Buster’s Warning in the Small Hours

“No!” Mark shouted, pushing himself onto his knees. Terror still showed in his face, but his need to protect Lily had finally taken over. “You will not take her!”

The thing inside Lily didn’t bother to turn its head. One small movement of its wrist was enough.

Something I couldn’t see struck Mark square in the chest. He flew backward, hit the wall, then slid down onto the carpet, wheezing.

“Mark!” I cried.

“The exchange has been made,” the tenant murmured through my daughter’s mouth. “The child’s spirit is cast out. The passage is sealed.”

It faced away from us and started across the room, heading for the front hall. The front door waited beyond it.

If it crossed that threshold, Lily’s tie to her own body would be gone for good. Her spirit would remain lost in the darkness beneath the estate, while the tenant carried her body into the world.

My gaze dropped to what I held: the silver box, the aged bone, and the narrow black ribbon fastened around it.

My mother’s journal had described the rite: the old spirit claimed a child’s body, while the child’s spirit was driven into the anchor. The bloodline had to break the anchor for the child to return.

The anchor. The bone was the link the tenant had used to reach Lily. My mother had written down what the creature did—and left me the way to stop it.

It had set the bone inside the box in my closet, then used it to join itself to Lily. I didn’t know how much time remained, but the tenant was still bound to that connection.

“Wait!” I shouted, my voice rough from crying.

At the entrance to the living room, the tenant halted. Slowly, it looked back at me.

“You believe you’ve beaten us,” I said. My breath came fast as I stepped closer, though the cold seemed to seep through my clothes. “You think you were cleverer than my mother.”

“I walk beneath the sun,” it answered. Its black eyes held mine. “She lies beneath the earth.”

“She died before she could stop you,” I said. A strange calm settled into my voice, even while my heart hammered. “But I can end this.”

I lifted my left hand and let it see the yellowed bone.

The smugness drained from Lily’s face. The tenant went rigid, then edged backward.

“Hand it over,” it ordered. Its many voices deepened, and fear roughened the words.

“You needed the bloodline to make your bridge,” I said, taking another step. The chill no longer mattered. Neither did the terror. My child was in there. “But you chose the wrong blood.”

I glanced at my left thumb. The cut I’d gotten on the crushed eggshell had stopped bleeding, though its torn skin remained tender.

I pressed the bone’s jagged point into that same wound. It bit deep enough to open the cut again.

Pain flashed through my thumb. I held back a cry, curled my fingers around the bone, and made the blood coat its yellow surface and the black ribbon.

“No!” the tenant shrieked. The sound scraped at my ears, like metal tearing apart.

It rushed toward me, arms reaching for my neck. It moved so quickly there was no time to step away.

I threw the bloodied bone into the silver box before it could grab me.

The tenant struck me, its frigid fingers closing around my throat. I got hold of the heavy lid and brought it down with all the strength I had.

The lid crashed shut. Its sharp clack rang through the house.

The hands at my neck went slack. The unnatural pressure vanished, though the tenant’s fingers still touched my skin.

A deep, shuddering vibration spread through the room. The box burned against my palms, growing too hot to hold.

I clenched my jaw and kept pressing down. The metal seared my hands, but I would not let the lid lift, even a sliver.

Lily’s mouth fell open. A dense black vapor spilled past her lips, carrying the stench of old decay and sulfur.

The mist streamed backward as if seized by an invisible rope. It was dragged from Lily and sucked into the narrow join between lid and box.

Her body suddenly went slack.

Lily tipped forward, her little frame collapsing against me.

I let the box fall and caught her, sinking with her onto the carpet. It clattered away and slid several feet, silent now and cold to the touch.

“Lily,” I sobbed, gathering her against my chest. “Sweetheart, please wake up. Please.”

Her skin felt like ice. Her lips had lost their color. I searched her face, desperate for any sign of life.

One unbearable moment stretched on. Lily didn’t breathe.

Around us, the house held perfectly still. Mark pulled himself across the carpet, trembling as he reached toward her leg.

I could hear nothing but the pounding of my own heart. I held my daughter and waited, afraid to blink.

Then Lily gasped.