Flipping Fates Page 2

  I cast a sour look at the pale yellow light coming from the exposed bulb dangling from the ceiling. It shines just enough light that I can trace the shape of the mountains of junk all around us, and it also shows that the ceiling itself isn’t even finished.

  Wires and cables and plumbing pipes run the length of the ceiling with what is probably the house’s sub-flooring behind it.

  “Well, at least we have a little light.” I force a smile.

  The bulb flickers over our heads, and my smile fades. With a pop and a hiss, the light burns out, and darkness descends around us.

  “You spoke too soon, Patricia.”

  As we sit in the darkness with our eyes adjusting to the murkiness, electric tingles poke and prod up my spine. My pulse throbs in my ears, and my mouth feels full of cotton. My breath hitches as fear digs cold fingers into my lungs.

  I’m not afraid of the dark.

  I’m not.

  A soft thump sounds in the dark. It sounds like it came from upstairs, but it wasn’t loud enough to be a footstep.

  Probably just the house settling.

  A whisper.

  A breath.

  And a tower of junk topples onto the floor.

  With a shriek, I’ve got my whole body on one step, gasping for air. “Cecily?”

  With the rustling of clothes, Cecily moves in the blackness. I can barely make her out.

  “Just me, Patricia.”

  I bury my face in my knees. “What are you doing?”

  “Exploring.”

  “Well, stop!”

  A bright light flares in my face, and I cry out, scrambling to cover my eyes. “Cecily!”

  “I was certain I saw a flashlight, Patricia.”

  Blinking against the brightness brings tears to my eyes. Cecily stands over me with a large LED flashlight in hand and a triumphant smirk on her pale face.

  “Perhaps there is a use for some of this garbage.”

  “Perhaps.” I say weakly. “Good eye.”

  Cecily gestures to the rest of the basement. “Shall we explore? Perhaps there is another way out.”

  I whimper into my knees, but I know she’s right. We can’t get out the way we got in, so the only solution is to look for another way.

  But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  “How about you lead the way?” I slowly stand up. “You have the light.”

  “Very well. It shall be an adventure.” Cecily turns on her heel and begins forging a path through the junk-laden shadows.

  “It’s a good thing I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say to her back.

  Yes. And that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.

  The Dolls Have Eyes

  I’m not afraid of basements. You can’t live in Tornado Alley and be afraid of basements.

  But I am afraid of this basement.

  Cecily and I have been wandering around in the dark for what feels like forever, picking our way slowly through the narrow path in the piles and stacks of boxes and shelves. The flashlight she found puts out just enough light that we can see a few feet ahead of us, but if there were less trash down here, we could probably see further.

  The basement seems to stretch beneath the entire house, which will be a good feature if we can actually get it clean to the place where it’s sellable. At the moment, no amount of money could coerce me to living in this horrifying dump.

  Cecily stops, and I bump against her back. “Why are you stopping?”

  “I believe that is a bicycle.” She shines her light on the two wheels and handlebar of an old-school bike.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “What use would a bicycle be in this environment?”

  “Paperweight?”

  Cecily shrugs and pushes forward against the dark.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh. Being trapped down here with Cecily would be so much better if she had a sense of humor.

  A quiet thump upstairs makes me glance toward the ceiling.

  Just the old house settling. If it had been footsteps, there would have been more of them, and Cecily would have heard it too. At this point, footsteps would be great, even if they belong to a stranger, but I’ve never heard footsteps that sound like that. And I can’t stop a rush of adrenaline through my system as the hairs on my arms stand up.

  I focus on the bike again and add it to the mental list I’m making of bizarre objects we’ve uncovered so far. A dollhouse. A collection of full-size international flags. Framed portraits. Free-standing doors. Books and books and books—more books than a library. Not interesting books either. Encyclopedias and dictionaries—not even in English. The most ironic find, thus far, was a stash of cleaning supplies.

  Right.

  Like this nightmare has ever seen a mop.

  A muted whisper makes my heart stutter.

  “Did you say something, Cecily?”

  “No.”

  I gulp and move closer to her. The darkness makes everything scarier. That’s the best explanation. My mind is making things up.

  Something rattles in a dark corner, and I pretend like I didn’t hear it. It’s only the twentieth creepy sound I’ve heard since we’ve been exploring this horrible place.

  Why didn’t I wait for Aaron? He would have been happy to come to the house with me. All I would have needed to do was ask.

  “Patricia.”

  “You know, Cecily, you can call me Trisha. You don’t have to use the whole name all the time.”

  Cecily blinks owlishly behind her thick lenses. In her black clothes, she blends into the darkness, except for her pale face.

  “I do not approve of nicknames.”

  I sigh. “Fine. What is it?”

  “A door.” She points the light across a surprisingly open space to a painted red door against the far wall.

  “Oh.” I grimace. “A door. And it’s red.”

  “Why is the color significant?”

  “Red means bad.”

  “That is superstitious.” Cecily moved toward the door, toeing boxes out of the way.

  Mark another find down. A veritable mountain of shoe boxes—full of—yes, shoes. Men’s loafers, never worn.

  Cecily walks up to the door and turns the knob. It opens slowly, another eerie groan filling the musty basement air.

  “I am never going into a basement again after this.”

  Cecily regards me with a raised eyebrow. “That is a foolish declaration to make, especially at this time of year in this particular state.”

  “Thanks.”

  Yes, this would be so much easier if Cecily knew how to laugh.

  Cecily turns back to the room and shines the light inside, and we both freeze.

  My mouth is dry. I can’t breathe.

  I hadn’t thought this place could get creepier.

  I was so wrong.

  The fierce white beam reflects off dozens and dozens of glass eyes set in dozens and dozens of porcelain faces. A large shelf in front of us is covered in dolls. Dozens and dozens of porcelain dolls with limp straw-colored hair and eerie glass eyes and flat little noses and dusty pink lips pulled back over glaring white teeth in an expression that’s more grimace than smile, and in the blackness of the basement it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Cecily.” My voice is a whisper.

  “This is unexpected.” Even Cecily sounds shaken.

  “Dolls.” I struggle around my thick, dry tongue. “It’s dolls.”

  Cecily shines the light from one side of the room to the other. “Curious.”

  The room is packed with as much junk as the rest of the basement, but unlike the other dark corners this one has a tall wooden bookcase where at least 50 porcelain dolls are staring at us like we interrupted their creepy beauty rest.

  “As if this place couldn’t get scarier.”

  “Why would there be a collection of dolls in this basement?” Cecily rubs her chin.

  “Why would anyone collect dolls period?”


  “And if he were a doll collector, why would he collect the same doll?” Cecily tilts her head to look up at me.

  “I think they’re watching us.”

  Cecily cocks an eyebrow. “They are not even appealing in their design.”

  “Can we go now?” I whimper.

  Cecily turns. “Patricia, are you frightened?”

  I blink at her. “We’re locked in a dark, creepy basement with 50 dolls that keep staring at us, Cecily, and I have heard the same creepy whisper voice six times. Yes, I’m frightened!”

  Inexplicably, Cecily’s mouth turns up in a smirk, her pale features hollow and ominous in the harsh illumination of the flashlight. “Whisper voices, Patricia?”

  I swallow with an audible gulp.

  “Certainly you are not falling prey to the concept that this structure is inhabited by the incorporeal. I thought better of you.”

  “Cecily, just stop.” I grab her shoulders. “Stop talking.”

  Cecily stares at me, her eyes barely visible behind the flare of the light on her glasses.

  As we stood facing each other, the chill air in the basement crept over my forearms. A breath, whisper soft, in my ear makes me clench my eyes shut. Surely Cecily heard that. But she’s not reacting. It’s got to be my imagination.

  The whine of a distance voice slips through the shadows, incoherent and slick as oil. As soon as I’m sure I heard it, silence falls again.

  “Patricia,” Cecily whispers.

  “Yes?”

  “May I speak now?”

  I heave a sigh. “Sure.”

  Had she heard it too?

  “This house is unsettling.”

  I scowl at her. “Yes, Cecily, it is.”

  Cecily nods, steps back, and turns around to walk back into the main room of the basement.

  “Is that all you want to say?”

  Cecily pauses on the threshold, and I hurry to catch up with her, not wanting to be left in the dark with the dolls.

  “I rarely want to say anything, Patricia.”

  Why couldn’t I have gotten trapped in the basement with Aaron? Or Laurel? Or one of my sisters? Heck, I’d even be willing to spend several hours trapped in the dark with my grandma. At least that would be entertaining. Why did it have to be Cecily?

  “Were you expecting me to say something specifically?”

  I grind my teeth. “I was wondering if you are hearing the things I’m hearing.”

  “Unlikely.”

  Cecily steps out of the room, and I stay on her heels as we trudge back into the darkness of the main room through the awkward aisles of random, assorted junk.

  “What does that mean?” I think I’m about to be insulted.

  “Your overactive imagination does you no favors, Patricia.”

  Yup. That was an insult.

  “Well, what else am I going to hear in a creepy house?” I hover over her shoulder and peer into the shadows, half expecting something dark and scary to jump out and take a bite out of us.

  “You are frightened, and your irrational mind chooses to invent sounds,” Cecily drones. “It is a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “You just said yourself that you’re unsettled.”

  “I believe I declared that the house is unsettling,” Cecily corrects me. “Not that I am unsettled.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Cecily pauses as we reach the other end of the room. “The house is an object. I am a person.”

  She could have fooled me. I bite my tongue.

  A whining sound echoes in the dark, and Cecily’s mouth snaps shut.

  Okay.

  She definitely heard that.

  “Is my imagination getting to you now?” I ask sourly.

  “Your petulance is not an attractive feature, Patricia.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  Cecily begins to answer, but a harsh hiss interrupts her. We both jump at the sound and whirl, Cecily shining the light in the corner of the basement. My heart thrums in my ear.

  “I believe there may be an animal here.”

  “I hope it’s an animal,” I whisper.

  “Not if it’s a rabid raccoon.”

  I glare at her as I back away. “Why is a rabid raccoon the first thing that you think of? Why can’t it be a cuddly raccoon? What is wrong with you?”

  “Raccoons are not cuddly.”

  “What about a cat?”

  “What about a cat, Patricia?”

  “It could be a cat, right?”

  “It is likely also rabid.”

  “Why does it have to be rabid?”

  My shoulder bumps into one of the teetering stacks of garbage that line the basement, and the entire tower tumbles over on top of both me and Cecily. Heavy boxes full of knick-knacks. Curtains wrapped around wooden rods. Blouses and shirts on plastic hangars. Crashing pottery and rattling aluminum.

  The brush of soft fingers against my neck. The tingling press of a hand against my arm.

  The shriek is out my mouth before I can stop it, and I’m flailing in the darkness as though I’d just walked through a forest of cobwebs.

  “Patricia, now is not the time for dancing.”

  I run my hands into my hair and frantically brush my hands down my shoulders. “Dancing?”

  “And shrieking is uncalled for.”

  “Cecily, you’re not human! What is wrong with you?”

  “Name calling is also uncalled for, Patrica.”

  “Something touched me!” I brush my hands down my arms again.

  “Your imagination seems intent on causing you stress, Patricia. Have you spoken to a professional about this tendency?”

  “Stairs. Back to the stairs.” I shudder and try to breathe. “No more exploring. Let’s just sit.”

  “There is much of the area still—”

  “Stairs, Cecily!”

  Mouth pursed, Cecily stares at me for a solemn moment before she steps around my elbow and leads the way back to the stairs. I gasp for each shuddering breath and try to convince my heart to go back to where it belongs instead of attempting to cut off my airway.

  Once the light shines on the steps, I move forward and take a seat, my legs trembling.

  “Patricia, you really should endeavor to calm down.”

  Cecily, you really should stop talking. I shut my eyes. “I’m sorry I lost it back there. This place just creeps me out.”

  “Your response is entirely emotional.” Cecily lowers the flashlight. “It is not useful.”

  “Thanks. I feel much better.”

  A loud thump sounds overhead, so suddenly we both jump.

  “Trisha?” The voice behind the door at the top of the stairwell is muted and muffled, but I would know it anywhere.

  “Aaron!” I cry and bolt up the stairs.

  The door bangs and rattles, the knob shaking in the castoff reflection of Cecily’s flashlight.

  “The door locked behind us,” I shout through the thick wood. “I don’t know where the keys—”

  Like a gasp of relief, the door swings open, and Aaron is behind it, his fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows furrowed in concern and his warm eyes shining.

  He holds up a keyring and waggles it. “You mean these keys?”

  I should be an adult about this.

  But I’ve been trapped in a terrifying basement with a robot and an army of glossy-eyed fake-people for hours, and I haven’t got the nerves left to pretend that I’m actually a grownup. So I fling myself into his chest with a half-strangled wail, hard enough to knock him back a step, and he laughs.

  Because I’m being ridiculous. We both know it, but neither of us care. And that’s why Aaron is so uncommonly wonderful.

  He folds his arms around me and holds me close, his laughter rumbling in his chest and the faint stubble on his face pressing against my forehead.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers in my hair.

  “Better now.”

  He holds me tighter. I feel him shift.
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  “Cecily, you all right?”

  I smile into his neck. Aaron Guinness. Always the gentleman. Wants to make sure everybody is taken care of.

  “I am perfectly adequate, Aaron. Thank you for your inquiry.”

  I breathe deeply against his chest, drawing in the scent of him, something like summer wind and dust.

  “How did you find us?” I reluctantly pull back to look up into his face.

  He smiles. “We had dinner tonight. And you weren’t answering your phone.” His eyes twinkle. “That usually means trouble.”

  The house creaks around us, and I shiver, folding back into his arms. “I don’t like this house.”

  “Why not?” Aaron looks around. “It’s got good bones.”

  “Personifying a structure is even less helpful than imagining it to be possessed by the incorporeal.” Cecily’s tone sounds like she’s wrinkling her nose.

  I roll my eyes. “What is it with you people and houses having bones? They don’t have bones!”

  “Not true.” Aaron smirks. “Just because they aren’t bones like we have doesn’t mean they haven’t got them. But houses do have a skeleton of sorts, and this house happens to have a very nice one.”

  Cecily narrows her eyes at me from behind her thick lenses. “Well said, Aaron. Patricia, this is an appropriate method to evaluate structural integrity.”

  “It is indeed.” Aaron nods solemnly. “You should listen, Trisha.”

  “Good skeleton, bad skeleton, I don’t care.” I shiver. “I’m not a fan.”

  “Patricia’s imagination is detrimental.”

  Aaron snickers. “Don’t tell me. Is the place haunted, Lee-Lee?”

  “Shut up.” I shove him.

  He laughs, a jolly booming sound, and if it didn’t warm every shivering part of me, I’d be angry at him.

  A door at the back of the house snaps shut, and the three of us pause until a tall, skinny man in a ball cap steps into the dining area. He flashes a crooked grin, which is really all I can see clearly in the darkness.

  “You found them!” His face lights up.

  “I did.” Aaron sets the palm of his big hand between my shoulder blades. “Trisha, you know Keith, right?”

  I clasp the side of my head. “Keith?”

  The skinny guy in the cap steps forward and reaches his hand out. “Keith Wilner. Project manager from the Union Rescue Mission?”