The Deeps - Volume 1, Issue 2

Amoret

Dori Lumpkin

You don’t know that I am here, so you think that the deal you make involves only the two already-rotting elderly people you believe are orchestrating this whole affair. But this house is as much mine as theirs now, so this deal involves me as much as it does them.

I watch you knock on the door, with absolutely no sense of urgency or self-preservation. If I could, I would scream. I would tell you to run, I would reveal myself and ask you to leave, I would do any number of things to save you. But I don’t. I can’t peel my eyes away from the disaster I know this will become.

You have this sense of carelessness about you, but it feels heavy. Manufactured. You want them to underestimate you. I don’t know if you know about me; at least, I don’t think you do, so I’m unsure of the purpose of your lie. But there’s something in your stance—in your carefree smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, in the way that your hair curls around your ears—that keeps me from believing you and pulls me into you all the same.

You talk to them for a moment, gaze never wavering, and I watch as you hand over the money. I can’t hear what you’re saying, but the tone of your words doesn’t match the movement of your body. You’re laughing, smiling, telling a joke that they don’t respond to. But you flinch when the woman’s hand touches you as she takes the check. You’re guarded. A fly lands on the woman’s brow, just above her eyeball. She doesn’t notice it, but you do. Your eyes follow it instead of her.

The man ushers you inside. Again, I can’t hear what anyone is saying, but he growls something at you and a chill runs down my spine. You still, but the false smile doesn’t falter. I’m impressed. I remember when I was in your position. I was not quite so calm, but I was more desperate. Perhaps you are desperate, just far more capable of hiding it than I was.

The fly moves from the woman’s brow, crawling up somewhere past her hairline. Again, she doesn’t notice, hardly doing more than smiling at you, split lips and brown teeth bared for the world to see. They shut the door. You can’t go anywhere now, and I mourn my chance to help you out of this place. They don’t lock it, because that would be too much of an indication that something is wrong, but I know they will later.

I watch them lead you off into the living room, and I do my best to follow from my vantage point. It gets difficult for me to find crawl spaces that lead to every portion of the house, and the one in the living room is particularly tight. Splinters poke at my cheeks and eyes, and I hope that later it is dark enough for them not to notice the scratches when they examine me. There is a slight hole in the wood of the wall that gives me a perfect view of you, though, and for that I am grateful.

The woman pours you a glass of something she calls lemonade. I watch you take it and politely set it down on the table. I know you will not drink it. Clever girl.

They leave you alone for a moment, perched on the edge of the dry, rotting couch. You don’t necessarily spring into action, but your demeanor changes almost entirely, which I appreciate. As they whisper in the kitchen, most likely plotting your demise, you begin to examine every aspect of the room. Your eyes dart from corner to corner to corner to corner, lingering closely on the spaces in between. For a moment, your eyes pass over mine, and I feel like you can see me. You can’t. It is, of course, too dark in my crawlspace to reveal anything. I let myself dream of the possibility of you seeing me for just a moment, and then shake it away.

After examining the entire room, you begin to pick at the yellow innards of the couch, poking out from where the rest of the cover has deteriorated. I watch you dig your fingers in deep, curving them around to pull out more and more of the crumbling fluff. Are you nervous? You smile again, and this time it means something. You seem relieved, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I see now that your sense of self-preservation is far greater than I initially assumed, which delights me. I do hope that you’ll make it out before it gets too late. As much as I know I would enjoy your company, I’m not worth staying behind for.

After conspiring, the couple returns. Another fly accompanies them, making itself too comfortable on the rim of your maybe-lemonade. Your false demeanor returns, and you smooth down the couch where you had been picking at it.

They mention the time, that it is getting late, that you must want to rest, you must be so tired from your journey, wherever it is that you came from. I can hear them now that I’m closer to you. They say that you must want to retire to your room, and that they have business to attend to as well. The walls closing me in tighten, or I inhale—either way, everything gets smaller. They must mean me. The business. What a way to refer to what they do. I know they lead you to your room next, because I watch them escort you and hear the creak of the house as you make your way through it. They’ll give you the same room they gave me, once.

All the better, I suppose. I can access that one far more easily than the others.

I make my way through my hidden tunnels, pulling myself past rusted nails and rotted walls. I know they’ll meet with me in less time than I’d like. Best they assume that I never left, I cannot leave, I am everything they need me to be.

I try not to let myself worry. I try to believe that it won’t be so bad this time.

After all, you’re here, darling. I’ll return to you soon.

•  •  •

Have you ever watched the slow crawl of blood from a fingernail out into the sliver of wood jammed underneath it? It’s beautiful, really. It’s languid and relaxed and perfect. You can track the rate at which it leaves your body by the color change of the wood, from dull tan to deep, impossible scarlet. Or, well, down here it looks more black than anything else. It’s hard to find color in things in the dark. Especially in blood, which is already so dark to begin with. It is nice to look at, though, and the people who keep me down here give me plenty of it to watch.

The fingernails were the first. They started small when they locked me down here because I was too afraid of everything to be of any use to them. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here now, and I definitely wouldn’t say that I’m not afraid, but I have accepted it. There’s no way out. Sometimes, if they feel they’ve done a particularly good job, they won’t even shackle me up once they’re done with me. They make the mistake of assuming I’m too weak from blood loss to actually go anywhere. And that is partially true.

After nights like those—the good nights, their best work—they tend not to visit, giving me the proper time to recover for the next. And so when I get the chance, I wander, keeping myself tucked tight away in places only I can fit, in the thin spaces where the wood scratches against my skin and I feel pressed, so pressed, so careful, and so small.

This is where I find you.

•  •  •

It is easy enough for me to watch you. You are in my old room, after all, from when I was merely a guest instead of a resident. I squeeze myself between the walls, placing my view exactly across from your bed. That same old place I had first found in my own exploration of the space. It is perfect. They didn’t go quite so harsh on me the night before, perhaps because of your arrival, so I find myself with more strength than I’m used to.

I watch you sleep, and it is beautiful. You don’t at all look relaxed, and your brows furrow together in perfect frustration. I have never seen someone sleep like you. When you wake, that frustration does not leave. You stretch for a moment and then immediately rise, wearing exactly the same clothes you wore the day before. I don’t recall you bringing a bag with you. Why? Do you have nothing of value?

I don’t linger on this. I didn’t have much with me when I arrived, so it makes sense that you don’t either. Instead, I watch you pace across the floor, demonstrating more of that endless curiosity. At one point, you are dangerously close to me, and I hold my breath. I can’t tell if you see me or not, but I swear that our eyes meet. If you do, you do not react. You simply continue examining the room, for what I assume are any changes between last night and this morning. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would go to sleep in a strange room without ensuring your own safety first. I admire that about you. I admire a lot about you.

You then go to the bathroom. Thankfully, I do not have to move to keep watching, so I stay put as you stare at your own reflection, running your fingers through tangled hair, splashing water on your tired face. Our eyes maybe meet again, and I can’t help but smile. The movement hurts my face, and I am forced to remember how weak I am in comparison to you. This is why they are letting you stay here, after all. Because I am too weak. This is why I must get you to leave. If you do see me, you again choose not to say anything, and continue on with your morning ritual.

That is when I make my decision.

I wait until you leave the room. It takes you a while, but I do not mind. I would watch you for days if I could. And they only ever come to find me in the night, so as long as I hide in the cover of the daylight, I can be as slow as I like.

Eventually, you do leave. Despite how badly I want to follow you, I don’t. I stay behind. Once I am certain you aren’t returning, I do my best to contort my body into a shape that will allow me to exit my hiding spot and fully enter your room.

If I had the time to linger, I would. I would stand in the window, letting the sun warm my skin. I would let myself take up space in a place other than the basement, allowing myself to feel light and full. I do not have the time. I make my way to the bathroom, to your mirror. This would have been easier if the blood under my nails was still wet, but it isn’t, so I bite the pad of my finger, hardly even noticing the pain. Blood wells up from the wound, and I take a moment to marvel at its redness. I hope that you can appreciate it too. I use the finger to write a careful message for you on the mirror, a single word, a signal that I hope you will understand. I want to talk to you. I want to know you. I want to tell you to run, get out, be free while you still can, please, it isn’t too late yet.

I return to my place in the walls, waiting again for you.

And you come back. Of course you do. And I get to watch you find my word.

You don’t react in the way that I’d hoped. I don’t know what I’d hoped. Maybe that you would notice my presence immediately, turn around, pull me out of my prison and embrace me? Or maybe that you would yell, and it would frighten you enough to get you to jump out of the window and run to safety?

You don’t do any of that. You spend a moment looking around the room, checking if you were followed. I watch you come to the conclusion that you haven’t, because you don’t know that I am still watching. Carefully, so so carefully, you pick up a rag that rests by the sink, and you begin to wipe my message away.

And just like that, it’s gone. You make a small noise to yourself as you wipe the last of it away. Some hint of satisfaction. It makes me pause. Makes me wonder if you are actually the sort of girl I think you are. When you’re alone, your self-assuredness shines, but I wonder if perhaps it is more foolishness than anything else. I wonder again why you are here, and what your purpose is.

I hope that you removed my message from the mirror only to protect me, and not because you intend on ignoring it.

Either way, darling, I know that we will meet soon.

•  •  •

I return to the basement after that. I had been upstairs far longer than I like to at a time—all I can do is hope that you understand, and that it will be you walking down the stairs next time instead of them. I’ve become somewhat of a savant when it comes to waiting, don’t you think? I do so much of it. It isn’t difficult, though, and I can find so many things to capture my attention while I do.

In this moment, it’s the blood again. It has dried now, in those large, beautiful circles they always draw once they’ve drained it from me. It looks thick, and black, and I marvel at how something so perfect could have come from my body. I trace the circles with my eyes and wonder why they draw them in such a way. I have never thought to ask, and if I had, they most likely would have punished me. So I won’t, and just let myself wonder.

I have heard them talk before about awakening something that will change everything for them. They have such high hopes. I do not think that anything will awaken, and especially not from drawing pretty circles in a young girl’s blood.

The ceiling above me creaks. I do not know what time it is, but it can’t possibly be soon enough for them to return for more of me.

I hope it is you.

•  •  •

The basement door opens slowly, too slowly, carefully. It has to be you. They never open the door with care. With them, it swings open widely and the light shines in—often blinding—simply because they like to show off. I am sitting in my corner, in my circles, when I first see you from somewhere other than through a wall. You take up so much space. It is beautiful. Your steps are not quick, and you do not rush to me. Again, I knew you were clever. You probably think I’m a trap.

I’m not.

You take in my new room, my basement, my home, without any sort of reaction, but I can tell how quickly your mind is turning. You are afraid. Good. I had assumed you had no sense of self-preservation, but now I know that is not true. Your sense of desperation merely outweighs it. Your eyes are wide, but your face is even. Your hands shake, but you hide them under crossed arms. You look firm. Undaunted. I looked like you once. I miss it.

“You’ve been following me.” Your voice is clear, but quiet. I nod, afraid of how I might sound to you should I actually try to speak. You sound like everything I imagined, light and perfect and like nothing I could ever be. “Who are you?”

“Amoret.” I wish for it to be a whisper, but it falls somewhere between a croak and a hiss.

“And you live in the walls?” You tilt your head, incredulous. I nod. I can tell that you are upset, or frustrated, or confused, or all three, but your face softens just a touch, and you approach me.

I have not had the luxury to be concerned about my appearance since the couple took me in, but seeing you, I wish I had. I know what I must look like to you, and the idea of that scares even me. Sometimes when I move, I can feel my skin pulling against my bones in ways that I know should be impossible. You can see my veins, even where they are lightest. I might as well be translucent. My hair, once long and blonde and perfect, has been falling out in clumps for what might be weeks. My body is littered with healing scars and open wounds, some of them doing much better than others. Evidence of the work they do on me. I am a monster to you.

“How long have you been here?” You ask, kneeling down in front of me. It’s another careful position of yours, comfortable and kind, but you’re still able to jump up at any moment if you need to.

“I don’t know,” I respond honestly, “but I’m glad you got my message.” I try to smile, and you cringe a little bit watching me. My smile dies.

“Yeah. Your blood message. Thanks for that, by the way, it was horrifying.” I want to apologize. I didn’t intend to scare you. I just didn’t know how best to tell you without revealing myself too soon. You had to find me on your own or else you never would have trusted me. I think you would understand that, if I explained it.

“I didn’t want you to think that I was part of their game.”

“Game?”

I shake my head. Wrong word. Not a game. Maybe to them, sure, but not to me. Or you.

“You should leave,” I say. I don’t really want you to go, but it’s unsafe, and my goal for talking to you has always been to get you out. You frown at me, which is confusing. Why wouldn’t you want to get out of here?

“I’m only here for another day and then I’m on the road again. No sense in leaving now.” You hesitate for a second, watching me. I take slow breaths, trying my best to reserve what little strength I have. “But it feels really shitty to also just . . . leave you here. Now that I know.”

“You have to leave now,” I insist. If you wait, you’ll just risk them acting sooner. I appreciate your empathy, and your desire to help me. I wish I had any ounce of those feelings towards myself. You don’t even know me, and yet you still want to try. I watch your eyes travel over me, staring at my wounds, my hair, my bones that stick forward through papery skin. There is something in your expression that I do not understand. But I want to. God, do I want to.

“I can’t leave you behind. That isn’t fair.” I’ve never known anyone so noble. There’s no point in arguing. It seems your desperation instinct extends to those around you as well. I laugh. It is a sad sound, followed by a pathetic wet cough. “I’m going to go back upstairs. I’ll come up with a plan. Just . . .” You hesitate, waving your arms around and motioning to me, my circles, my basement. “. . . act natural, I guess?”

You stand, but you pause again. You reach out and take my hand, pulling it close to your lips and pressing a delicate kiss against it. I don’t know how to react. I don’t understand. It falls immediately, and even in the dark I can see bright red color your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, “I don’t know why I did that.” You shake your head, and I smile along with you. “I’ll be back,” you promise. I don’t want to, but I believe you. You turn, and start to leave.

“Wait—” I call, using the last of my courage. You spin, and I look at your face one more time. “Who are you?”

You tell me your name, and I hold it close to my chest like a secret—along with the kiss you pressed to my palm. I do not want you to do any of this, but I will not stand in your way. Only one of us is getting out of here, darling, and it will not be me.

•  •  •

I still remember the feeling of that kiss when they come for me that night, and I let it consume my thoughts as they make me weaker than they ever have in the past.

For a moment, I think they’re going to kill me. It would be fitting, seeing as they have you now to take my place. I wasn’t good enough for whatever it is they’re trying to awaken. Or the attempt is futile, and they’ll keep trying despite that. I decide that if I die, as long as I’m thinking of you while it happens, I will be fine.

But I don’t die. They bring me right to the edge, but refuse to kill me. I am grateful, but I say nothing. Another day is another chance to get you out of here.

I amuse myself by wondering what your blood might look like. Is it the same as mine? Would it stain the wood that perfect shade of red? Probably better, I’d guess. Something more to their liking. Stronger, more fulfilling, whatever it was they were looking for. I pray they will never get to see it, and lose myself in the idea of watching the sunrise, letting the warmth cover me and take me away. Would you watch it with me, someday?

I try not to let my thoughts get too hopeful, though. I know there’s no way out of here for me. There’s no future where the two of us are together, and no future where I am not cold and half-dead in a basement. I remember the warmth of your lips and let myself stay in that feeling. That is enough.

It pulls me out of everything, and I am at peace. I am not afraid, for the first time in months.

There is a future for you.

•  •  •

For many hours after they leave, I am too exhausted to move. They brought me food when they finished, as well as water, so I eat. I drink. I regain my strength. And all the while, I listen to you move above me.

I memorized the sound of your footsteps when you first entered the house, so it’s easy to follow your path. I don’t know what you are doing, but I wish to. You only move throughout parts of the house where they aren’t, and your steps are so calculated. I know you are planning something—you implied as much in our conversation—but I’m trying really hard not to think about what that means. I don’t want you to do anything dangerous for my sake, but it doesn’t really seem like I can stop you anymore.

Several hours go by, and then I finally have enough strength to begin my ascent to the floors above, and am able to squeeze myself into the spaces between the walls. It is nice to be able to see you again. You look focused, almost upset. You’ve got a small collection of items in your room now. A bottle of whiskey. A pair of scissors. What looks like the spare set of their truck keys. A hammer. An oil lantern. At least you’re confident. As I said before, there’s a lot to admire about you.

You look up suddenly, eyes meeting mine. You smile, and I try to smile back.

“Soon,” you whisper. “Tonight.”

Silently, I wish you luck and move on my way. If this is going to be successful, I need to keep an eye on them to ensure that they can’t stop you. The sun is setting. We’re running out of time.

They’re in the living room when I find them, talking in their hushed, pained way. Sometimes I wonder if they know I’m in the walls, watching everything, and keep their voices down just so I won’t hear them. They do mention your name, at least, and something about suspicion. I strain to hear more, and the woman looks up. She looks me in the eye. She smiles; it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her lips crack open, and for the first time, I hear her clearly.

“Run, little doll. See what happens.” Her husband is oblivious, but I am frozen to the spot. She eventually looks away from me, and whatever fear that was keeping me still dissipates. I want to go to you, but she would know. She would know, and we would both be trapped here forever.

I return to the basement. I have never been the praying type, but I find myself dipping my hands in the blood that makes up the circles and extending a prayer to whatever being is listening. Anything to help you. Anything to ensure your safety over mine. Nothing happens, which is expected, though still disappointing.

I’ll have to do this on my own.

I wait a little bit longer—just a little longer—and go back to tracking movements.

There is a silence that seems to extend forever.

That’s when it happens.

I thought you were still gathering supplies. I’m so sorry. I would have come sooner had I known, but I didn’t. I couldn’t tell.

Above me, there is the explosive, horrifying sound of a gunshot, followed by a crash and the shattering of glass. I wish for the strength to run, but my muscles are so deteriorated from the lack of blood that I can only make my slow crawl back upstairs. In that time, I hear shouting. Scuffling. A scream.

I don’t know if you are okay or not, and that terrifies me. They wouldn’t kill you, not yet at least, so I know you’re alive. They wouldn’t hesitate to wound, though. I know how they get. As long as it isn’t deadly, it’s fair game.

Another gunshot rings out as I’m halfway up the stairs, catching my breath. I push forward, desperate to reach you. I hear a scream and try to tell myself it isn’t your voice. I don’t know what your screams sound like, I remind myself. I will never know.

It isn’t a comfort.

I make it up the stairs after minutes of painful silence. I don’t bother with the walls anymore. No matter if you end up successful, I’ll have no reason to hide after this. They’ll kill me either way.

The living room is a disaster—the couch destroyed, yellow chunks of foam everywhere. A bullet hole in the armoire, shattering the glass and leaving holes in the wood. Spatters of blood across one of the walls. I don’t see you. Or them.

Your lantern is on the ground, the flame still burning dimly. Out of instinct, I take it. I’m not sure why, but it feels important to have something to occupy my hands. I couldn’t hit hard enough for any sort of weapon, but at least with this, I could throw my whole body weight behind it.

There’s liquid on the ground. Dark brown. The whiskey. I take a breath and begin to understand your plan, as well as the purpose of the lantern. There isn’t even time to appreciate the color, the way it stains the floor, or any of the things that I used to allow to infiltrate my thoughts.

Another crash echoes from the foyer, so I make my way towards it. Every step is agonizing now, my body weighed down with the exertion from the day. I can’t move fast enough. I pray for a second time, just for a little bit more strength. Again, nothing comes to me. At least my movements are quiet, which is a blessing in itself.

A scream echoes out, followed by a gunshot.

I make it to the foyer.

You stand over the body of the man, triumphant. A bullet wound has split his face in two, with blood and brains spilling out over the hallway carpet. Other parts of his body look more like meaty pulp than what might’ve been a man. Your face is also bloody, and it is everything I could have ever wished for. You look up at me, eyes bright. A smile spreads across your face, and in that moment I know I will never see anything more beautiful. Your boot rests on his neck as he struggles to release a final, gurgling breath. I move towards you, lantern in hand.

Your face falls, and your eyes refocus behind me. I try to turn, but it isn’t fast enough. With the force of a brick wall, the woman slams her body into mine, knocking me down and forcing the lantern out of my hand. My ribs crush and crack beneath her weight. I want to scream. I can’t. Something cold and damp soaks through the back of my dress, and I remember the whiskey you spilled across the floor. I begin to form an idea of my own.

I grasp for the lantern as the woman slams her weak fists into anything she can reach. It takes a moment, but eventually I feel the cold metal of the handle. My eyes reach yours for just a brief moment, and I can see you struggling to get to me. Your leg is bleeding. It looks like yet another bullet wound. I shake my head, eyes widening. I’ve been saving my strength for this moment.

“RUN,” I try to yell, but it comes out as more of a pained wheeze. I can feel my ribs digging into my lungs, my stomach, and my skin. You nod, tears in your eyes, and turn towards the door.

I get a firm grip and prepare to swing.

•  •  •

I never expected fire to feel as beautiful as the flame suggests, but it does. It isn’t a feeling I would ever want to share with you, though. Perhaps the feeling is death more so than fire.

I have never been so warm, and it is so welcome.

The lantern crashed into the woman’s head when I swung it, and she was dead on the spot. I did, after all, use the last of my strength.

It is difficult to get her body off of mine, and by the time I do, you’re long gone. I hear the engine of their old truck speeding away down the gravel. I cannot stand, so instead I just pull myself, pitifully, through the fire and to the door. It spreads quickly. You’d be so proud.

There is so much whiskey soaked into my dress that the fabric doesn’t last long. I know I won’t either.

If I shut my eyes just the right amount, the fire of the house almost looks like a sunrise.