The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [151]
For a moment, she remained perfectly still, trying—and failing—to convince herself that this was a power outage. The gusts of a fierce spring storm were rattling the windowpanes, and for all she knew there had even been thunder. Although it was only April, the weather reports had suggested there might be thunder that night. And up here on the hill, they seemed to lose power a lot, a detail of the house that neither Sheldon nor Reseda had ever mentioned. She told herself that the power would return any second, and well before it was time to get the girls out of bed and ready for school.
But she didn’t believe that. She didn’t believe that for a moment.
And then she thought she heard a thump, either below her in the basement or in the kitchen on the other side of the house, and she felt her heart drumming in her chest. If the cat had been alive, Emily would have attributed the sound to her. She listened intently, her feet flat on the floor in front of her rather than beneath her—the proper position for one’s feet when bracing for impact. Chip had told her that she should never put her feet below the airplane seat when a crash was imminent, because there was every chance that the seat would collapse on her ankles and crush them, making it impossible to exit the aircraft even if she survived the primary impact. Instead she would die in the firestorm that was likely to follow, choking on poisonous air or being burned beyond all but dental recognition. At the time, she had thanked him sarcastically; this was considerably more information than she needed to know. But then, of course, her very own husband’s plane would crash.
She cleared those thoughts from her mind and tried to recall where they kept a flashlight here on the first floor; she knew there was one beside her bed upstairs. She wondered if she had something nearby that could serve as a weapon—if, dear God, she needed one. Then she heard a noise above her as well, the sound of footsteps. It was the creak of the floorboards just outside Garnet’s bedroom. Already she knew that the boards there were more likely to wheeze when you walked upon them than was the flooring on the other side of the third-floor corridor or even the half-rotted boards on the attic side. She said a small prayer that her girls were awake, that was all it was, perhaps aware that the house had lost power, and it was only their footsteps she was hearing. Then she placed the novel on the floor and climbed silently from the chair, pressing her feet into her slippers. The house felt chillier than she would have expected, and she wondered if she had transitioned from a wool nightgown to a cotton nightshirt too soon. She thought she smelled the not unpleasant aroma of the musky, softening earth and the idea crossed her mind that the front door had been opened, but she tried to reassure herself that this was unlikely. Even though the door was on the other side of the house, she was on the first floor. Wouldn’t she have heard it opening? But the sad fact was, nothing was unlikely in this old house; even its acoustics were peculiar. The truth was, she should worry. She should be terrified. For all she knew, Garnet had opened the front door and was out in the greenhouse or the meadow right now. Once before the girl had wandered into the cellar in the middle of the night; what was to prevent something from drawing her outside now?
Emily didn’t like the way her mind had phrased that: something drawing her outside. It sounded