Pins and Needles, page 4
“You haven't lifted a finger around here to help so far.” Shocking, really. Betty never used that tone of voice with Evan, her golden boy. She really had to be on edge.
“Mom...” Evan's complaining usually got him what he wanted. But Alice knew today wasn't one of those days. As Alice's lips curled into a nasty little smile, hidden by the rim of her glass, Betty crossed her arms over her chest.
“Don't ‘Mom’ me,” she said. “You can spare one morning away from your new friends to help your sister and I make this house livable.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes and argued some more. But by the time Alice finished her breakfast, Evan had fallen to sullen silence. She carefully scraped away the two bites she always left behind, the ones the magazine said would keep her thin if she just didn't clean her plate, before setting it in the sink. When she turned back, Evan glared at her like his morning of servitude was her fault.
Typical. Alice scooted out of the kitchen and to the hall closet for a bucket and sponge, already knowing where she wanted to work today, hoping Betty's plans for Evan included moving furniture downstairs. As Alice raised dust from the dull carpet on her way to the small bathroom at the back of the second floor, she heard Evan's complaining start up again while Betty's voice cracked like a whip.
Nice to see her mother stand up to Evan at last, although Alice knew Evan would be looking for a target to vent his frustration. And Alice was convenient, wasn't she?
The door to the bathroom creaked, the old hinges dark with rust. A single bulb flared to life as Alice flipped the switch mounted on the outside wall, the other two in the fixture over the mirror long blown out, lighting the grungy tiles with their 70's swirl pattern. The bucket rattled against the pale pink porcelain sink as Alice tried to set it inside to fill. Too big, she turned, spinning the hot water knob in the tiny tub. The sound of water filling the metal bucket echoed in the small space, mist curling up toward her face as she bent over the toilet, one hand on the tank for balance.
As she lifted the bucket free, she felt the rush of air before the sound of the door slamming behind her spun her around. Evan's deep laughter echoed hollow on the other side just before the light went out.
No. She knew better. Why had she let her guard down? A scream rose in Alice, coming from her belly, to her chest, pouring up through her throat. But she couldn't let it out, the black closing around her like a fist, pressing into her ribs, her lungs, pushing her down, smaller and smaller. The handle of the bucket slid from her hand, crashing against the floor, soaking her jeans, her feet. The moment the water touched tile, she slipped, the rubber of her sneakers sliding over the slick surface, sending her sideways. She came down hard against the side of the tub, towel rack scraping across her back, elbow impacting with a sharp crack.
The tears came without her permission, sobs shaking her so violently she couldn't rise, clutching at her aching arm, hugging it to her as she scrabbled both feet against the floor in an attempt to push them under her. Choking on her tears and her terror, Alice fell sideways, reaching with one hand for where the door had to be, a thin rim of light calling to her at the bottom, the barest view of wood and the runner carpet taunting her.
Alice crawled toward the light, chest hitching over and over with hysterical sobs. She made it to her knees, falling forward, both hands pressed to the door, her hurt elbow twanging so badly she cried out in pain. Her fingers scratched at the door, fumbling for the knob. The dented metal rattled in her grip as she wrenched it to the side, jerking forward.
It didn't move, frozen in place.
Locked.
Alice slipped again, the puddle of water beneath her making it impossible to stand. For a moment she huddled, shoulder against the inside of the door, eyes squeezed shut as her terror rose, crested, poured over her in a violent wave.
Not the dark.
Please, not the dark.
Alice was six again, locked in her closet, screaming for Betty, begging to be rescued, falling into her terror. Devoured by the gray. Drained and left a husk, empty. Broken.
Lost.
Until a glimmer of light reached for her, the whisper of a voice in her head, the prick of a pin bursting the bubble smothering Alice's will.
It shattered, broke open. Shoved her past her fear. Jerked her out of the debilitating terror she'd lived with her whole life and prodded her with a sharp jab.
There was nothing in the darkness with her. It wasn't trying to eat her whole. She gasped a breath. Repeated what her heart told her. Nothing. Here. Just Alice and a bucket. And her asshole brother, probably standing outside the door, laughing at her.
A tiny spark of anger formed in her stomach. While Alice had felt frustration and rage toward Evan before, it had always been tinged with hopelessness. Despair. This anger was a new thing, bright and sharp. She grasped onto it, coaxed it to grow. Embraced it as it flared and flamed inside her.
Enough fire to burn back the black and hold off the gray.
Alice swiped at her face with the cuff of her sweatshirt, no longer crying. Heart slowing, she reached for the knob while she kicked off her sneakers, using the handle to pull herself up.
Her eyes adjusted. Not so dark in here after all. She could see her reflection in the mirror, caught the defiance in her face. Enough it shocked her out of the new sensation.
A shiver of her old fear returned, but a far cry from the dread that used to grip her. Alice drew two deep breaths, forced herself to look around the murky dimness of the cramped bathroom. She let the last dregs of her phobia loosen and soften and finally shed from her like the water dripping from her clothing.
For the first time in her life, Alice wondered why she'd been so afraid.
A peek through the keyhole showed her the key remained in the lock. Poking around in the cabinet behind the mirror gave her an old nail file. A sheet of liner ripped from the lower cupboard provided the rest of what she needed.
Feeling rather clever about it, she placed the sheet under the door beneath the key before inserting the file into the lock. The dull thud of her prize hitting the target made her giggle. Look at her. Alice Blunt, secret agent. A careful pull on the sheet slid the key far enough under the door she was able to hook the rounded end with the file.
Hands shaking, but from excitement, not fear for once, she slid the key back into the lock on her side and was free.
A quick change of clothes righted the mess. Alice descended to the living room, calm taking over while inside she still trembled with the thrill of her success.
The look on Evan's face when he saw her was worth the experience. She smiled at him, bright and cheery, before turning to Betty.
“I'm working upstairs,” she said. “If you need me.”
Alice turned with one last smirk at Evan before leaving him to grunt over heavy furniture while her soul soared, light as a feather.
***
It wants to destroy him for bringing the mistress so much pain. It is only comforted in the fact Its presence brought her peace in her time of terror. But the brother is evil, It can feel his cruel intentions, and It will not rest until he is punished for hurting the mistress.
Soon.
***
Chapter Seven
Alice was just putting the finishing scrub on the bathroom when she heard the front door open. The sound of tapping heels and the ring of her aunt's voice made Alice wince. While she was happy Evan was being forced to endure some of the work, Alice had been looking forward to a quiet day in the house where she already felt at home. Knowing Aunt Christine was here ruined everything.
And yet, her newfound confidence refused to back down. Alice surprised herself by trotting down the stairs to join her mother in the entry. Christine's skinny jeans and tight t-shirt were a perfect match for Claire's, as though the waiting pair dressed in tandem.
“If you insist on keeping this wretched old wreck,” Christine said while she tossed her blonde ponytail, “I suppose the least we can do is offer you a hand.”
Betty smiled while Alice choked on a laugh. Dressed like that? Careful they didn't break a nail. And heaven forbid either of them actually got dirty.
What a waste of time. Alice turned her back on them and returned to the stairs. She had one more room she wanted to tackle before lunch.
Her room. Alice felt a thrill as she walked the long hall, back toward the bathroom, turning left instead of right this time. Paused at the doorway. There was a reason she wanted the bathroom clean. It sat directly opposite the space she'd chosen for herself.
She'd found her room two nights ago, after exploring each of the many bedrooms on the second floor. They all had lovely windows, tall ceilings with scrolling crown molding, large square footage. But this room called to her, and the moment she opened the door, her heart sighed and fell in love.
An ancient looking cast-iron bed sat against the far wall, a bank of tall windows, old glass lined with what looked like lead overlooking the back yard. A deep window seat beckoned her to refresh the cushions, a perfect place to spend rainy afternoons reading.
But it was the tall, deep brown, wooden wardrobe that called to Alice the most. Still full of clothing, the musty scent of a fading life mixed with the rich warmth of the wood felt so right she became lost in feeling the textures of the faded dresses hanging there. Old lace softened by time and yellowed by the same edged thin cotton, in blues and flowered patterns that seemed familiar, though Alice had no idea why. But the best part, the part she loved the most was the way the wide doors of the wardrobe seemed to open like arms and welcome her inside.
The spell had only broken when Betty called her down to dinner. Alice, heart pounding with nerves, quietly ate her plate of rice and egg rolls before mustering the courage to make her request. Why she was nervous, she wasn't sure. But it felt important to have that room, so important her trembling fingers dropped her fork, rattling against the edge of her plate so loudly Betty jumped.
“Alice,” she said, clutching her chest with a little laugh.
“Mom,” Alice said. “I found the room I want.”
Betty didn't blink an eye. “That's nice, honey,” she said.
A thrill of joy raced through Alice as she went back to her dinner, no longer tasting it.
She'd wanted to clean and move in right away, but Betty insisted they focus on the downstairs and, reluctant, Alice agreed. Two nights of toil over Betty's office, the formal parlor, the lower bath, the study, and a massive library full of books Alice couldn't wait to get her hands on kept her from her room.
No longer. She brushed her fingers over the white painted door before sliding her hand around the knob and turning. The dull glass threw sparkles of light as she pushed inward, sunbeams streaming through the windows to catch the jewel cut edges of the knob.
Alice carefully closed the door behind her, considered locking it. She didn't want to be interrupted, feeling oddly protective of this space. Her space. Evan's recent attack triggered Alice's fingers to move, to turn the key in the lock and seal her inside.
Perfect. Alice drew a deep breath, a smile warming her face before she set to work.
There wasn't much cleaning to do, not really. It felt as though someone lived in this room up until recently. Alice's folding of the old clothes quickly turned into a large pile on the end of the bed. As much as she liked the worn feeling of the dresses, the way the fabric hung and swayed as she lifted each of them out, some with tiny buttons rubbed dull with time, others sashed at the waist with frayed lengths of satin, she had her own clothes to fit in the wardrobe. Alice felt a connection with the clothes, and didn't want her mother to throw them out or send them to Goodwill. She decided instead to leave her room with some reluctance, key in her pocket, and return to the attic for some boxes.
The door to the third floor was already open, just a crack. Alice eased it wider, listening to the sounds of footsteps above her. She shivered a little, a tingle of fear giving her goose bumps. Everyone was downstairs.
So who was walking around in the attic?
The muffled sound of an impact and the low curse of a girl's voice twisted Alice's anxiety about ghostly visitors to instant anger. She pulled the door open, embracing fully the newness of her own confidence, a deep and powerful need to protect the house driving her up the stairs on stomping feet to confront the intruder.
Claire turned with a gasp as Alice stormed into the attic, cheeks flushing. “What are you doing?” Her southern accent sounded harsh, common. “You scared the life out of me.”
Alice fought to control her trembling. “I could ask you the same question.”
Claire rolled her eyes, tossing her hair just like her mother. “This house belongs to the family,” she said. “I have every right to look around, too, you know.”
“No,” Alice said, a tiny part deep inside begging her to shut up and not antagonize Claire. A part she ignored. “Our grandmother left this house to us. Not you.”
Claire's flat stare held a warning. “Mind your manners, girl,” she said. Like Alice was some kind of nothing.
Anger bubbled hotter, temperature rising as Alice's eyes settled on the necklace dangling from Claire's hand. Diamonds sparkled from a gold chain, thick and antique looking. Before Alice could protest, reach for it, do anything, the necklace disappeared into Claire's front jean pocket.
Choking rage cut off Alice's air as Claire slammed shut the jewelry box she'd been rifling through, other pieces dangling haphazardly from the lip of the lid while Alice's cousin stalked on her high heels across the wood planks. She stopped in Alice's face, her perfect makeup a soft dusting over the fine hairs of skin, lip gloss scented with cherries, so close Alice smelled it.
The scent turned her stomach.
“This is just between us, now, you hear?” Claire's smile was as fake as the blonde of her hair. “Our little secret.” She patted her pocket.
Alice didn't answer her. Couldn't. Barely resisted the urge to shove her cousin's bony ass down the stairs.
Claire must have taken Alice's silence for what it was, because her expression flattened again before she offered a sly smile. “I'll tell you what,” she said. “I'll make a trade. The first formal of the year is next week. Bet you'd love to come.” Alice shuddered. “I'll get you an invitation,” Claire went on, fingers touching Alice's limp, dark hair. “Even lend you one of my dresses.” As if anything of tall, skinny Claire's would fit Alice. “That'll make us square, won't it, sugar?”
Alice didn't get to tell Claire she didn't care even a little bit about some stupid dance or her stupid dresses or being on her good side. The sound of footsteps climbing the stairs drew Claire's gaze a moment before she leaned close and whispered in Alice's ear.
“You tell,” she said, cherry scent coiling around Alice in a noose of sweetness, “and I'll make your life a living hell.”
Claire had just enough time to drape one arm over Alice's shoulder before Betty and Aunt Christine stopped at the top of the landing.
“Mummy,” Claire said, lips pursing in a duck face. “What do you think of Alice attending Fall Formal?”
Aunt Christine's eyes narrowed before she smiled. “What a wonderful idea,” she said, despite the face Alice had the distinct impression Aunt Christine thought there was nothing wonderful about it.
Betty met Alice's eyes. “What do you think, honey?” She hesitated before going on. “We can't really afford a dress right now.”
“Already taken care of.” Claire squeezed Alice's shoulders with her still-draped arm before sweeping past Betty and her mother, heading for the stairs. “I'll call you to come try some on, Alice.” Claire turned and caught Alice's eyes with that same flat expression in her eyes, though her lips smiled. “All right then?”
Alice glared at her cousin, eyes locked on her back, as Claire left the attic with something which didn't belong to her.
***
Chapter Eight
Alice moved to follow her cousin, to go after the stolen necklace, only to have Aunt Christine step in her way.
“How lovely of Claire to involve you,” she said with the same false smile as her daughter. Before waving her hand in front of her face as though she'd caught the scent of something offensive. “A pity you won't be able to hold a party here prior to the dance.”
Party? Alice almost laughed in her aunt's face. She didn't only because the unhappy frown Betty wore was much more interesting.
“Don't start again, please,” Betty said, half turning to retreat after Claire, stopped by Aunt Christine's hand on her arm.
“Now, really,” Alice's aunt said in a voice dripping honey, “wouldn't it just be easier to sell this old moldering wreck and move on with our lives?”
Anger returned in Alice's chest, but Betty was faster.
“That's enough.” Maybe the house was affecting her mother, too. Alice almost hugged Betty for her sharp tone, sending Aunt Christine back a step with a soft gasp. “Momma took good care of this house.” Alice bit her lower lip, refusing to correct her mother. Betty winced slightly, but her shoulders stayed straight, chin firm. “The structure of it anyway.” Aunt Christine's face puckered into an unhappy mew while Betty went on. “She wanted it to stay in the family.” Alice was startled to find her mother's fingers winding around her own and squeezed back. “So we're keeping it.”
Alice almost grinned. Take that, auntie. Instead, she asked the question her mind had been working over since Betty told her they were moving to Louisiana.
“Why did Grandma leave the house to us?”
She might as well have stabbed them both with something sharp, the way they reacted. Aunt Christine hissed out a breath between her too-white teeth while Betty's hand twitched convulsively in Alice's.
“I surely don't know,” Aunt Christine said, words sharp edged and crisp. “After all, I was the one here for her. Not Bets. Your momma left years ago and never came back.” Aunt Christine's face hardened, a Barbie doll with attitude. “Isn't that right, sissy?”
