Wyatt Larkin stirred a gallon of paint with a broken yardstick. He’d always enjoyed the smell of paint. Pouring carefully, he contemplated the possibility of clean starts and second chances; it calmed him, the sight of this pigment suspended in liquid, thick and comforting as any homemade cake batter. He watched it lap the sides of the shallow aluminum pan. He put down the can, then tore the wrapper off a disposable roller, snapped it on its frame, and ran his palm over the soft, synthetic fuzz. A plastic drop cloth crackled under his shoes.
His reflection, opaque in the shrouded mirror, doubled his every movement. Man and his image. Together they reached upward.
Earlier, Wyatt had taken down the curtains and put them under one of the double beds. A bulb shone overhead, and at the window, a muted winter sun. He’d already finished taping. Over the years the wall color had soured to a varying tan, shaded darker near the ceiling—this being a smoking room. The fresh coat of paint appeared white until you looked at it more closely and saw a hint of the palest blue emerge.
His wife had picked it out.
Just like Opal, he realized, to choose something that wasn’t quite what you thought it was at first glance.
Wyatt dipped his roller.
Cigarette smoke climbed Wyatt’s cheek on his blind side and brushed over his eye patch. He shouldn’t have been smoking. Coffin nails—he’d quit them once before. Then Opal started with her visions again. He needed something to take the edge off. He had the bathroom window propped with a screwdriver for ventilating the paint fumes. The smoke located the crack and quietly slipped out.
Wyatt wore a wool pullover. The sweater bagged below his lean, broad shoulders. Moths had eaten away most of the left elbow. It was his favorite sweater: a project from Opal’s knitting experiment two winters back. She’d quit knitting. But Wyatt kept the sweater. When he’d risen hours ago—the clock radio telling him it was, believe it or not, 5 a.m. as he slapped down on the button before Opal stirred—he showered and shaved, his feet dancing on the frozen bathroom tiles, and he pushed his head up through the sweater’s baggy neck, his arms swimming into the sleeves. He doubled them over at the wrists and scooted the rolls up his forearms. He was hoping his wife might notice her own handiwork. Maybe she’d even say something. She might show some recognition. If she did, that would be a good sign.
He hadn’t seen many lately.
Despite everything, he told himself, Keep trying.
Opal didn’t mention the sweater. She wasn’t talkative. Not today. Less and less with each passing week if Wyatt stopped to think about it—something he didn’t often do. He wasn’t a person to dwell on the negative. Never had been. But his positivity bordered on denial. This woman was still his wife. True. He worried about her. Yes, constantly. Because .. . when Opal spoke, more often than not, a torrent of words flooded forth, as if she couldn’t get them out of her mouth fast enough. The muscles in her neck bulged and her cheeks flushed. She spoke of a malignant strangeness lurking in the world. She had waking nightmares. Darkness, she said, crept through the streets and entered into people’s hearts while they themselves were unaware of the changes taking place.
Demons lived among us.
She sought confirmation of these insights. A wife wants her husband to agree with her. Do you see what I see?
Wyatt didn’t.
He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but Opal spooked him.
Her personality was unstable. She shifted into this gray zone where the otherworldly was possible. Apparently, the other world sought to destroy them.
The woman he loved began to disappear.
What was happening to her?
The doctors were no help. Wyatt was running out of hope.
And that realization terrified him.
Predawn, Wyatt headed downstairs. Out of the corner of his eye, Opal’s fuzzy pink robe flashed in the door frame. He turned to tell her where he was going. Tiny, strong Opal. He remembered her nine months pregnant with their son, Adam, and eating every slice of pepperoni pizza in sight. Her weight never topped one- ten. Twenty years ago. Her sister, Ruby, nicknamed her Mighty Mouse when they were kids. The two lived their whole lives less than a mile apart. Ruby said Opal hadn’t changed in forty-two years.
Not physically.
Opal’s hair stood on end, crackling with static electricity. Penny- brown eyes, freckles, a frizzy auburn halo. A face Wyatt had fallen in love with.
His wife peered into the stairwell, her gaze passing right through him. Her hand flicked out and switched off the light, throwing Wyatt into darkness.
Her lips were moving.
Silently.
No words, only the shapes of words.
Mornings were hardest. When Opal’s bad look would show up, her normal expressions altered. She’s wearing her rubber Halloween mask again , Wyatt couldn’t help thinking. Her whole head stuffed up inside, lost. Even her breathing sounded different: coarse, heavy, almost smothered.
Under the kitchen’s fluorescent glare, he saw the mask in place.
He climbed back up the steps and kissed his wife on the cheek. He smoothed her hair, watching as the charged strands stuck to his fingers. The bad look always frightened him.
“Nobody’s home,” she said.
Is she reading my mind? Wyatt wondered.
“I’m here. You’re not alone, babe.”
She shook her head.
“Nobody’s home,” she repeated.
Wyatt took a deep breath.
Maybe the New Year would bring better days.
One week to go.
Opal sleepwalked to the sink. She grabbed a tea kettle. Lifted the faucet handle. Water shushed inside the pot. She yawned and glanced out the second-story window into the alleyway behind the motel. Wyatt followed her sightline. The sun hadn’t risen. The edge of the horizon had started to go violet. Above it, the sky stretched out, unbroken, dark enough to detect stars. A floodlight shined down on a redwood privacy fence, a Dumpster encrusted with snow. Beyond the fence were yards, small houses, and the neighbors.
Opal grew up in one of those houses. Her sister still lived there with her husband and two daughters. If you stood on a chair, you’d spot their rooftop.
Small towns, Wyatt thought.
You’d figure that would mean safety, though it didn’t.
Wyatt and Opal lived in an apartment above the motel office. Neighbors, once they had a look around inside, were shocked by the size of the place. It was bigger than many houses.
Living room, dining room, a full kitchen, and three bedrooms ...
The den opened up to a bright bay window perfect for watching sunsets. After nightfall, the room diminished. But it deepened as well, around a pool table, matching La-Z-Boys, and a widescreen television. There was an electronic dart board. An old Pepsi vending machine hummed in the corner. The last button dispensed
cans of Budweiser. The apartment’s only bathroom had a whirlpool tub and a sauna. Ceiling fans circulated air from room to room. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls. Paperbacks, mostly thrillers, jammed every slot. Wyatt and Opal often read through the evening, during winters especially, as the dark hours lengthened and business slowed.
People thought it was odd, the way the Larkins lived above an ever-changing set of strangers. The practice seemed unwholesome at its worst and at best, less comfy. After climbing a flight of carpeted stairs, visitors expected to be welcomed into the anonymity of another motel room.
The surprise on their faces never failed to make Opal beam.
Wyatt had done most of the work himself. He was handy with a hammer and saw. Drawing up plans gave him a creative outlet. Physical work burned off his anxieties; they were his fuel. He wanted their home to look like the picture he constantly redrew in his head. What he couldn’t fix was the family living inside.
He couldn’t repair a broken mind.
“You want two up and bacon?” Opal asked.
Wyatt shook his head.
“I’ve got to get started painting those rooms. I’ll grab a doughnut off the guest tray.”
“Going to get fat eating all that sugar.”
What a joke. The two of them together couldn’t get wet in a thunderstorm. Ruby called them Mr. and Mrs. Beanpole.
“You’d love me fat,” Wyatt said.
“I probably would,” she said, smiling.
Wyatt was glad to recognize the real Opal. Mask off. Demons sent back to Hell where they belonged. Every time the woman he recognized returned, he worried it would be to say good-bye. His worry eased off, just a bit, when she smacked the seat of his jeans as he walked past.