Charlie reappeared with a blanket. "This one pretty thin but-"
He stopped and stared, a look of abject horror stretching his features.
"What?"
Charlie pointed a wavering finger at Lyle's chest. "Oh, God, Lyle, you-you cut yourself!"
Lyle looked down and felt his knees soften when he saw his T-shirt front soaked in crimson. He pulled up the shirt and this time his knees wouldn't hold him. They buckled and he crumbled to the floor when he saw the deep gash in his chest, so deep he could see his convulsively beating heart through the opening.
He looked up at Charlie, met his terrified eyes, tried to mouth a word or two but failed. He looked down again at his chest...
And it was whole. Intact. Clean. No hole, no blood, not a drop on his skin or his shirt.
Just like what had happened to Charlie last night.
He looked up at his brother again. "You saw that, right? Tell me you saw it this time."
Charlie was nodding like a bobble-head doll. "I saw it, I saw it! I thought you was buggin' last night, but now... I mean, what-?"
"Throw that blanket down. I want to get out of here."
Charlie held onto one end and tossed the rest toward Lyle. They spread it out atop the glass-littered tile and Lyle crawled-he didn't trust his legs to support him so he crawled-to the door.
When he reached the carpet Lyle stayed down, huddling, shaking. He wanted to sob, wanted to vomit. Things he'd always disbelieved were proving true. The pillars of his world were crumbling.
"What just happened in there, Lyle?" Charlie said, kneeling beside him and laying an arm across his shaking shoulders. "What this all about?"
Lyle gathered himself, swallowed the bile at the back of his throat, and straightened his spine.
"You know what you said about this house being haunted? I'm beginning to think you're right." He looked up at the clock radio, which now read 1:11. Who knew how long it had been running backwards. It could be three in the morning for all he knew. "Fuckit, I know you're right."
"What we do about it, man?"
Something strange and angry had invaded their house. Was that anger directed at him? At Charlie? He hoped not, because he sensed it ran wide and frighteningly deep. Charlie wanted to know what they were going to do. How could he answer that without even knowing what they were facing?
He grabbed Charlie's arm and got to his feet.
"I don't know, Charlie. But I know one thing we're not doing, and that's leaving. This is our place now and nobody, living or dead, is chasing us out."