The Face in the House

33

"I think we can all agree that Malcolm and Teddy should leave," Owen said, banishing Teddy's sentimental thoughts. "Today."

"What?" Malcolm said, whipping his head around to glare at his brother. "Are you seriously back on this shit?"

Owen glared back, but there was no fight in his eyes. Teddy could tell he had already given up this fight. It was a noble demand, Teddy admitted, even though it irked her to hear him say it. Despite his own situation, he was trying to keep his brother—and herself—safe from whatever was coming for them. He had to know what such a thing would mean for him. Without Teddy and Malcolm, there could be no more seances. Without seances, there would be no money left to support the house, and it, along with the bodies of Edward Poole and Owen Allan, would likely be condemned and destroyed.

Thus, the subject was dropped before any real argument had a chance to play out. They all knew what they had to do.

"We have a seance tonight to get ready for," Teddy said, standing. "Let's start cleaning this place up."

***

The day was spent in a blur of brooms and dustpans, for which Teddy was thankful. It kept her mind off the darker thoughts. Later, they completed the night's show, and won over another group of paying customers, who left Thornewood with shaky hands and shakier smiles. She wondered if the guests could feel the looming darkness that hung over the house, the darkness that wasn't quite so strong before.

She hadn't wanted the seance to end. The show was a happy distraction from what she knew must come next.

Once the guests were safely out the door, Poole re-appeared in his usual form and went to make his way back to his basement laboratory. Malcolm was pulling at his uncomfortable butler's costume, as he also started off to go change.

"Hang on," Teddy said. "Since we're all set up . . . Why not try a seance of our own?"

Malcolm, Owen and Poole stood and stared at her in silence.

"Are you suggesting we . . . attempt to communicate with this . . . being, through one of your bloody seances?" Poole said.

Teddy hopped up and sat on the edge of the seance table.

"Pretty much, yeah," she said, bluntly.

"But the seances aren't real," Malcolm said, clearly losing patience.

"Sure they are," Teddy argued. "Are you suggesting that Poole and Owen aren't real supernatural beings?"

Malcolm grimaced at her. She smiled in return.

They sat around the table. The scene was set just as it was for the show before. The room was dark, lit only by dancing candlelight. The heavy curtain closed them inside the room. Teddy still wore her medium getup, a deep maroon, floor-length dress with sheer lace sleeves. It was just as it was for the guests, except instead of fidgeting college students and local eclectics, it was the cast who occupied the seats, and there were no tricks hiding behind the curtain.

Teddy held out her hands. On her right was Owen, whose warm, dry hand accepted hers. On her left was Malcolm, whose hand was noticeably damp by contrast. Poole sat across from her, and he hesitated before she caught his eye, and then he rounded out the circle with each of his arms.

"Focus on that feeling," she instructed. Her voice shook. Somehow doing the real thing was harder than following a script in front of strangers. She felt naked without her theatrical medium's voice. For this, she had to be real. She had to be Teddy.

The others did as instructed, but they seemed just as uncomfortable. They closed their eyes, tried to focus on the dark energy, but their eyelids parted with uncertainty, and they scanned each other's faces often, as if afraid of being laughed at.

Nobody laughed. They could feel that dread, that sense of death and anger and doom, heavy in the air and in their chests. They could smell that familiar, honey-sweet stench. It was as if it had always been there, Teddy thought, just waiting for someone to notice. As they all tuned into it, it grew stronger.

Her hands shook as she pulled out the velvet pouch of powder. She used it in her seances, told the guests it was some special, supernatural substance. In reality, there was nothing special or supernatural about it. It was white flour she'd found in the kitchen cupboard. Still, it was the only thing she had. She had to give it a try. She poured the flour onto the table and spread it out with her hands, so that it covered the surface in a thin, white layer. Her heart pounded in her chest and her ears were ringing. She feared that the force would overpower them before they could get any answers. She had to get on with it.

She cleared her throat.

"We know you're with us," she said, her voice tight with fear and uncertainty. "We can feel you—"

The wailing began. That animalesque shriek that seemed to come from everywhere, that seemed to come from inside their own heads. Goosebumps formed on her arms, and she clenched each hand tighter in hers.

"We can hear you!" Teddy shouted over the screams. "But we don't know you! We don't know what you want!"

The shrieking quieted into a low, demonic growl. Nobody dared speak, nobody dared move a muscle. They sat, holding each other's hands, digging their nails into each other's skin and feeling nothing but fear and anticipation. They waited, listened to the growl and tried not to breathe in the ever-growing putrid stench.

Teddy felt tears spill down her face, but she didn't dare break the circle to wipe them away. She took a deep breath. She looked at the faces around her. Poole's grave brow, Malcolm's wide, wet eyes, and Owen's flushed, stricken face. She needed to be strong. She needed to pull them all together.

"Tell us who you are," she demanded. "Show yourself, or tell us what you want from u—!"

A scream erupted and the candles flickered, nearly extinguishing the flames, as if the force of the noise produced a wave of air. The circle broke as the group instinctively pulled back from the table, knocking over their chairs in an attempt to flee. In another instant, the flour blew off the table in one strong gust of air.

"Wait!" Teddy shouted to the others, who were tripping over each other to get past the curtain. They paused and watched as a line appeared, as if carved with a knife—or a sharp nail—etched into the wood of the table. Teddy watched in horror as another line was carved, then another, then another, until a word was clear:

LEAVE

"Oh my god," her voice came out in a sob.

The wailing continued, louder than ever, screeching in their ears, threatening to deafen them all if it didn't drive them mad first. Teddy held her ears and screamed, as if to fight it, as if to show it who was stronger. She watched as more lines appeared as thick scratches on the table, forming a second word:

GRANDDAUGHTER

Fury burst from her chest and she screamed louder, a force against the other, until suddenly, as quickly as it had come, it stopped. The smell receded, the wailing quieted, leaving the four friends terrified and shaking on the floor.