The Face in the House

35

Malcolm nodded. "Okay. Whatever it takes."

The disappointment was there, but it felt muted, far away. His heart was screaming out for Owen, whose soul was still without a body, still bound to this strange house. He knew he should feel it stronger, deeper. He willed himself to feel it—sadness, anger, frustration, all the things he felt he should be processing—but all he really felt was . . . relief. Relief that he could put off the future. Relief that things would stay just the way they were. Relief that he could stay—that they would all stay—at Thornewood just a little longer.

He didn't let himself feel it long enough to enjoy it. Guilt took hold and he put his head in his hands. I'm a monster, he thought, there's something wrong with me.

Poole rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Poole said, with a tone that surprised Malcolm. There was deep, genuine sorrow in the butler's voice. Malcolm knew he didn't deserve this warmth. Poole was misinterpreting this—whatever it was he was feeling—with grief for his brother. It made Malcolm feel even worse.

"I will do everything in my power to help him," Poole continued, voice low, as if holding back a storm of emotion. "I won't let you dow—"

Malcolm lifted himself up and jerked away from the butler's touch. He wanted nothing more than to lean into him, to bury his head in Poole's chest, to accept the warmth and relief and escape he knew he would find there. Still, he knew it wasn't right, he knew what he felt was terribly, terribly wrong. In a flash of frustration, he grasped hold of a glass beaker off the desk and hurled it against the concrete wall. The beaker, empty, thankfully, shattered in a spray of glittering shards.

The noise echoed off the hard walls of the basement, loud and sobering. It shocked him back into his racing mind, and he realized he was crying. His breath came out in brief fits and he could feel the anger and disgust within him threatening to overwhelm him again.

Poole was there in seconds, his arms on his shoulders.

"Breathe, breathe," Poole whispered. "Breathe. Look at me."

He looked, expecting to see the disgust he felt for himself mirrored in the butler's eyes. Instead, he found softness, warmth, concern. There was no judgement, no disgust. He could feel his breath returning to him.

"I think there's something wrong with me," Malcolm whispered, catching his breath.

Poole brushed a hand through Malcolm's hair. "Why do you think that?" he said softly.

"Because . . ." he started, and paused. He couldn't think of the right words.

"Because you've witnessed magic, and you find you don't wish to leave it?" Poole suggested.

Fresh tears dropped down Malcolm's face. "Yes."

Poole smiled, but his eyes were sad.

"I know—more than anyone, I should think—how that feels," Poole said.

***

After the evening's seance, Malcolm walked upstairs to change out of the butler suit. It was one of the less comfortable aspects of the job, but even it was starting to become somewhat bearable. He used to dread the seances. The performances had made him nervous, but now he quite enjoyed the thrill of sharing the magic, however slightly, with groups of believers and skeptics. It was also a relief to be someone else for a while, even if that someone else wore trousers that were two sizes too small.

When he entered the upstairs bedroom, he heard a buzzing sound. He froze, thinking it was the Dark Presence, or the spiders shaking the floors from somewhere below. He braced himself for something terrible to happen, but the buzzing stopped. He exhaled and entered the room.

The buzzing returned, more aggressive this time, though he didn't think it had gotten any louder. He followed the sound to his bed. The realization landed like a bad joke. His phone. His cell phone was buzzing. It had been so long since he checked it, he had nearly forgotten how it sounded when he was getting a phone call. His stomach twisted.

He leaned over the bed to search for it on the bedside table, but it wasn't there. He followed the sound and found it wedged between the wall and the foot of the table, fallen and forgotten sometime long ago. He forced himself to check the caller ID, hoping for a spam caller, but knowing in his heart who it would be.

"Hey mom," he tried to sound natural.

"Malcolm?" Serena's voice on the other end was like getting doused in cold water. "Malcolm, where the hell have you been? I've been calling and calling . . ."

He only half-listened, it was the only way he could manage to stay on the line. He didn't need this. Not now.

"Do you realize I've reported the two of you missing?" she continued. "But you're adults, or that's what they keep telling me . . ."

His mother's words hurt, her angry, worried voice cast guilt into his heart, but nothing cut him deep. It was like he was wearing armor; he could feel the blows, but nothing could break his skin.

"We're not missing, mom," he cut through her speech. "Don't worry about us. We're taking some time away, like we said. We just . . . we want to stay a bit longer."

"Well, how long?" Serena said, her voice turning from angry to pleading. "And where are you staying? And what about school?"

These were questions he simply couldn't answer. He suddenly felt like he was standing outside in the cold, rain misting over frost-covered grass. Serena was opening up a door that he hadn't realized he'd closed on himself, and she was letting a draft in.

"Mom, listen. We love you, and we're safe. We will be back when we're ready. Can we leave it at that?" He wanted to sound tough, yet loving and sincere. Instead, he sounded cold and impatient.

"Malcolm, honey, did we do something? Did we do something to drive you away?" he could hear tears in her voice.

"No," he said.

But he wondered. Did they do something to drive him away? Was the house really some great force, keeping him inside, or was reality, the outside world, his old life, what drove him here? It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell.

She was still talking, but he was no longer listening. He let the phone drop onto the bed.

He stood and went to the basement.