Jackson picks up a heavy, iron coat rack. He furrows his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“The girls. They don’t want us to leave. I think they might have Mrs. Green.”
Jackson growls and continues working on the door. “I’m done listening to your crazy theories, Ange!”
“You see them too. Out in the courtyard. That hand in the water. I know you saw it. Don’t lie to me. I know.” Jackson glares at me, still trying to pry open the door. “And you’ve seen them before,” I continue. “You drink and smoke, trying to ignore the fact that we’re both becoming just like her. But you can’t. You can’t hide.”
Jackson stews. I think he might lash out, maybe punch me, or wrestle me to the floor, but he only stands there, trembling, lost in his own thoughts.
“How long, Jackson?” I ask. “How long have you been seeing them?”
He glances away, then studies me head on, his glassy eyes cutting right to my core.
“Just help me get out of here.” Jackson says. “Please?”
The kitchen clock ticks and tocks above our heads. Beth whimpers in the chair. Elliot puts a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. I throw off the jackets on the coat rack, nodding to my brother.
Jackson stands on one side and I stand on the other. We lift the rack and smash the dense iron base into the door.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
The wood starts to splinter. “Keep going,” Jackson says.
WHAM! WHAM!
The frayed edges grow, bending and breaking, until there’s a satisfying crack. The door collapses in front of us. Jackson shoots me a victorious look as he throws the coat rack down.
Jackson cradles Beth through the doorway. The rain greets us in full force. I hold on to Elliot, propping him up in the slick grass. We snake around the house, making our way through the sheets of rain. I force myself to not look back at the pond with the drowned doll or the dark windows where little girls may be watching.
“We’re almost there!” Jackson calls out. He looks over his shoulder to make sure Elliot and I are still behind him. Reaching the front of the house, we trek through the mud towards Jackson’s Tahoe.
“Come on,” Jackson says. “Let’s go.”
My ankle twists on a soggy lump of grass. When I look down I notice it’s not grass, but the ratty old teddy bear Claire was holding in the house. Swiveling around, I scan the lawn ornaments and shrubs. Is she watching us now? Are they all watching us?
“Get moving, Ange,” Jackson says. He tucks Beth into the passenger seat. She limply falls back and stares at the dashboard. “Okay. Baby. Here we go. We’re getting you out of here.”