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Seventy-Eight
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House of Sighs Seventy-Seven
SEVENTY-SEVENReggie Frost climbed out of her well-loved recliner and decided to make herself useful, something she’d long ago thought she ever could be. Yet she kept trying, kept on climbing. There were things that needed to be done after all, and hate it though she did, nothing ever found its way back to its rightful place unless Reggie did it herself.The Christmas cutouts for example. She’d forgotten how many times she’d asked any one of her family members to take them down. The seasons had rolled on by and it was somehow November again; almost time to put the damn things back out again.She knew she was invisible, an extension of the furniture in some ways. I’m being worn away, eroded. Reggie daydreamed of meeting someone who made her feel young, someone who maybe—just maybe—knew how to love her. Where there was no love there was no life, and this nothingness left her with two simple conclusions: she was over being a mother and wife.Tired of trying.On those few and far betw
House of Sighs Seventy-Six
SEVENTY-SIXThe crashing sounds of metal on metal.Jack launched himself onto the seat behind Sarah. Julia and Diana screamed. Sarah, however, fell. Her hands shot into the air and grabbed at nothing, only to land on the floor, limbs peddling like a beetle on its back.The sound continued. An intense rattle and pound.It consumed all.Peter knew that at some point he must have fallen asleep. Yes, the nightmare was vivid, but it was a nightmare nonetheless. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him—simple, really. His life had intertwined with his fiction. The notebook flew out of his hand and clapped onto the floor; a corner soaking up the dead man’s blood. Peter couldn’t help it; he wept. Jagged vibrations bulleted through him. His already busted lip cracked again.The bus shook.To Michael it felt like they were driving into the sky. The strobe of sun through the passing trees disappeared. He squinted against this blinding light, slammed his eyes shut and saw red.The
House of Sighs Seventy-Five:
SEVENTY-FIVE:Radio“Report back, two-four.”The handset sat on its hook, DC cable swinging in an arc, ticking the dash.Static crunched. “You there, Liz?”The voice on the radio belonged to Bridget Sargent. Bridget was overweight and loving, her messy hair tamed by bands and pencils. She greeted Liz every morning by tapping her garish fingernails against the window of her cubicle. Bridget was their Lead Fleet Correspondent. She alerted employees to changed traffic conditions and radioed drivers concerning route punctuality. Liz knew this was why Bridget was calling. A commuter must have tired of waiting for the bus to arrive and called the transit hotline to file a complaint. It was Bridget’s duty to find out the reason for the delay.Liz imagined her co-worker’s plump face washed in the lights from her switchboard, could almost hear fingernails drumming against the desk. Brow furrowed, the first twinge of concern.A wasp slammed against the windshield and splattered.The bus
House of Sighs Seventy-Four
SEVENTY-FOURArthritis throbbed as Wes Frost sifted feed among the chickens. The birds looked up at him between their frantic pecking with absent, dispassionate eyes.Food, those black peepers said. Nothing else. Food.He rounded up their eggs, placed them in a basket and whisked them inside. He returned with a butcher’s knife.The Rottweiler growled and barked at the end of its chain, furthered its arc in the dirt as it skidded back and forth. “Shut up, dog,” he said.Wes set his eye on one of the fatter hens and upended her. A single brown feather lodged under the collar of his shirt. He stretched her neck against the cinderblock and envied the bird its simple thoughts, its lack of fear.Severed the head. Set the bird to run blind. Watched it fall.Wes plucked it bare.He cleaned his hands in the upstairs bathroom, whilst listening to the record playing down the hall. Wes looked at himself in the mirror, drew a single feather from his collar and set it beside his razor.Down
House of Sighs Seventy-Three
SEVENTY-THREEIt wasn’t a well-traveled road they pummeled down; the stretch grew more treacherous with each proceeding turn. As though to spite danger, their speed didn’t decrease—if anything, the odometer climbed. Yes, the 243 to town had strayed far from its route and wound deep into the valley.Within the bus, Jack bit his thumb, a habit he’d had since school, biting his nails down to the quick as he waited for a teacher to ask him questions he didn’t know the answers to. Not much had changed since then; there were few solutions within reach now, either.Peter saw the oncoming car. Perhaps his prayers had been answered. He swore to himself that he would get out of this alive and trusted his God to shield him. Sitting there in the heat, he knew that when the time came to run, there would be a fleet of angels protecting him. Their strong, white wings would be his armor.His mother’s voice in his ear. I’m proud of you, she said, breath thick with the stench of liquor. This is a te
House of Sighs Seventy-Two
SEVENTY-TWOThe bus came to a stop.Jack pulled himself up off the floor. This is it, the voice in his head told him. He poised himself to run.Sarah wanted to grab this hot-headed young man and hold him. She pitied him for his machismo. They weren’t going to survive if one of them made a martyr of themselves. With every death, the group would come more unhinged. They were welded together now by tragedy, and a risk by one was a risk to all. Why can’t he see that? she wondered. Oh, Bill, please make him stop.The bus shifted into reverse. “What the fuck?” Jack said.Michael glanced up at the ceiling escape hatch, which was open a crack to allow airflow into the bus. He imagined himself getting up and forcing it open the rest of the way, but he was frozen in place. Terrified. The driver was alert now. Were he to attempt escape there would be the eventual bang! And in a flash his entire history would be wiped clean, all the problems, hopes and dreams that stitched him together—ripped
House of Sighs Seventy-One
SEVENTY-ONEAnd that light was brilliantly white, warm. Trees unclasped their knots, peeling away on either side of the windshield as they entered a wide-open space.Hands fell from ears and eyes opened. The passengers took in their surroundings.They were in a large yard. In front and to the left stood a huge, decrepit shed, a pickup truck parked next to it. The bus drew closer to a house flanked by faded Christmas cutouts. The property sat in the middle of this clearing, and beyond it, Sarah noted trees standing guard, the flash of a clothesline. The words slipped out of her: “No neighbors.”Julia stepped away from the window. Dread filled her. “This is it,” she said. “This is it this is it. This is it.”She’s about to kill us.Diana went to her sister and eased her into their original seat, and whilst the grip on her arm remained relaxed, her shouts to shut the hell up were nothing short of intense.“YOU ALL BE QUIET!” the driver said. She glared them all. Her shoulders rose
House of Sighs Seventy:
SEVENTY:HomeSarah watched the peak of the house grow taller through the windshield. Jack stepped up next to her and whispered, “Whatever’s going to happen is going to happen fast.”She didn’t reply, just continued staring. Never in her life had she known what it felt like to be paralyzed, rooted to the spot with fear. Did terror numb her body or was her body numbing itself to the terror? Sarah didn’t know. And perhaps she didn’t want to, either.The bus rolled over crunching earth.Julia apologized to her sister, who now rubbed her back and held her close. “It’s okay. It’s a-a-all right. Once she s-stops the bus s-she’ll let us off.”Diana shut her eyes.Astoria, Oregon. Her mother’s funeral.She opened them. There was still the dark house out there, so she pinched her eyes again—that same reflex was the one that said yank your hand out from under the water for fear of being scolded; distrust that man walking behind you on the empty street. Pure elemental instinct. Survive wh
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