Chapter 48

Making her way out of the long-abandoned chamber takes more effort than Saoirse anticipated. Another tunnel separates the wall behind which Emmit remains—alone and silent—and the alcove he’d once plunged into, and by the time she reaches the recessed area, she is drenched with sweat, jittery from adrenal fatigue, and breathing in shallow, painful gasps.

She lowers herself onto the lip of mottled wood, pausing for a moment as another bout of lightheadedness hits. So close, she thinks automatically. Can’t give up now. She places the flashlight beside her and rolls onto her stomach, legs dangling in the blackness. Her toes are still three feet from the ground; the jump will jolt her, and she readies herself for it. Before she can slide off the edge, she hears something from the direction of the tunnel, a shuffling and the panting of breath.

Saoirse freezes, then walks her fingers toward the flashlight, spinning its beam partway back toward the tunnel, illuminating its circular new-moon entrance by degrees. Why hadn’t she kept the syringe? Maybe she could have used the needle as a weapon. Her breath is ragged, eyes wide as her pupils try to take in enough light to discern movement, to see the figure emerging from the tunnel before he sees her.

The soft pant of breath comes again, and the scrape of limbs against gravel. She walks her fingers back to the flashlight, this time curling them around the metal, turning the flashlight into a club. She ignores the erratic staccato of her heart. She holds her breath.

The strip of white floats into view, a ghostly hem swishing to the beat of footsteps, or else to unspoken rhymes in a poet’s head. Saoirse stifles a gasp, accidentally jerking the flashlight. The beam bounces, elongating her view, turning the strip of white into an entire dress, hands extending from lace shirtsleeves, feet from ghostly hem, pale head and neck, spiral curls from a sheer, ruched bonnet.

“Sarah,” Saoirse whispers, and the flashlight jerks. The specter—or vision ... hallucination ... whatever it is—disappears. No, not disappears. Changes. The strip of white compresses. The orientation shifts, from portrait to landscape.

The creature’s head lowers over the white strip of fur on its chest as it steps into the widest crease of light, snout to the ground, tail held straight out behind it and eyes glowing. It raises its head to look at her, unblinking. For just a moment, its mouth opens, teeth bared in fear or warning or exhaustion. Saoirse readies herself for the animal’s scream, but it doesn’t come.

“I kept my promise,” Saoirse whispers. “I’m almost out. I’m going to get help.”

But the fox no longer looks distressed. Perhaps it has found its own way out, dug free from its own grave, found a path to the light. Perhaps it comes and goes as it pleases. The fox holds her gaze another moment, then turns and trots back the way it came. Saoirse looks to see if the creature turns into the Divine Poet yet again, but the change doesn’t come. Maybe it had never occurred at all.

As if freed from some lingering spell, Saoirse pushes past her sluggishness and exhaustion, grabs the flashlight, and drops to the floor of the alcove. She crosses the space and finds the collapsed boards Emmit fell through the night they broke into the Shunned House. A coffin, she sees now. Empty, mercifully, but definitely a coffin. She steps onto its moldering sides and grips the floor above her, then shimmies up and out of the alcove. The dust and dankness of the Shunned House basement coalesce in the flashlight beam, and it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Gathering all her strength, all her longing to breathe fresh air and see sunlight, Saoirse runs.

The stairs leading out of the basement come into view less than a minute later, and in her relief, she doesn’t notice, at first, what Emmit’s done. It’s only when she reaches the base and prepares to climb out from this endless hell that she sees. The stairs are demolished, treads and stringers reduced to shards of wood and dust. It is the unclimbable staircase from her dream. A trail of breadcrumbs scattered to the wind. A sledgehammer lies a few feet away. Emmit must have worried Saoirse would find her way back to the Shunned House, and placed one final barrier between her and escape.

Saoirse’s heart stutters. Her breath deserts her. I’ll climb the debris, she thinks . I won’t let him keep me here. But she can see—even through her panic—that what remains of the staircase falls far short of the threshold between basement and house. She can climb it, but it won’t help her reach her destination. Her vision darkens. Her breath becomes an ocean, a tsunami, in her ears.

But something’s cutting through that ocean. A gentler crest, a familiar one, spoken with force but also with kindness.

“Saoirse! We’re here! Oh my god, are you okay? Can you climb? If you can, we can grab your hand!”

Saoirse looks up to see Lucretia and Roberto. Beyond them is Mia with rope and a flashlight. Her vision remains stained and murky, but it’s not from the darkness anymore. It’s from tears of gratitude for her friends.

Mia throws down the rope, and Saoirse navigates up the demolished staircase. At the top, she’s still four feet below the frame of the trapdoor. Mia has tied the rope to something farther down the hall. She grabs Lucretia by the waist, and Roberto grabs Mia. The three of them lean forward until Lucretia’s hand is a few inches away from Saoirse’s. Using the rope to anchor herself, Saoirse reaches up for Lucretia’s hand. Their fingers touch, then their palms, then Lucretia is grasping Saoirse with surprising strength, the many rings on her fingers digging into Saoirse’s flesh.

“Jump!” Lucretia yells, at the same moment the rubble beneath Saoirse starts to tremble. She sucks in a breath, releases the rope, and jumps.

Lucretia pulls Saoirse up with the help of Mia and Roberto behind her. Saoirse dangles below the frame and over the precipice. Roberto reaches down and grasps her other hand, and he and Lucretia pull Saoirse up. They use even more force than is necessary, and Saoirse lands on top of them in a heap. They lie there, gasping and shaking, until Mia pulls Saoirse up and props her against the wall. She looks Saoirse over like a worried mother.

“Where are you hurt? What do you need?” she asks.

Saoirse closes her eyes, smiles, and shakes her head. “I’m okay. For now. But I had a heart attack. I need to get to a hospital.”

Gently, Roberto takes Saoirse’s chin in his hand and lifts her face so she’s looking up at him. “Sersh,” he says. “Where is Emmit? Do we need to worry about him appearing at any moment and causing mayhem?”

Saoirse closes her eyes again. “He ... he tried to kill me. We struggled. I pushed him, and he fell into this space within the wall. An alcove.” She looks at Mia, then at Lucretia. “He had Pluto’s insulin. When I pushed him ...” She trails off, eyes glazing over, then refocuses on her friends. “He fell on the syringe. He was out of it but still trying to come after me. I dragged a board over and fitted it into the wall so he couldn’t get out.”

Saoirse keeps looking from one pair of shocked, wide eyes to another. “When I left, he was sobbing. Begging me not to leave him.” She looks down, then back up. Her eyes are hard and her jaw is set. “At least, that’s what I’m going to tell the police. I’ll tell you the real story later, when this whole thing is over.”

Mia, Lucretia, and Roberto exchange glances. Lucretia shrugs. Mia nods.

Saoirse sags against the wall. “Thank you. For holding the séance. For looking for me. It made all the difference.”

“It was Mia,” Lucretia says. “Roberto and I wanted to go to the police. But Mia said they wouldn’t believe us, that Emmit would be too charming, have everything too buttoned up, if they questioned him.” She helps Saoirse sit up a little more. “She insisted we hold the séances. When you heard us? That was our third one. As soon as you said ‘the Shunned House,’ we came right here.” She glances from Mia to Roberto. “Thank god we’re all such nerds, and we knew exactly what you were referring to.”

Saoirse looks to Mia. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I guess the hypervigilant-bordering-on-paranoid opinion of someone who’s been burned wasn’t so bad, after all.”

Mia smiles. “I guess not,” she says. “And you’re welcome. Those who’ve been hurt by the Emmit Powells of the world have to stick together.” Mia pauses and tilts her head. “And, you know, despite Lucretia saying it was all me, someone else was looking for you. He came to your door before we went downstairs for the final séance. Aidan something? He told us he was worried about you, that he’d tried to talk with you a few days ago but got thrown out by a guy whom he’d seen lurking around your house earlier that evening.”

“Aidan was ... worried about me?” Saoirse says, then thinks, That doesn’t make sense. And, of course, Emmit was lurking outside my house. She drops her head into her hands.

“We told him we knew all about the lurker and were on our way to do something about it that very minute,” Lucretia says. “He seemed really concerned. Who is he?”

Saoirse lifts her head. “Someone from another life,” she says. “And a story for another day.” This whole time, had she misjudged Aidan? Misconstrued why he wanted to speak with her? Either way, she was going to find out. No more running. After catacombs and screaming foxes and being buried alive, facing questions from Jonathan’s friend didn’t seem that bad.

A moment passes in which no one speaks, then Roberto says, “We need to get out of here. I’m going out to the street to flag down a car, get them to call 911.”

Saoirse reaches out, frantic. “No, don’t leave. Don’t any one of you leave me. We can call them from here.”

The three exchange a look again.

“What?” Saoirse says. “What is it?”

“It’s just that, we commune with the earth, remember?” Roberto says.

“Huh?”

“We’re one with nature,” Mia adds.

Saoirse gives her a blank stare.

“We don’t have a cell phone with us,” Lucretia says finally.

Saoirse looks from one face to another, at their kind, worried, ultimately relieved expressions, and bursts out laughing. “Right,” she says. “Of course. Well, I guess we better get out and hail that car, then.” She pauses, trying—and failing—to summon the energy to stand. “Can one of you help me up?”

“Of course ,” Lucretia says, placing emphasis on the final word like a disgruntled teenager. She scrambles up at the same time as Roberto. “Come on , Saoirse. We’re transcendentalists, not monsters.”