Marion gasped as her eyes shot open. She flung her hands out in front of her, arms tangling in blankets. She sat up with a start, taking in deep breaths and expecting to still be rattled with pain, blood spilling out of her, blood filling her throat and dimming her eyes. But once again, she sat in her bedroom. She freed her arms from the sheets and examined her body. Whole limbs and unmarred skin met her inspection. She looked like she had merely fallen asleep. Again. But her mind knew better. She knew better.
Marion climbed to her feet and yanked open the undergarments drawer on her dresser. She pushed clothes aside and scratched beneath her previous note: Pushed off balcony. Shattered. PETER.
She shuddered at the statement, but it was important to remember it, in its gruesome detail. She couldn’t fall back into complacency again.
Haphazardly, she pulled on clothes, yanking her arms through sleeves and buttoning up her blouse and vest in uneven patterns. Her hands shook as birds chirped cheerfully outside. By the time she was ready, the first rays of sunlight crept through the balcony window.
She didn’t want to go out on that balcony. Not after what had happened.
No beautiful grounds would distract her from her fury. No sunrise could take away her determination. She clung to her rage like a lifeboat.
Heading for the door, she clenched her fists. She needed to find the boy. This time, she wouldn’t let him best her. She would learn the truth of these incidents and finally be free of this torture.
Her hand gripped the elaborately carved door handle, but then she paused.
She had underestimated Peter before, and he had murdered her many times because of it. She couldn’t face him without some kind of weapon. There had to be something she could use to protect herself.
She turned to the dresser and grabbed one of the small candelabras. It was heavy, made of silver or some kind of metal at least. She dropped it into a deep pocket on her skirt, feeling shame and horror wash over her.
“I won’t use it,” she promised herself. “But he doesn’t have to know that.”
Rose Manor was empty. It must have been a holiday and the rest of the staff had the day off. But someone was awake. She heard a repetitive sound, like a small drum beating.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up. What was it?
She followed the sound down the end of the hallway to the staircase. The pitch of the sound changed. It wasn’t deep like a drum, but it took her a moment to recognize the sound. It was a small ball bouncing on one of the many hardwood surfaces.
Peter.
She went downstairs and found him in the foyer, tossing a small rubber ball onto the ground and catching it repeatedly. She smelled him even from the archway that led into the room. His dirty, disheveled clothes indicated he hadn’t had a proper bath in days.
He didn’t look up at her as she entered the room. “Morning,” he said in a flat tone.
“Peter,” she whispered, settling down into an armchair. It was important that she didn’t rattle him. She had been too forceful last time and backed him into a corner. This time, she needed to be smarter, more controlled. She sat with a straight back and folded her hands in her lap, trying to keep them from shaking.
“Your father wouldn’t want you throwing that in the house,” she said, indicating the rubber ball. “You’ll break something. Or hurt yourself.”
He glanced at her briefly, a pout tugging at his lips. “He’s not here to be mad, is he?”
She watched him for several moments, allowing her silent disapproval and the repetitive noise of the ball to echo off the walls and up the stairwell. Marion channeled her patience into a physical force, keeping quiet as he continued bouncing the ball.
It clearly distressed him. He kept glancing at her, tossing the ball faster and faster. He nearly lost it a few times, but that didn’t slow his pace. Finally, his hand slipped. The ball flew past his grip and struck him square on the cheekbone.
“Ow!” he cried, putting a hand up to his cheek as the small rubber ball tottered off beneath some furniture.
“I told you not to do that.” Marion sighed.
Peter’s eyes welled with tears, and she couldn’t hold back the urge to comfort him. Yes, he had killed her many times—or at least she believed he had—but he was still a child and she, his caregiver. So caution be damned. She fetched a wet washcloth for him and pressed it against the blooming bruise.
Tears streaked his cheeks as she held the cloth to the injury. “You won’t tell father, will you? I don’t want to make him mad.” He sniffled. “He’ll know I was throwing the ball again.”
“And how will you explain the bruise, then?” she asked.
He barked out a laugh that surprised her. “Oh, that’s easy. I’ll tell him you did it to me.”
She froze, the wet washcloth pinched between her fingers. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll tell him you got mad and popped me.” He grinned.
Marion leaned away from him, suddenly keenly aware of the weight of the silver candelabra in her skirts. But she couldn’t correlate this crying, bruised child with the vile words that erupted from his mouth. She couldn’t match his neediness with his cruel laughter or malicious smiles. She tossed the washcloth aside as laughter bubbled out of the boy.
“Why do you hate me, Peter?” she asked. “Why, after all I have done to help you, to teach you, do you continue to hurt me like this?”
His smile faded to disgust.
“I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. You’re nothing like my mother. She was beautiful, she was funny. She didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want. She loved me despite everything.” His eyes narrowed.
A coldness entered her veins. She knew that look. She had seen it enough times that it was etched into her nightmares. Her body was hard wired to be cowed by it. She reached for the candelabra and pulled it out like a gun, aiming it at the boy.
This time, she would have her answers. She would have her truth.
“Tell me what the silver whistle does!” she shouted.
Peter trembled, his fingers fumbling for it around his neck, holding it tight like a talisman. He pulled it out, a small, tarnished thing that looked almost as grimy as he did.
“What does it do?” she demanded, backing the boy up against a wall.
He bumped into it and glanced back, terror filling his eyes. “It…brings you back.”
“From the dead?”
He nodded, tears bobbing back into his eyes as the bruise turned purple on his cheek. “But Father wouldn’t bring mother back. He refused. I didn’t want you. I wanted her!”
Marion ignored him and focused. She didn’t know how long this threat would work or how long Peter would talk. She had to take advantage of the moment while she had it. “How does it work? What the hell did you and your father do to me?” Marion shouted.
“I—I don’t know. All I know is it works!”
“You’re lying,” she hissed. “You’re always lying to me. Answer me or so help me God, I will use this.”
Peter swallowed, shaking his head. “Please, I can’t tell you. He’ll be so mad if I tell you.”
Marion brought the candelabra back, lifted the heavy metal high above her head, but she never got the chance to bring it down.
A gunshot rang out.
The back of her head erupted with pain and Marion crumpled to the floor. As her vision faded, she spotted Peter’s rubber ball beneath the loveseat, saddled up beside a dozen others. All but the newest was covered in spiderwebs, lost and long forgotten.