Susan grabbed a metal strongbox from the top shelf of her bedroom closet. The strongbox was Paul’s. It held his prized baseball cards in them, the entire 1987 Twins World Series roster. Given Paul’s worship of that team, it was almost sacrilegious when she unlocked the box and dumped the cards onto the floor.
She didn’t know what else to use. A plastic bag was useless. A cardboard box wouldn’t do. She asked herself what Paul would have done, only to figure that he would have done the same. Still, it was a safe bet he would have placed the cards ever so gently in another box.
In the basement, she avoided the glass and the spiders as she fetched several large wrenches and screwdrivers and set them inside the box. Their combined weight was several pounds, more than enough for her needs. As she emerged at the top of the stairs, she set down the box on the floor. She still didn’t know what had happened down there, but one thing was certain: she was calling an exterminator.
She plugged the crack beneath the basement door with tea towels. A minute later, after tacking up a piece of paper on it that read, DO NOT OPEN, in big black letters, she grabbed the strongbox and headed up the stairs.
~
Stepping inside Kelan’s bedroom, Susan felt a change. It was as if she had stepped into an unholy tomb sealed eons past. As if some dark force lurked within, ready to strike her down.
She set the strongbox on the floor and stepped past the blood on the carpet. At the closet door, she saw remnants of the goo she had cleaned from the doorknob. It was a black, thick paste. She scraped a piece off with her fingernail and rubbed it between her fingers. It felt like a charred fossil, something that once held life, but no longer.
A rolling wave in her gut struck her. She doubled over. The stick knew she was here, and quite possibly, knew why. It had lashed out, trying to take her down before she could lock it up and sent it back to hell.
Susan hurried, fighting the agony in her stomach. She moved the strongbox near the dresser and took the lock from her back pocket. She set down the lock, opened the box, and spread the tools to make room for the stick.
When she opened the dresser, she gasped. The stick was bigger. It was thicker and longer … sharper.
It was alive.
She was not imagining it. The thing had grown fatter, teeming with life. It held despicable power, she knew, and she feared for her life.
You can do this. You can.
She snatched it up. The cold bit into her fingers like fangs. She managed to get it into the box and snap down the lid.
Susan jumped. The box rattled, the thing inside trying to get out. Quickly, she flipped the latch over the locking bar and scooped up the lock.
“Damnit!” she shouted, fumbling with lock. The box continued to shake, as if she had caged a wild animal. She had to back off.
The box settled. Susan waited, too afraid to touch it. When a minute passed, she took her chance. In one swift move, she got the lock on and clicked it shut.
Her eyes never left the box. The sides began to bulge, as if something was pressing on them from the inside. The metal walls made a long grating sound. The latch threatened to burst from its seal, the lock with it, and she watched in a curious combination of terror and fascination. If the stick got out now she had nothing to contain it, no will to combat it. But what it was doing was nothing short of a dark miracle. This thing held power, all right, more than she could ever imagine.
The sounds stopped and the box settled again. The stick simply gave up. The sides of the box, now horribly misshapen, seemed intact. The lock seemed sure.
It’s playing with you, girl. It could break free if it wanted. And then—
That got Susan going. She scooped up the box and hurried downstairs. She set down the box and threw on her coat and boots. Outside, she made her way to the car and put the strongbox in the trunk, next to a length of rope she had fetched from the garage. The box rattled again, making her jump, and she slammed the trunk shut. The muffled sounds inside the trunk carried on for a moment, then stopped.
Susan paused for a breather before returning to the stoop. She took the note she had written earlier from her pocket, smoothed it out, and placed it on the floor inside the foyer where Kelan was certain to see it.
Kelan, it said, in crisp, clear printing, call the police right away and tell them to come. Be home soon. Love, Mom. Mark’s name, number, and extension followed the word police, and she had underlined the number twice. She closed the door silently and left it unlocked.
After starting the car, Susan buckled herself in and cleared the windshield. Snow was coming in thick flakes. Her heart and her gut would not settle. She glanced at Fran Arbor’s home, then at her own. She threw the car into gear and rolled into the street, and as she headed down Pine and towards the highway, prayed that by the time she returned, the letter was lying next to the telephone.