"Fuck!"
Owen tossed his desk chair out of the way while Malcolm pulled the desk from the wall.
"Where'd it go, where'd it go?" Owen said.
"I can't see it!"
"Well let's find it because I'm not trying to be roommates with an immortal spider," Owen said, which Malcolm would've found funny if it wasn't such a real possibility.
They tore the room apart. They pulled the desk over on its side, looked through every drawer. Moved and stripped the bed, inspected the dust bunnies beneath it. They even tore posters from the walls, in case the bug was hiding behind them. There was no sign of the spider.
"What in the world is going on in here?" Serena said, her head peeking in the door. She tried to step further inside the room, but the door was blocked by a shifted chest of drawers. Her mouth was tense with concern.
Malcolm froze. He realized he was out of breath and sweating from the pursuit.
"Oh hey mom!" Owen said, to Malcolm's relief.
He was playing it cool. Malcolm followed his lead.
"We're just rearranging Owen's room," he said with a smile.
Serena tried again to push open the door, which didn't budge. She grimaced, irritated.
"At 11 o'clock at night? Your father and I are trying to sleep," she said.
"Sorry mom," Owen said, and the words seemed to smooth the lines on their mother's face. "We'll call it a day for now."
Serena smiled. "Okay. Maybe a little bit a change will be a good thing," she said.
Malcolm and Owen smiled as Serena said goodnight. When the door closed behind her, their faces fell.
"Fuck," Owen said.
Malcolm agreed. There was nothing more they could do, the spider had vanished.
"I'm not sleeping tonight," he said.
"You know what," Owen said. "Let's go get a drink."
Malcolm had to admit he could use one.
"Where? I'm not even 21 yet—"
"Relax, it's a Tuesday. Broney's will take any business it can get," Owen said.
Broney's was a run-down dive bar just a few blocks away. It was nobody's favorite bar, but it stayed in business thanks to two distinct groups: Middle-aged suburban dads and aimless 20-somethings with DUIs. The dads enjoyed the sports coverage. The 20-somethings liked that it was in walking distance.
The place was mostly empty when they entered the bar, the smell of stale beer was the only indication that anyone had been there that night. Malcolm and Owen approached the bar, where an obviously drunk bartender took their order. Malcolm stammered. Had he expected there to be a menu? He knew next to nothing about alcohol beyond the warm PBR that was customary at house parties.
Owen saved him. "We'll take two Long Island iced teas," he said, cash already in hand.
The bartender nodded and turned away to make their drinks. As expected, he didn't ask for IDs. Behind them, the door flew open and a group of young women joined them at the bar. Their shiny faces and club attire told Malcolm that Broney's wasn't their first stop of the night.
"That'll be eight dollars," the bartender said, reappearing in front of them with two orange-colored drinks. Malcolm's face burned when he saw the drinks were topped with pineapple slices and tiny polka-dotted paper umbrellas.
Owen appeared to anticipate Malcolm's discomfort.
"Don't make a face," he said. "I want hard liquor but I want it to taste good."
Malcolm took a hesitant sip through the straw. Owen was right, it tasted great.
"Slow down, freshman," Owen said, though he took a big pull through his own straw. "You don't taste it, but this drink is designed to fuck you up."
A moment later, Malcolm understood. He could feel the alcohol already, all the buzz with none of the grogginess. His head swam, but he felt clear. It was like his brain had just been doused in cold water.
"Is that Malcolm Allan?" someone shouted from across the bar. "And Owen? Oh my gosh!"
The group of girls swarmed around them. Malcolm instantly recognized the voice, and before he could even react, he was hugging his ex-girlfriend Sara and her best friend Emily. He hadn't seen either of them since they all graduated high school about two years before. Malcolm didn't know the other girls, who stood a distance away, sipping their drinks. He took another drink and braced himself for small talk.
"...Hey!" Malcolm said, as the two girls also hugged Owen. Emily was visibly blushing, Malcolm noticed, and he remembered that she had a huge crush on Owen in high school. It seemed the flame was still burning, because she quickly cornered Owen.
Malcolm turned to Sara.
"How have you been? It's been so long!" he mustered.
Sara said, "I've been good! We're just visiting home between semesters."
"Same with us," Malcolm said, not wanting his ex to think he still lived with his parents. "How's Yale?"
"It's... a lot," Sara sighed, though she continued smiling. He noticed then that she was drunk. "To be honest, I'm actually thinking about taking next semester off . . . just to . . . I don't know . . ."
Malcolm was surprised. Sara must've been drunker than she looked, because she wasn't one to project anything but a perfect public appearance.
"I think that's great," Malcolm found himself saying. "We have all the time in the world. If you need time, take some."
He wasn't quite sure where he pulled that one from. It wasn't advice he could see himself taking, but Sara smiled. She took a sip from her glass as if to punctuate the conversation.
"Hey, you know what we were just talking about?" Sara said, gesturing to Emily, though her friend never even looked away from Owen. "That time at prom when you snuck us into the auditorium, and it was pitch black—"
"And we played hide and seek with the spotlight!" Malcolm finished.
They both laughed. It was the only semi-reckless thing he'd ever done in his life, and one of his fondest memories.
"You never told me how you got us in there," Sara said. "It was locked tight."
Malcolm smiled, feeling the liquid confidence. He shrugged.
"Magic?"
Sara smiled and touched her knuckle to his shoulder.
"Sara, let's go!" one of the girls shouted. "Our ride is here!"
The brothers waved the girls goodbye.
Malcolm's smile lingered. He marveled at how easy it was to talk to Sara with just a little bit of alcohol in his system.
"I didn't know you were a bad boy," Owen teased.
The bar was quiet without the girls' voices. It was just the two of them now, plus the bartender.
Malcolm laughed. "I had a key from working the lights for the theater department."
"Yeah that sounds more like you," Owen said, smiling. "Magic!"
Their smiles died and they both finished off their drinks. With the mention of magic, Malcolm's mind returned to the house on Thornewood Road, the strange butler, and the impossible spider. He was sure Owen's mind had traveled there too, because he waved the bartender over for another round.
"Two tequila shots," he said. "Actually, make it four."
Malcolm was stunned. He felt a twinge of worry for his brother's fickle health, but he buried it, knowing Owen would resent him for it. He'd been babied by their mom for weeks. Plus, Malcolm wanted those shots.
Owen handed him one of the shot glasses. It was bigger than he expected, the alcohol within it darker. Following his brother's lead, he licked the back of his hand and sprinkled it with salt.
The bartender placed a plate of lime wedges on the bar. They each took one.
"Here's what you do," Owen said, holding out his hands. "You lick the salt off your hand, then take the shot—don't let it sit in your mouth, you wanna swallow it fast—then bite the lime. Got it?"
Malcolm nodded. "Got it."
He did as instructed. The bitter liquid washed the grainy salt off his tongue, and the tartness of the lime arrived just in time to neutralize the sickening taste. His eyes watered and the back of his throat burned, but he wasn't throwing up.
The room looked different, just slightly. The lights seemed brighter. The bartender seemed farther away, but his brother seemed to be sitting closer. It was like looking through the bottom of a bottle. He shook his head.
"You think we should tell Uncle Jack about the letters?" Owen said.
"Why?"
"I don't know. Maybe there's more stuff, more than just letters."
Malcolm hadn't thought of that. He suddenly found it difficult to keep a single train of thought. Something else occurred to him.
"I'm gonna Google it," he said, taking out his phone.
"The house?"
Malcolm nodded. He typed in the address, his fingers feeling sweaty and clumsy. Owen peered over his shoulder.
"There's no way it still exists, but—"
Results flooded the screen. He scrolled through.
"Click that one," Owen instructed.
The screen showed them a little old house, with blue siding and dark, shuttered windows. A large, dark door stood at its center. On the map, it was the only house for miles. Chills ran up Malcolm's arms.
"This has to be it," Malcolm breathed.
"Hold on," Owen said, reaching for the remaining tequila shots. "Before we dig any deeper..."
They downed the shots, this time without the aid of salt or lime. Malcolm welcomed the burn. It was like a slap in the face.
"Hey, is that a phone number?" Owen said, pointing at the screen. He met Malcolm's eyes. "We have to call it."
Malcolm laughed, but he saw the dead seriousness burning in his brother's bloodshot eyes. "Dude, that's so awkward... probably some old lady lives there and she's trying to sleep!"
"Or..." Owen said, his voice just above a whisper. "Some old ass butler will answer the phone?"
They fell into uncontrolled laughter, the sound filling the empty bar.
"I'm gonna call," Owen breathed.
He snatched the phone from Malcolm's hands.