When the nurse found him, Eric was on his knees, sobbing, pounding the washroom door. His bandages and his Johnny gown were soaked in blood. Once the doctor had examined him and dressed his broken nose for the second time, the physician, Harris Peckham—not a nice man at all—explained that Eric had suffered an episode of sumnambewlizzum, or something like that, and that he must have struck his nose on the door during his “little sleepwalk.” But what the good doctor could not explain were the sudden bruises on Eric’s arms and legs.
“Perhaps you fell,” Peckham had said, uninterested. To make things worse, the doctor had informed him they would keep him another night for observation.
Time passed slowly. Snow fell lazily at the window. All Eric could do to keep from going crazy was to follow a tiny brown spider that skittered along the ceiling. Most likely it was searching for water, and it made him think of Crickets, his favorite spider. Crickets was big, his thirst bigger, and Eric wondered if his drinking sponge was holding out. It wasn’t like Mom would dampen it for him.
The spider scampered in circles, crazed in its labors. It fell into a small crack and slipped right out of it. It hovered just above the washroom door, and Eric pondered what it might be thinking. It needed food and drink; had to be aware of imminent danger. But what was it really thinking? What did it really want?
Same as him. Same as every living thing.
To be safe. To be in its Safe Place.
Eric grimaced, aching, as he turned to his side. He had phoned home earlier, got the machine. He had wanted to tell Mom about his mishap, but had simply left a terse message. Just as well. She would have freaked, and hearing her scared would have scared him more than he already was.
What had he dreamed?
The visions of his father—of this father thing—were much more than his mind playing night games. Upon coming out of his nightmare, he had felt this coldness … dead fingers running along his body.
Was it just a good scare? No. This was like that creepy draft running about the house. He hadn’t told Mom about that of course, she’d have that stupid doctor poke him for brain damage.
And what about his stomach? He had hardly slept since Kelan came home on Christmas Eve. He had been up three times the next night, the last time getting sick in the toilet. It seemed every time he went upstairs—in their room, precisely—his gut turned to boiling oil.
And their fight? Handling his brother had always been easy. But when Kelan attacked him, it was like the little shit had grown the strength of ten little shits. And when that stick came down—
Something had been in the room with them.
It had been all around them, hanging in the air. Or maybe it was the air. Only, the air had changed. Gone bad. Spoiled.
He could almost smell it now. Something musty and dead.
Still … the message was clear.
Leave Kelan alone.
It was a hard pill to swallow. He owed him. Big Time.
Eric sat up slowly and examined himself. His bruises were the color of grapes. He didn’t dream this. Didn’t dream the pain.
He slipped back with his hands crossed behind his head.
The spider had fled.