Through the rain and wind, a banging comes from above. Thud! In the storm, it’s a low sound, but distinct enough for all of us to look up. There’s a figure in the top attic window. It’s hard to see, but there’s someone banging on the glass. Thud! Thud!
Jackson steps forward, transfixed. “Beth?”
The figure’s just a dark shadow with long hair. Maybe it’s not Beth, but who else would it be? Jackson takes off running. “Hang on!” he shouts.
“We don’t even know if that’s her,” I call out to him. “It could be anyone.”
“Anyone? Who else would it be?” Jackson asks. “These conspiracy theories have got to stop, Ange. Reality can’t be changed. There are no loopholes. No other side.”
“But how do you know?” Elliot asks.
Jackson throws up his hands. “Forget you both. I don’t have time for this.” He bounds back into the house, slamming the door behind him.
“We need to go after him,” I say.
“I know,” Elliot replies. He leans on me, his heart beating wildly against my chest. I help him through the door, sliding over the concrete.
Inside the house, I listen for movement as thunder rolls outside. We wind our way through the dark rooms. Lightning strikes, and the hallway is briefly illuminated. The photographs of the children seem menacing now, like they’re watching our every move.
When we reach the base of the stairs, Elliot’s out of breath. He grasps my hands tightly, trying to balance as we take it one step at a time. Above us, Jackson yells out Beth’s name. By the time we reach the top step, Elliot’s shivering. His ankle is a garish purple. We still need to make it up the heavy wooden ladder to the attic. Muffled moans erupt from above.
“Forget it,” Elliot says, sweat clinging to his face. “Just slowing you down. Go on ahead.”
“We can do this together.”
“I’ll wait for you here. You’ll be coming down soon anyway.” He smiles. “It’ll save me the trip.”
I nod and set him down by the rickety ladder. Climbing up into the darkness, I survey the vast, vaulted space. The attic runs almost half the house, though there are some spots that are too low to stand up straight. Cobwebs cling to strewn piles of junk.
“Jackson?” My voice barely rises above the storm.
A guttural moan emerges from the shadows. I freeze, trying to locate the voice. “Beth?” I gingerly cross the floor. By an abandoned rocking horse, I step in a wet, slick substance. “Jackson? Where are you?”
Faint moonlight spills into the attic from a lone window. Past a row of boxes, I spot Jackson. He hunches over a slim body tucked in the shadows. Beth. “You found her. Thank God,” I say, but rushing closer I see that something is very much wrong.