R. Stine - Red Rain

Starting with the twins, who weren’t really twelve. The twins, who had to be ungodly evil creatures she had brought home with her.

Was it coming clear? Did she have the connections right? It wasn’t like she was blaming two innocent, adorable boys with such glowing blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. She wasn’t condemning angels. She was starting to see demons.

But I care about them. I have such strong feelings for them.

And then Martha’s email arrived, confirming her worst, most terrifying fears.

She couldn’t read it all. Her eyes blurred the words. She didn’t want to know the truth. Not this truth. She scanned through it, catching phrases that made her heart skip.

. . Both died in the hurricane. The priest was summoned to perform the Revenir rite.

. . The priest came too late. They’d been dead too long. He should never have revived them.

. . They brought the evil of the grave back with them.

. . They can kill. They can hypnotize. Like their bodies, their minds never advanced. They are still twelve.

. . They lived in isolation on the island. People were afraid of them. They lived by stealing. No one was brave enough to stop them. They waited all these years for someone to take them away.

. . They hate adults. They only care about controlling other children. They never got to be real children. So now they want to be leaders of children. . To hold power over children. . The only thing they care about. .

Lea shut her eyes. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. It’s too much. It’s all too horrifying. What will happen to Ira and Elena? How can I face Mark? How?”

Martha’s words brought another revelation. The thought had been lurking in her mind. The email suddenly forced it to her consciousness. The twins hypnotized me. They used their powers on me. They made me care about them. My connection to them. . that feeling of love I thought I felt. . it wasn’t real. They used me. Used me to get here. No wonder I’ve agreed to their every wish. No wonder I never opposed them. .

She opened her eyes and shuffled through the three printouts again, as if hoping to see something she missed. Something redeeming. But there was no reassurance here. The past-and her future-held only horror.

Oh, poor Ira and Elena. Maybe there was time to rescue them. She had to try.

Carefully, she folded the three photos in half. She tucked them into the big pocket of her silky blue robe.

She heard a cough. Was that Mark stirring downstairs? The aroma of coffee made her stand up. She stretched her arms over her head.

Yes, she could feel her heart like a hummingbird in her chest. And the coffee aroma suddenly nauseated her.

Mark has to know.

She glanced at the clock on the bed table. Just past eleven. The morning had slipped past. But so what? What did a few hours matter when there was nothing to look forward to but more tears and grief and disbelief and anger and regret.

She moved to the dresser, adjusting the robe and tying it more securely, and picked up her hairbrush. She swept it back slowly through her straight black hair. It felt real. The touch of the bristles through her hair, the scrape against her scalp.

She brushed for a long time, leaning her head back, appreciating each stroke with a soft sigh. This was real. Nothing else in her life felt as real. Nothing else could be as real.

Oh, poor Elena. Poor Ira. What has Mommy done to you?

She forced herself to set the hairbrush down. Then she took a long, shuddering breath. She fingered the folded-up photos in her robe pocket and murmured out loud, “I’m going to tell Mark now.”

Face the music, Lea.

Isn’t that what her dad always said every time she had to be punished for some crime large or small?

You did the dance. Now face the music.

Did that make any sense at all?

The punishment was always the same: Go to your room and stay there till I tell you to come out.

She pictured her brothers smirking as she trudged off to her room, red-faced, fists swinging at her sides, ready to face the music.

Well, after all the years, now she was really facing the music.

She started to the stairs but stopped at the bedroom door when she heard the sirens. Approaching sirens, and there seemed to be a lot of them, a blaring concert of sirens, warring with each other.

Lea spun around and trotted to the bedroom window.

Several dark vehicles squealed up the gravel driveway. She saw the yellow letters FBI stenciled on one SUV. Two Sag Harbor black-and-whites, two unmarked SUVs, windows blackened, heavy like armored cars.

She gripped the windowsill and stared down at them all, her mouth hanging open, uttering small cries of shock.

Four or five dark-uniformed policemen lined up in front of the house, standing stiffly a few feet abreast of each other, weapons tensed in front of them. Were those automatic rifles?

She recognized the big black state police captain from the night before as he came roaring out of the backseat of an SUV. Was his name Franks? Yes. He had a pistol in one hand and motioned to the others leaping from their vehicles to follow him to the house.

They all had guns raised. All of them.

Do they plan to kill us?

“Mark?” Lea screamed, squeezing the wooden windowsill. “Mark! Do you hear them?”

Finally, she forced herself away from the window. She spun to the doorway, her robe tangling around her. And went running to the stairs.

“Mark! Can you hear me? Mark? What do they want ?”

At first Mark thought people were screaming. The sound made him drop his coffee mug on the kitchen table. And as he hurried to the front of the house, he realized they were sirens.

And, strangely, the wailing cacophony made him angry. Because they had just been there, just invaded his house and his life, and he didn’t want them back with their foolish accusations and misguided questions and insulting stares.

I’m sick of the bullshit. I just want my kids to be safe.

Why are they back here? What are they doing to find my kids?

Mark clenched his jaw tight and squeezed his fists until his fingernails dug into his palm. And then the pounding on the front door and the shouts shook him out of his anger.

He heard Lea calling his name. Turning, he saw her halfway down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister, her eyes wide with fright. “Mark?”

The pounding on the door drowned out the rest of her words.

“Mr. Sutter, police. Open the door.” Barked. Just like on TV.

Mark pulled open the door. An army of men-it seemed like an army-led by Captain Franks, who came in with his shoulder low like an NFL blocking tackle, pushed into the house.

Mark stepped back, blinking at the force of it all. The sheer invasion. The anger. He saw the weapons raised. They forced him against the fireplace.

He heard Lea scream.

“Mark Sutter, you are under arrest for the murder of Autumn Holliday.” Franks spitting the words in his face. Standing so close, Mark could smell the coffee on his breath.

“Huh? Autumn? What?”

Did the words make any sense?

Beside him, a wavy-haired cop was reading him his rights from the screen of an iPhone.

“Wait! Wait!” Mark raised his hands in the air.

The cops all tensed their weapons.

“What did you say?” His voice shrill, almost unrecognizable, shouting over the droning voice of the cop still reading off the phone screen.

“Did you say Autumn? Killed?”

He couldn’t help it. He pictured her bent over his desk. Her hands gripping the edge of the desktop. That creamy white ass moving under him.