49.

The curl of night. Sunken. Low breathing underwater. Rising to the surface, pursued by a shark. Its jaws filled with popcorn. Or marbles. Teeth grinding marbles (cat’s eyes, jumbos, swirlies, aggies) the ones she used in grade school with Toby and the neighborhood boys. Toby who cheated; the boys who didn’t dare speak up. Marbles rubbing together, a clacking squeak.

McKenna opens her eyes to the black cliff of a bureau looming in the dark beside her head. The drawn curtains, sewn by Grandma Pencil from heavy burgundy bath towels, are outlined by silver moonlight. McKenna climbs from the bed. The wood is cold under her bare feet. Her throat is dry. The heating vent pumps acrid air. She can hear Snoodles yelling to her, “Mac! Mac! MacMac-MacMac!” But why does he sound so far away?

The digital clock reads 1:45 a.m. The wind brushes the chimes on the back stoop, a sprinkling of holy water for the ears.

The clock switches to 1:46. The dream noise returns—a slow breaking, a clack, a faraway but sharp sound. Perhaps Misty is in the kitchen, cooking dinner.

But Misty is dead, isn’t she?

Careful to lift the knob so it doesn’t protest, McKenna opens the door. She pads down the hall, past Mom and Dad’s room, Audrey’s room, the bathroom. At the top of the stairs, McKenna stops. Looks back to where she’s just walked. Shadows are wrong. Confused. That’s not Audrey’s door. It’s Grandma Pencil’s room. That’s not Mom and Dad’s door. It’s the bathroom. That’s not the bathroom. It’s a closet.

But the crunching—the hollow turmoil of destruction inside a mouth—is down there. At the bottom of the stairs. This is not a dream.

November.