Legs brushing against each other sound like whispered laughter. Ray pulls me from the living room and the creaking floorboards even though I told him it wasn’t time for her to come out. “It’s still here,” he says, jogging up the winding staircase away from the tour of the now haunted house. “But it can’t be,” I reply breathless. “I cleared out all your stuff months ago.” It was still a bit of a dig for Ray. After weeks of him going back on promises I took matters into my own hands and left his stacks of cardboard boxes and trash bags on the sagging porch, wet from constant rainfall. “You never liked guns in the house, so I hid it.” Ray trips over his limp foot as we walked into the bedroom, stiffening away from my help. His car accident years ago still lingered, the scathing metal scratch turning into an inverted rainbow on his leg. The room is much cleaner without the lingering smell of must and weed, his piles of flannels and magazines scattered on the floor like a collage of college dorms. I couldn’t stand the mess because of the bugs. Mostly carpet beetles, ants, an occasional wingless cockroach. A million eyes watching our every move. The whole house still smells of citrus since none of them ever liked it. “I’m not even going to begin to unpack that.” I stop behind Ray as he looks at the dream catcher hanging adjacent to the still-made bed. I had gotten it from my grandma when she passed and kept it up even though its frayed webbing hadn’t caught anything in years. “I’m here to help you, Bev, remember?” “Well, it’s not like a gun is going to help the situation.” My hands start to shake as he dug through the closet and finally lifted a baseboard. Ray was still convinced it was some wackjob that was messing with me in the house rather than, well, something paranormal. “You need to be able to defend yourself if there is anyone else here.” Ray looks to my eyes but is focused on the purple lines set underneath. They used to be my favorite feature. As a shared family feature, they slanted down like a sideways teardrop. “You scared me, calling me crying like that.” “I know,” I say. Part of me still wonders if it is real. Her pale face peeking from door frames, the wet footprints in the living room carpet. But I could tell Ray had heard it too. As we sit stiffly in the plastic-covered loveseat when he first came in, the silences dragging further and further out, breathing settles in the walls, the doors creak in slow openings. Everything in this house rots, the 12
Mother of the Eyes | Fiona Young
