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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

I almost rose up, snarling, spitting with rage. But instead I looked straight at him.

I think maybe he fancies me. Maybe we’ll . . .

There was another silence; it felt long, but was probably only a few seconds.

Fancies you? I don’t think so, Luce. He’s pretty happy with Jen.

Jen was a lithe blonde yoga enthusiast who had popped out their three children seemingly painlessly, without any noticeable change to her body. Of course.

You think I can’t do what you did, is that it, Jake? You think I’m just going to stay here at home, snivelling, feeling sorry for myself?

Well, you got pretty good at it. He was reaching for the door now, leaving, just at the point when I wanted him to stay, when I wanted to rage at him, over and over again. Wanted to press my hands into him. Wanted to do something – anything – to get rid of what I was feeling now: a bodyful of bile, more, an amount that felt barely containable within one person, one skin. An amount that felt infinite, as though it could drain out of me, flood our house, lift our furniture, take over the world.

~

What is a harpy? This is the question I have asked myself, over and over.

Unnatural, she was called. Other names: Snatcher, the Stench, Whirlwind, Fleet-­Foot, Storm-­Swift. Ugly. Hungry. Foul.

~

25

25

For hours afterwards, I crept around the house, feeling completely awake. What are you doing? the house seemed to say, echoing Jake. But to this space, these walls, an answer came more easily. I ran my hand across countertops, felt the soft thickness of double-­glazed glass. I knew it all so well.

I knew the one place you could hear the neighbours as though they were in the same room, every word of their conversations, strangely bland, as though they knew they were being overheard. I knew what it felt like in the boys’ bedroom, the way the air changed when they were not there, the way it settled like dust, becoming part of every object in the room.

And in return, the house saw me as I was. Not as I had become: an average-­looking woman in her thirties. Nothing like this.

I’m doing what we agreed, I whispered aloud. I have to do something.

It could not wait until after Christmas after all: this seemed to be a passing illusion now, an unreality of coloured lights, empty boxes wrapped in shining paper.