Science 12

You played a video game once where you couldn’t fight, and you had to hide under tables and in closets or the bad thing would get you. That’s how you feel as you steal out of the stairwell and make your way upstairs, avoiding the paranormal investigation club, or whatever they’re called, as well as your family members trying to police them as they rampage around the house.

You reach your door without anyone getting too good a look at you, or smelling sex, hopefully, and enter the safety of your bedroom. There’s no time for a shower with these people here, but you can put on clean clothes and deodorant.

Or you could, if you didn’t have company.

It’s too late to keep your shirt on; you were already taking it off as you came through the door. Your mother’s eyebrows rise as you freeze.

“Oh shit,” you mutter.

“Relax. I’m a grown woman, Flynn. I can look at my own son without his shirt.”

“Oh, thank god.” You throw it in the hamper. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk about these people.”

“Delilah’s friends? They seem nice,” you say, listening to the muffled footsteps as they go from room to room, speaking excitedly. A gizmo beeps somewhere.

“Yeah, but I’m thinking we shouldn’t have let them in,” Tracy says, approaching. “I know we’re desperate for help, but I think this thing can affect other people. I think Rey said something about it getting to Delilah. It’s not fair for us to drag other people into this. You know?”

That’s a good thought. It really shows how off-kilter everyone is that this didn’t occur to anyone sooner. You’re not known for being considerate, but the others are generally pretty wholesome people.

She’s right. It was irresponsible to let strangers in when you know perfectly well that there’s something bad in this house. You need to tell Rey, and she can tell Delilah, and Delilah can get these people out.

Your mother backs away from you, bumping into the dresser.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“You smell,” she says, a little grumpily. The obvious stink of sex sent her imagination somewhere—probably a perfectly innocent thought, wondering who you were with. It was enough to flip the switch, and now she’s stuck.

She grabs the edge of the dresser and points a finger at you. “Stay there.”

You’re OK. For the moment. “OK.”

“We can wait it out.”

Yeah. She’s older and wiser than Delta, and she never wants to succumb. She certainly doesn’t want to with strangers in the house. “Waiting it out” has been tried. The best outcome that has been achieved has been running in opposite directions to take care of things separately.

Now you’re having thoughts too. What, exactly, about the idea of you having obviously done a quickie somewhere does this to your mother? It’s none of your business. It’s not the first mental rake you’ve ever stepped on.

It doesn’t hit you catastrophically hard, but you can still feel and see the change in your perspective. It’s almost like X-ray vision. She wears a sweatshirt and linen pants, floppy home clothes that do nothing for her figure, but the figure is there. She’s soft and limber.

You grip the doorframe tighter.

She sees the change in you, and she’s working hard to control her breathing, as though she might meditate her way out of this. The staring contest is almost physically painful. Her slow, deliberate breaths through her nose make her chest expand. That only makes you think about her breasts. You want to do things.

You try to edge away, but there’s nowhere for you to go. She takes an unsteady step back, as though she can hide behind the dresser.

Footsteps in the hallway don’t exactly break the reverie, but you both look sharply at the door. Someone’s coming, and it’s no one in the family; by now you all have the sounds of the house and the gaits of fellow Stackwells memorized.

Tracy looks around in panic, then lurches into your closet and closes the door.

You have to join her in there. There is no other choice. You both made an effort, but it wasn’t enough.

The door bursts open before you can move, hitting your shoulder instead of your head and sending you crashing to the floor.