammed shut behind us.
Of course, of course. Amity
.

I heard a cracking sound. It was the dock, and the snap it made when it split in two was way brighter, louder, than you would’ve expected that old, soggy wood could make.

There was another scream. It took me a minute to get that it was Jules again, louder even than when she saw the squirrels.

I watched as she plunged from the dock into the water and down.

EVEN HEARING JULES HIT THE WATER
, for a second there, I was still mostly interested in the squirrels. Wondering what happened to them, I mean. Whether
I
happened to them.

It’s not like it would’ve been the first time, you know?

So I was kind of caught up for a second or two, like not paying attention so much to my sister. But then there was that sharp, snapping sound, and that cut-off shriek, and then a splash, and I understood that the river, she had Jules.

Which was maybe the one thing that could have pulled me back, away from the squirrels.

I rushed out the back door onto the dock. I could see the jagged edge of plank where the dock broke off, where Jules fell. I dropped down, just like Jules had, and saw her flailing, hair coming loose and fanning out all around, right under the surface of the water. She tilted her head back and just broke the surface, but when she opened her mouth to call to me, the river rushed in, choking her off. She sputtered, slapping her arms up and down again, her eyes getting wide and nervous.

She could swim, but just barely. It was the same with me.

The shovel
, I thought, and ran back for it.

I HELD IT OUT TO HER, AND JULES GRABBED AT IT
, desperate. She caught the slime-streaked blade and wrapped her hands around it. She kicked and coughed and I pulled, throwing my whole body into it.

Jules squawked my name once, twice, then disappeared under again, her fingers pressing hard into the metal, turning white.

There was a pull on the other end of the shovel, like someone had Jules by the legs and wasn’t going to let her back up on the dock, back up to me.

Amity
. I could feel her power in the air all around us. The static in my head was louder now and, for a minute, I thought about just letting go—just leaving the shovel to sink, and Jules along with it.

For whatever reason, Amity wanted her gone. I thought that was enough for me.

I uncurled my fingers and let the shovel go a little bit slack.

With one hand, Jules slapped at the water, fingers waving panicky now, bubbles rising from where her hair streamed out like a big, gaping wound.

Jules
. This was
Jules
in the water, underwater, drowning. The one thing—
person
, I reminded myself,
person
, not
thing
—I couldn’t let Amity take.

I grunted, trying to concentrate and push through that buzz, bracing myself. I slid forward as far as I could, thinking I was for sure following Jules into the water any minute.

Of course, if I did, whatever was wrapped around her legs would welcome me. Would help me back to shore. What Amity wanted from me was different.

Maybe there was a reason Jules was being held under, being held back, you know? Like a good
reason
Amity wanted her, in that different way, I mean. Wanted to destroy her.

That buzz inside, it burned at me, saying maybe Jules was
supposed
to stay under, was supposed to be buried. Supposed to be part of the Concord, of Amity, that way.

Her fingers twitched against the shovel and I blinked. A bottle rocket exploded in my temples.

I shook my head and opened my eyes, breathing hard.

Jules
.

This was
Jules
. In the water. The one thing—
person
!—I couldn’t let Amity take.

I flexed my elbows, yanking her back with all of my strength, everything I had in me.

HER ARMS BROKE THE SURFACE FIRST
, white as bone, and then her face, turned up to the sky and gasping huge swallows of air. Her T-shirt clung and her shorts were soaked, sagging low as I pulled her over the edge of the dock. Once we were safe—steady, I mean—she flopped over, barely looking me in the eye.

She looked worn-out. Dead, almost, like something dragged back from beyond. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and I thought, again, how maybe she was
meant
to be drowned. That buzz sparked behind my ears, the corners of my mouth wanting to jerk up again, wanting to grin.

She coughed. “Something was pulling on me,” she said. “Something was keeping me under there.” Her voice was flat.

“Come on.” I gave her my most blank, most not-real face. I didn’t usually do that with Jules, but the static, it was pounding now. It felt like that blank look was all I could handle. “That’s nuts. Like what?”

Her face tensed like she knew I was bullshitting her. “You didn’t come after me. Not right away.”

I couldn’t think of what to say to that. I mean, I pulled her up, right? Eventually? I didn’t let Amity take her.

After a second, Jules started to cry, big heaving sobs that made her whole body shake. “You didn’t come after me,” she mumbled again, her voice thick.

Usually Jules’s crying just breaks me in half. But right now anger flared red behind my eyes. I pulled her back up finally. Even though Amity wanted her. And here she was, still whining.

I hated her for a moment.

I was thinking I should have maybe let her go.

Ignoring her sniveling, I picked up the shovel and walked back up the hill to the house.

Back to Amity.

NOW

DAY 16

LUKE HAD TAKEN
to sleeping in the basement.

By our third week at Amity, this had become his regular practice. Mom and Dad didn’t comment on it—at least, not to me. I was too fragile for their nervous speculations, of course.

I had my own opinions on the phenomenon, nonetheless. It seemed an odd choice, given how dank the basement was, smelling like mold and sharp, overripe mildew. But Luke insisted it was the only place in the house that ever felt warm at night, and that point was hard to argue.

I had resigned myself to involuntarily waking at 3:14 most mornings, regardless of how soundly I was—or wasn’t—sleeping. I wondered whether Luke dreamed of shotguns, too.

He was sleeping later and later, and after a few nights of his basement hibernations, my curiosity

(killed the cat)

overrode my unpleasant suspicions about the basement, about what it contained, and how it might be working its will on my brother.

Working its will, Gwen? Its
will?

Don’t be

(insane)

silly
.

It was a
room
. In a
house
. It couldn’t
feel
, couldn’t
emote
, and it certainly couldn’t commune with the living. It had no will to speak of. Houses did not work that way.

But what about the waking dreams?
my inner voice persisted, pressing.
What about the images, the slow, languid, abstract reveals of Amity’s history? Of her power?

What about the red room?

If my waking dreams held any truth, this “red room” existed. It had strength. And it was underground, tucked within the walls, just behind my brother’s makeshift bedroom.

IT WAS AFTER LUNCHTIME
when I found myself at the entrance to the cellar, wavering. Luke had brushed past me an hour earlier, unwashed, hair uncombed, his clothing wrinkled and strewn with lint, muttering something about firewood. A saggy plastic garbage bag like the one I’d seen in the cellar the other day was slung carelessly over his shoulder.

Did we
need
more firewood?

Maybe.

Or maybe … 
maybe
 … Luke
needed
more time with the ax.

Like so many other unbidden thoughts, I pushed the idea as far from my mind as I could. I had grown more adept at doing so since arriving at Amity.

I’d had to learn, to adapt—in order to stay

(alive)

sane.

THE CELLAR DOOR CREAKED
as I pushed it open, the sound like a yawn, a stirring. I felt small, vulnerable as I ventured downstairs.

Luke had set a few rusted table lamps strategically along the walls. In the orange-tinted light, I could see more vividly the boxes we’d stowed here, those containing our least essential belongings. There was nothing appealing about venturing further downstairs. To me, basements were shadowy spaces of containment, concealment. And I’ve always had enough shadowy spaces of my own.

But there was the curiosity.

The first thing to hit me as I descended was the smell: acrid, watery, like a carpet of moss. Luke was right about one thing: it
was
warmer down here; through the walls I could hear the occasional whirring of machinery as the boiler and other piping chugged away.

But the warmth and the odor together formed something beyond the sum of their parts. Stepping into the basement was like stepping into a swampland on solid ground.

And Luke chose to
sleep
down here?

The grungy, threadbare couch that I recognized from before had been dragged against the far wall, against those smooth, round, egg-like stones. It was a jaundiced shade of
chartreuse, except in the places where the pilling fabric had completely worn through, spewing clouds of dirt-clotted cotton batting from frayed seams. A fringed wool blanket lay in a heap over one sunken arm, and a dented-in pillow was tossed carelessly at the other, confirming that indeed, impossibly, this was where my brother was now spending his nights.

To one side of the couch was a flimsy folding card table, and on that an ancient television set manufactured, I guessed, sometime well before the age of Technicolor. I couldn’t imagine it even worked, but its nearness to the couch suggested that, indeed, my brother had been making use of it.

I inhaled, shuddering, and the heady scent of rot, of spoil, filled my lungs, oily and viscous enough to almost taste. I heard scurrying from a corner, and closed my eyes, flashing briefly to images from my recent dreams.

I didn’t want to be dramatic, or
hysterical
. But in that moment, the rattling, the rustling—it sounded like rolling

(bones)

marbles?

Matchsticks?

Some other form of child’s play?

It had been eons, ages, life spans past since Luke or I played with toys like those. So who was causing the rustling sound?

Fingers skated across my waist, and there was a swift, tight pinch, a twist of my skin that brought hot tears to my eyes.

I wasn’t alone in Amity. Or in my own head.

Who is sharing my space?

(Whose bones were buried in this basement, Gwen?)

The sensation, those snaking fingertips, they dissipated,
leaving me to the echoes of my harsh breathing. My side throbbed dully in their wake. I bit back the urge to shriek.

(Whose bones?)

Another beat, another low, jagged breath, another flicker—

And then.

There was a gentle tap on my shoulder, a soft exhale on my cheek.

I turned to follow it, but I was still alone.

Wasn’t I?

“THIS IS WHERE IT COMES FROM.”

I heard the words, but there was no one beside me.

“This is where it happened. Where it always
will
happen.”

Yes
, I thought.
Of course
. Of course I’d heard the sounds, the indications of Amity’s power.

The bones. The bones, and the bodies. Clattering, clanking. Creaking
.