Alexandra Sokoloff - The Harrowing

Robin glanced at Cain quickly, swallowed. “We have to tell the truth —”

Lisa interrupted, a vehement whisper. “What truth—we were doing a séance ? And have these backwoods cops fry us for satanic murder?”

Robin looked at her, stricken.

Martin’s face was pale, oddly blank in the moonlight.

Cain turned on Patrick, his voice low and tight. “Where were you when she went out the window?”

Patrick looked at him without speaking. He seemed dazed, his eyes rimmed with tears.

Lisa flared up, protective. “What are you talking about?”

Cain jerked his head toward Patrick. “I want to know where he was when this happened.”

Lisa’s eyes blazed. “He was with me.”

Robin stared at her, stunned. Lisa and Patrick. Lisa looked away from her. “I was scared. I didn’t want to be alone.”

Cain was looking from Patrick to Lisa, his eyes narrowing. “Wait a second. The two of you—

Martin spoke over him, a hoarse rush of words. “We were in the attic. We were doing a psych interview for class. Word association. I say apple ; you say orange. Wet, dry. Hot, cold . We heard screaming and we came down. We never saw the bitch.”

Robin looked at him, startled at the word—when Martin suddenly hissed, “Shut up and lie .”

Robin looked toward where he was staring. A couple of uniformed deputies—bulky farm boys with crew cuts, were pushing through the crowd, coming their way.

They bore down on Robin. One of them pointed an index finger at her. “You’re the roommate?”

Robin nodded, swallowing.

“Sheriff wants to talk to you.” The deputy spoke curtly.

Robin looked back at the others. They stood at the fringes of the crowd, staring after her under the moonlight as the deputies led her away.

The halls of the administration building were silent and empty, its long, polished floors gleaming in the dark.

Robin sat in the stark conference room under harsh fluorescents. A deputy watched from the doorway, standing guard as if to keep her from escaping—a physical impossibility, since she felt completely incapable of moving. Across the long table, a hard-eyed sheriff regarded her skeptically.

“You were in the attic? Working ?”

In her panic, Robin had told the story Martin had fed the group, instinctively realizing that it was important to say they’d been in the attic, in case anyone had seen the lights or had seen them go up there.

She answered as calmly as she could manage. “It was quiet. We were running a test for psych. The TV’s always blasting in the lounge….” Too many details , she thought. Let him ask the questions .

The sheriff leaned forward. “I thought you were working on a term paper.”

Robin felt faint. She tried to control the trembling in her voice. “A term paper for psych. Based on…word-association tests.” The sheriff sat impassively, waiting. “We…heard screaming and came down. Everyone was gathering outside…and Waverly…she was dead.”

“So you weren’t in your room.” He stared into her face.

Robin faltered, didn’t answer.

“Because someone said they saw you come out of your room.”

Robin forced herself to raise her eyes. She looked at him without answering, her face pale under the sickly fluorescent lights.

The sheriff appraised her. “You and her get along?”

Robin lifted her chin. “No. She didn’t like me.”

“And why was that?”

She spoke with effort. “She’d been suspended from her sorority and, well, she didn’t like being here, I guess.”

“Tough to live with.” Sarcasm fairly dripped from his voice. “And did you like her?”

Robin took a shaky breath. “No.” Her voice was barely a whisper. The sheriff looked at her hard. Robin tried to hold his stare, but she couldn’t. She dropped her eyes.

The sheriff scraped back his chair, stood. His voice was heavy with irony. “Don’t go anywhere, Miz Stone.”

Robin pushed out through the heavy front doors, bursting from the building.

She stopped on the wide portico, staring out into the dark, her thoughts a black storm of noise.

They think I did it.

Did I?

When that thing was on my chest, and I pushed ….

She shuddered, forced her mind away from the thought. Rain brushed her skin, a fine mist that haloed the streetlamps.

Robin froze, staring down at the lights.

At the foot of the wide, pale steps, a shadow stood under a lamppost, holding a duffel bag, waiting.

He looked up toward her; the light caught his face.

Cain.

Robin didn’t know what she felt, but it wasn’t surprise. She went down the steps, stopped in front of him. They looked at each other in the pale wash of lamplight.

“What happened?”

She glanced back up at the one light on in the building. “He didn’t believe me. He told me to stay in town.”

“They always say that.” Cain threw his cigarette away. It exploded in tiny sparks on the wet pavement.

Robin shivered violently. “I can’t go back there.”

Cain took her arm. “We’re not. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

The rain had started in earnest, pounding into the railroad tracks at the edge of town, pooling on the boarding platform of the Ash Hill train station, the town’s gateway to the outside world.

Cain drove his dented Mustang across the iron tracks and turned into the parking drive of a drooping two-story railroad hotel across the street from the station.

He parked in front of the office and turned off the engine, looked at Robin briefly in the reddish neon light. They turned away from each other in the same moment, got out of the car without speaking, and ran through the sheets of rain for the door.

The Mainline office was as seedy as Robin would have expected from the hotel’s reputation on campus. She avoided the filthy sprung couch, hovered by the door, dripping water, as Cain put bills down on the battered counter.

The red-eyed, rail-thin night manager scooped up the twenties. He leered toward Robin, smirked at Cain, dangled the room key from a finger. “Happy trails.”

Robin’s cheeks were burning as they went out into the rain. The sagging screen door slapped closed behind them.

In the boxy little room, Cain pulled faded chintz drapes across the window. He turned, caught Robin staring at the lumpy bed.

She lifted her eyes from the bed to his face.

The room flashed with blue light. Thunder cracked, booming through the sky. Rain spilled down outside, another torrent.

Robin breathed out and sat shakily on the edge of the mattress. The box springs squeaked under her weight.

Cain sat on the windowsill, his face streaked with rain, watching her. “So what really happened—back there—in your room?”

She looked up at him with haunted eyes. “I don’t know .” She shivered, remembering. “I thought I was dreaming…but I woke up and there was something on top of me.” She nearly lost her breath again, feeling the foul dead weight, the black terror. “I was fighting it—and then I heard a crash and screaming…and when I went to the window, I saw her…I saw her…”

And then the thought that she had been fighting all night long to suppress finally bubbled to the surface, and she looked at him, stricken. “Oh my God. What if I really did kill her?”

The whole horror of it overcame her. She put her face in her hands and began to cry.

Cain moved swiftly to crouch in front of her. He took her arms hard. “You didn’t kill anyone. Robin.” He shook her slightly. “Was there something on top of you? Or someone ?”