shotgun

Sophie was not in her bed. The sheets pooled a smooth pale blue pond under her pillows. No wrinkles. No hints of a body once there. Jack tilted his head and reached under the window sill. The lock jammed and rattled at him.

Unusual.

He slipped down the side of the house, alighting on the moon-colored grass. The window to her other room poked pinholes of light through the leaves of the tree and he wondered why she would be there in the warmer season. He listened to the creaking of his gloves as he turned her book over in his hand, checked once more for the folded letter sticking its ear out of the center pages. It was worth the extra effort to give it back to her.

The bedroom window was open. Jack poured himself through the curtains, tree branches shuddering and scraping the wall behind him. Another empty and unmolested bed. His chest fluttered at the thought that she did not have to spend all day bedridden, though it was late and he could not imagine where she would be now. He laid the storybook by her lamp and traced his finger lightly across the embossed lettering. If she was spending time with her family downstairs, he thought not to bother them. They had reason to be happy.

Jack pushed aside the curtains and put his foot down on the window sill. The wood creaked in protest and shifted, coughed dust at his knee. Jack stayed very still. He craned his head down to see a web of black mold spiraling along the junction of the wall and the floor. He followed its delicate, ugly sprawl up through the wallpaper. Rings of discoloration blossomed across the ceiling. Over his shoulder, the door yawned into a bruise-blue hallway cast in shadows like a black eye.

The house was still sick. No wonder she wasn't in her bed tonight. Jack turned his attention to the forest and hesitated. If he were lightfooted, he could take a look at the damage for himself. It would bother him to leave wondering if Sophie was safe.

Just be quick and careful. Only on this floor. Jack rolled his shoulders, slipping off the window sill. He was always quick and careful.

He listened for the sounds of stirring before entering the hallway. There was a plastic bone laying on the ground that he spun with his toe. They were wise to get a dog, but he'd yet to meet it up close and felt smug for that fact. Jack passed down a few doorways, feathering his fingertips along the wall. He felt a bulge in the wood paneling and stopped, inspecting the small crack there. A framed painting hung askew over it. He couldn't get it to hang straight.

The grandfather had long moved out of his bedroom. Jack peered inside to see it had changed a bit: Most notably, a bookshelf was missing and exposed a man-shaped red smear, complete with crumbling paint. It made a chking noise as Jack plucked a chip free. There was dust on the bed and more mold in the ceiling.

A bathroom had rust growing from its faucet and the dial in the bathtub was taped in place. The tiles shuddered beneath his feet. A light fixture in the study was filled with the bodies of bugs. Threads split and spiraled out on all sides of the rug. Each of the end tables had been flipped around so the drawers faced the wall, claw marks up their legs.

Jack stepped out into the hallway and heard something drop. A gray, ancient looking door, the only one still closed, sat tucked in the corner beneath the attic. He remembered seeing it often, how it was never used, inconvenient to get to with the ladder deployed. But tonight, the hatch to the attic was closed.

The door resisted as he pushed it open, squealing against the swollen wood floor. Jack quickly glanced at the stairs, warmly glowing with light and the murmur of a television. The boards creaked as he took a step inside and looked around. The room was bare, a single window covered in thick, unsightly drapery; a spare bedspring was leaning against the wall; a dresser in disrepair sat in the adjacent corner. A storage room.

He heard something drop again. It was not coming from the storage room.

Darkness closed over him and his head snapped back. In the next second he felt a sharp blow from behind as he crashed into the hard, warped floor, jolts of pain bursting from his knees. Jack caught himself on his hands and let out a husky gasp. Tearing the sheet off his shoulders, he sprang up and whirled around in time to see the door slam shut, followed by a loud, resounding click. He lunged for the doorknob and rattled the door in its frame, shoving his shoulder against it. He remembered the window. Jack thudded across the room and threw the curtains aside to see the woods below chopped up by pitch black lines.

"The window is barred," a voice told him from the hallway. "Don't try to do anything."

Jack stood in place. He reached out and traced the iron weave on the other side of the glass.

"Before I call the cops, I need to ask you myself," the woman continued. She was out of breath, furious. "I need to ask what kind of right you think you have- coming into my house and endangering my family, over, and over again."

The window was nailed shut, and by kneeling a little he saw where the iron grating attached to the outside. Jack sighed. He didn't want to do any more damage to the house. He flattened both his palms on the pane and pulled back his shoulders to shove.

"I knew you weren't gone. You're sick, you know that? Preying on an old man. And not even that." She took in a sharp breath. "You came in through my daughter's window. I left it open for you. You knew right where to go."

Jack stopped. The window creaked softly as he eased off the pressure. "I have never hurt your daughter."

He heard a shaky gasp, the door shuddering under her back, like she hadn't expected him to respond. "You don't even deny it," she snapped, and with the disgust in her voice Jack imagined her tongue rolling like a snake in her throat. "I can't believe that's the first thing you say."

"What would you have me say otherwise?"

"I said I want an explanation! I don't care if I have to tear it out of you, I just want to hear it for myself. We refuse to live in fear anymore."

Jack faced the door. A sliver of moonlight cut over his shoulder and painted a white streak where the woman's head would be. Sophie's mother. He debated using her name, and decided it would be too cruel. "It doesn't matter anymore. I bring no more harm to your family."

"My father nearly died," her voice cracked out like a whip, "he was rushed to the hospital with his stomach cut open and they found old scars on his intestines. It kept me awake for weeks. This will always matter to me."

"But he survived," Jack said.

"Only because my husband caught you."

"I was never going to kill him." Jack thought for a moment. "He did conveniently interrupt me, however. I'm sure the doctors told you nothing was missing."

"You monster! This isn't a joke!"

Her voice reached a scream, rattling through the yawning doors and stairwells of the house. Distant moans echoed back. Silence, thick and suffocating, oozed from the cracks in the walls, and Jack went still, holding a half-formed fist against his stomach. He heard the gentle trembling of the doorknob rocking in Philippa's grip. He lifted his head and gave her a moment.

"I will not explain myself," he said.

"You don't have a choice."

"No. You wouldn't believe me regardless."

"Try me."

"You would believe me no more than you believe that I won't hurt anyone else," Jack said quickly. "For that reason, I won't waste my breath."

"Don't get snarky with me."

Jack grumbled. He glanced at the window behind him, wedged between two paths to take. He could leave and she would have nothing to do about it. Yet the conversation they were about to have twisted his chest into knots; it was, selfishly he noted, exhilerating.

"You won't believe me," he said slowly, "because this goes beyond your father and your daughter."

"What?"

"Think. Your house is falling apart no matter how hard you try to keep up with it. Your daughter was bedridden but is now miraculously better around the same time."

She gave a frigid pause. "...What are you getting at?"

"I'm the one thing both of those things have in common. A repeat intruder- I've been caught once and still here I am, claiming to do no harm, but actually the opposite. Never stolen anything. Never made a threat." Jack gestured out of habit. "Aren't you more curious about that?"

"...What do you want?"

Make a decision. He remembered the decay in the house. They were in a race against time. No more secrets.

"I want your trust," he whispered. "And to leave here in peace."

Philippa didn't say anything. Jack studied the doorknob and saw that it had stopped shaking. He tugged his on his hood and exhaled sharply. "I think the anonymity is keeping you on edge," he announced. "Do you have a gun?"

"Wh- what?"

"No. I already know you hunt. You must have a gun. Here, I suggest you get it, for your safety, and open the door. We can talk then." Jack waited, and when he got no response, shuffled back against the wall. "I'll sit on the ground. My hands behind me. If you see my hands, you can shoot."

He sat down noisily, clacking his boots against the floor. He crossed his arms behind himself and leaned back, the back of his head against the window sill. "Did you hear that? I'm down."

Philippa hesitated further and he felt a twinge of impatience in his chest. Then she moved, the swishing of a housecoat behind her. "Stay," she demanded, and Jack listened to her hurry downstairs.

He wondered what he was going to do. It was unlikely she was going to welcome a stranger like him in her house, but he could talk her into putting the gun down.  Sophie said she was strict, compassionate, a worry wart; a good mother, given the circumstances. She couldn't kill someone.

Jack snorted softly and made himself comfortable. He stared patiently at the door, wondering where the rest of the family was. It would be like Sophie to get in the way right about now. Or maybe she would be wiser and not say anything, and let him make his own mess. Yes, wherever she was now, he was certain she would give him an earful for this stunt. It had to happen sometime, though. "Sorry, Sophie," he muttered to the air. "You will thank me later."

Philippa came back up the stairs. The lock clacked and swished and the door groaned headily over the swollen floor. She pushed through it, one long, built leg in front of her. Jack looked up. Through the swirling haze of dust he saw that her expression was stone cold, hair tied back tightly into a ponytail.

The black bottomless eye of a gun was staring back at him. He had never seen one be held before. Its long nose jutted out from beneath her shoulder and he noticed her fingers wrapped around it like ribbons. Steady. From a distance he tried to measure the hole. He remembered hearing such booms in the forest and following it to find the bodies of deer with puncture wounds. Such small incisions for so much noise and blood. Jack did not bleed.

"I am seated," he said. Philippa stood as a statue. "Where is the rest of your family?"

"Gone," she answered. "I stayed behind."

"You waited for me. You laid a trap,” Jack said, head tilting.

"If you didn't show up tonight, I'd have done it again later."

"Persistent," he sighed. "I don't blame you."

"You said  you wanted to talk. Talk."

"Oh, yes. Your house- I'm here to fix it." Philippa scoffed. "There. What did I tell you?"

She stepped forward, adjusting the gun and commanding Jack's attention. He watched her lip roll over her teeth in a fierce scowl, her eyes searching him and probing the black space inside his hood for clues. He gazed back.

She finally spoke through her teeth: "What do you mean, 'fix it'?"

"Your house," he began, repeating himself in a low, airy exhale, "it's ill. It's a curse. It's been eating away at your family members, every other generation, almost, patiently waiting one by one."

"Don't wax poetry at me. You're a madman."

Jack couldn't help but laugh, hanging his head. He cleared his throat, restarting with a loud, clear voice. "I'm sorry. I've never been in a situation like this before. I've given you a great deal of my trust and made myself vulnerable, please at least lend me your patience. I am here to help."

"By breaking into my home," Philippa doubted.

"I will knock next time." Jack looked at her again. "But I meant it. If you can find any patience while you are behind that gun..."

Philippa grimaced. Her eyes flickered down to his feet and up again. "Who are you?"

After a puff of relieved breath he answered quickly, "My name is Jack. I... live in the forest. Who I am exactly ties into how I know about your house." He paused. "That is harder to explain."

"Jack," she tested the name in her mouth, disbelieving. "Explain it."

"You will be frightened of me, more than you already are. I'd rather not have that."

"That makes me feel safe," she hissed.

Jack shook his head. "I know I told you to open the door so I wouldn't have to be anonymous, so- please, my name is Jack, and I'm a man that wishes to help. Let that be enough."

"Then help how?"

"Currently, researching and experimenting. Preferably without having to destroy your home. I was hoping to do it under your nose-- as a gift. Sort of like... Santa Claus." He observed her reaction to see if he'd got the reference right. "...That won't be happening anymore."

Philippa thought for a moment. Jack sensed something like sorrow cross her expression. "What have you done with my daughter?" she said. It caught him off guard.

"Nothing," he lied. He rolled one shoulder, keeping his wrists crossed behind his hips. "Please ask her. She's safe."

"Ask her?" The echo lanced through him and he went rigid, realizing what he'd revealed. Philippa clicked her teeth. "I knew it. I knew something was wrong. Sophie thinks I don't know my own daughter well enough to know she's hiding something. All those walks into the woods... I can't believe it, I'm going to..."

"Please relax," Jack interrupted, "I promise you, she's safe. I haven't asked anything of her. She makes her own decisions and has only helped me make better ones." The silence was pensive before he hurried to say something before Philippa could. "Your daughter is wonderful. I am very glad she can walk on her own now."

Jack heard the gun shift on her shoulder. Her knuckles loosened, shedding their mountainous points. The barrel tipped slightly toward his chest.

"So am I." There was cynicism in her voice, but also the soft wobble of laughter. "She missed out so much of growing up."

"She's bright," Jack said softly. "She knows so many stories."

"Now she can go make her own." Philippa frowned. "Just didn't want it to be one like this."

Jack shook his head. "Don't fear. She's adaptable, very headstrong. She loves her family very much and that's the reason for everything she's done." He paused. "If I am honest, she has no idea I'm telling you this. I think she'll shout at me. If you end up speaking to her-- and I know you will; please tell her you worry... But if you end up speaking to her, let her know I was flattering. It would be a help to me."

Philippa's mouth quirked up into a smirk on one side. Her eyes were dreamy and hooded, somewhere else, and sad. Jack studied the gun and her arms, softening, slowly inching downward.

He relaxed. The open door beyond her legs pulled his attention. From this angle he could see the edge of Sophie's window, moonlight-colored curtains still fluttering in the breeze. It would be a very quick bolt that way to escape once Philippa went downstairs. Even if she were still going to call the police, he could make it with ample time. And when she reunited with her family to tell them what she'd learned... well, he would deal with that in due time.

"Take off your mask."

Jack snapped into focus. The blue glinted dimly as he turned his head. "What?"

"Take off your mask."

On Philippa's face was the ghost of a smile, still floating in thought. They made eye contact, and Jack watched it disperse. Her gaze hardened and the air thinned with each passing second of silence.

He had half a breath, the other stolen, to reply. "I can't."

"I'm going to see your face. When the police get here, they need to know who you are. Who to look for, even if you run."

"I can't," he repeated. Philippa's lip twitched and her grip tightened.

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I will not take off my mask," he said. "You can identify me by it."

"You will do as I say," she insisted.

"No."

"Take off your mask."

"I can't." Jack unwound his arms and reached to touch his face. "Philippa-"

The sound was louder than he had ever heard it in the forest.

It was louder than thunder. It was louder than a tree falling, than the snap of a bone, it was an explosion that soared through his head and tore it apart. Black webs of ink splattered far across the wall as he was blasted back, neck whipping against the windowsill. His chest, shredding into ribbons, turned inside out and went in a thousand different directions, pain, a white hot burning like he'd never felt before lunging through all his body like a predator. He screamed. Thick pearls and rivers of ooze gushed from the eye sockets of the mask and spilled onto the floor.

In between red flashes he saw Philippa stagger back, her eyes and mouth in big O shapes and the blood in her flesh totally drained, finger still curled around the trigger. She ran out of the room as Jack screamed again. He clenched and ripped at the hole in his body and breathed hard, watching it try to eat itself and reform under the jacket, rippling and bubbling. He thought of the deer in the woods and the little pinpricks in their sides and their necks. He thought of them laying with massive voids drilled through their corpses instead, walls of meat pulsating and raw in the air, as he tried to figure out what had happened, how he could be missing so much of his body from a bullet.

The room started to quake and flecks of paint fluttered down from the walls. His hoodie ripped as tentacles shot through and plunged themselves into a corner. Jack dropped himself onto his side and seized as the room spun and twisted around him. Am I dying? he thought, fingers cleaving into the wound and chucking out handfuls of black goo, no longer in his control. Is this what it is to die?

The house let out a long, low roar, the walls settling and the window frames creaking. Dust spat into the air. Jack sucked down liquid and gasped a final time before a cold sleep slammed all its four walls around him. No light.

Isolation.