Page 17 of Phobia
'Cause it was Vince. Why did he do half the shit he did? Nothing he ever did made sense to anyone. Shrugging, I put my phone back in my pocket, slinging an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t sink against me like she normally did when she was content,a dead tip-off.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she offered flatly, keeping her profile trained straight ahead.
Bullshit. I’d know if something was wrong from a state away. Everything about her changed right down to the notes of her rose garden perfume which I swore had the range of a mood ring and shifted from sweet and floral to sharp and menthol.
I narrowed my eyes, hunting for the truth, but she ignored me.
A scare actor came barreling toward us, deciding her obliviousness made her the perfect target.
His unrestrained cackle was like a foghorn over the music. Half of his face was missing. Prosthetics created the illusion of a dislocated jaw, the gruesome bone protruding, showing off the gory interior with flesh hanging from the skin. The other half of his face shrouded with pustulous boils formed in tight circles. The visual was more uncomfortable than the other half of his face, forcing the hair along my arms to stand upright. I had the stomach for a lot of things the average person didn’t. But something about clustered dots admittedly made me a bit squeamish in a way nothing else did.
“Why don’t you smile, pretty girl?” he demanded, releasing another shrill cackle.
She offered him nothing in return.
He attempted another angle, holding a blade up at his side, the tip glistening with fake blood. Unnaturally vomit-green eyes bore down on her, engaging her in a staring contest I knew he wouldn’t win. His slash of lips twisted with a wide, toothy smile, the whites glowing under the blue light.
She folded her arms over chest, staring up at him like he was wasting her time. “Why don’t you fucking make me?” she dared, her eyes turning into whetted daggers tipped with poison. “I’m so sick and tired of men telling women to smile.”
The actor dropped the act, holding his hands upright in defense, his grip on the knife loosening. “Just doin’ my job, lady,” he said, a New England accent replacing the contrived voice he’d been using.
I’d bet "Down with the Patriarchy for $800" wasn’t on his Jeopardy board tonight.
He shot off in another direction, procuring the screams he’d been looking for from another couple.
Yeah, there was nothing wrong alright. “Katrina.”
She ground her molars, the column of her neck tensing as she raised her stubborn chin. “I know what I saw, okay?” she challenged, still refusing to meet my stare.
I groaned. Christ, not this.
Her pert nose wrinkled, her septum piercing wiggling. “And I know that sounds ridiculous, but…” Her lips pursed with displeasure, followed by the framing of her forehead with her hand. “He blinked at me, Adam.” She dropped her hand against her thigh, her weight shifting from foot to foot as she trapped the fabric of her dress in her fingers until her knuckles whitened. “Or tried to, anyway. I have no reason to make that up.”
My jaw tightened. Did I think my wife was hallucinating?
Short of seeing it for myself, I couldn’t confirm jack shit. So here was what I knew for certain. This place didn’t have oddities in its name for no reason.
Things were peculiar in here. They always had been.
It had an aura to it that would follow you home if you allowed it to and a history that kept you up at night if you believed in it.
People who came in but never came back out.
Police reports that led nowhere.
Moulage faces adorning walls that seemed so familiar.
Hidden stairwells serving as another network within the edifice.
Cautionary allegories painted on ceilings.
Whatever Vince was up to, I sensed it had something to do with this place.
Which meant I was going to get roped into this at some point because we were a family and that’s what family did—cleaned up each other’s messes, and made some together, too.
Blowing out a terse breath, I said, “I believe you.”
