Divine Evil

the side. Listening. What was she listening for? She'd grown up in this house with its nighttime moans and shudders and knew better than to jump at every creak. But her skin remained chilled, her muscles rigid, her ears pricked.
    Uneasy, she crept to the doorway and scanned the dark hall. There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there. But she hit the light switch before rubbing the chill from her arms.
    The light that flooded the room behind her only made her more aware that it was the middle of the night and she was awake and alone.
    “What I need is a real bed.” She spoke aloud to comfort herself with her own voice. As she stepped into the hall, she massaged the heel of her hand against her breastbone as if to calm her racing heart.
    A cup of tea, she decided. She would go downstairs and fix herself a cup of tea, then curl up on the sofa. She'd probably have a better chance of getting some sleep if she pretended she was just going to take a nap.
    She'd turn up the heat, too, as she had forgotten to do before climbing into bed. The spring nights were cool. That was why she was cold and shaky. The heat, the radio, and more lights, she thought. Then she'd sleep like the dead.
    But at the top of the stairs, she stopped. Turning, she stared at the narrow steps that led to the attic room. There were fourteen worn treads leading to a locked wooden door. It was a short trip, but she had yet to make it. Had tried to believe she didn't have to make it. Yet it had been on her mind since she stepped into the house again.
    No, she admitted, it had been on her mind long before she had come back to Emmitsboro, to the house where she had spent her childhood.
    Her movements were stiff and drunkenly cautious as she walked back to the bedroom to get her keys. They jangled in her unsteady hand as she started toward the stairway, her eyes on the door above.
    From the shadows of the first floor, Ernie watched her. Inside his thin chest his heart sledgehammered against his ribs. She was coming to him. Coming for him. When she changed directions, then reappeared to start up to the attic, his lips curved.
    She wanted him. She wanted him to follow her to that room, a room of violent death. A room of secrets and shadows. His palm left a streak of sweat on the rail as he slowly started up.
    There was pain, sharp and jabbing, like an icicle lodged in the pit of her stomach. It increased with each step. By the time she reached the door, her breath was whistling out of her lungs. She fumbled with the keys, then was forced to press one hand against the wall for balance as she rattled it into the lock.
    “You have to face realities, Clare,” Dr. Janowski would say. “You have to accept them for what they are and deal with your feelings. Life hurts, and death is a part of life.”
    “Fuck you,” she whispered. What did he know about pain?
    The metal hinges keened as the door swung open. The scent of dust and cold, stale air filled the opening. Her eyes stung. She had hoped, somehow, to find some lingering scent of her father. A wisp of the English Leather he had splashed on every morning, a sweet trace of the cherry Lifesavers he'd been addicted to. Even the hot smell of whiskey. It had all been smothered by time. Nothing was left but dust. That was the most painful reality of all. She turned on the light.
    The center of the room was empty, the floor coated with the thick gray powder of time. Clare knew her mother had given the office furniture away years before. She'd been right to do so. But Clare wished, how she wished, she could run a hand over the scarred surface of her father's desk or sit in the worn, squeaky chair.
    There were boxes lined against a wall, neatly sealed with packing tape. More dust, layers of the passing years, clung softly to Clare's icy bare feet when she crossed tothem. Using the keys still clutched in her hand, she cut through the tape and pried off a lid. And there was her father.
    With a sound that was half joy, half sorrow, she reached inside and drew out a gardening shirt. It had been laundered and neatly folded, but grass and earth stains remained. She could see him, the faded denim bagging over his thin torso as he whistled through his teeth and tended his flowers.
    “Just look at the delphiniums, Clare.” He'd grin and run his bony, dirt-crusted fingers over the deep blue blooms as gently as a man handling a newborn. “They're going to be even bigger than last year. Nothing like a little