Spreading Roots

One more night.

One more night was all I had with Frank until he left. Bright and early in the morning he would be off, and I wouldn't see him again for months.

I killed my bike's engine and tried to get myself together. My forced breathing signalled an oncoming asthma attack, but I tried not to focus so much on that. When I started to panic about it would be when it'd happen, and I had much bigger issues on my hands. With such a short amount of time left I couldn't mess it up by being an emotional screw-ball. So with renewed purpose, I took my helmet off and slung it onto a handle bar before I jumped from my bike.

The back door looked the same as it had days ago when I last visited. It was the only part of the house, really, that was unkempt. It was old, probably seventies era, and the grey metal had rusted at the hinges and around the frame, creating a significant contrast against the house's newer, cleaner siding.

Even though I knew I'd be in for yet another argument with Mom, Frank sent me home to 'get some clothes' because I'd been skulking around in the same pair of pyjamas for two days. I knew, however, he really wanted me over there to try and patch things up before he left.

I had to face her sometime. And Frank was right; it might as well be before he left. If only so I would appear a little less cowardly.

To announce my presence I let the old, rusted door slam shut as noisily as it always did behind me. Better than saying, ‘hey, what’s for dinner?’ and acting civil.

Any other time Marilyn would have screeched about slamming the door. As if any more damage could be done to the old thing. Today, I received no (however harsh) greeting.

All that greeted me was what should have been wonderful, companionable silence. I couldn't appreciate being alone today. Not in this house. So what, I could avoid a confrontation with my mother for another day. But then I would have to face her without the assurance of my uncle's house, always there for me to go to, if things got hairy.

The kitchen smelled of bleach and looked like it had been cleaned from top to bottom, so I knew she must have left just a while ago. I checked the living room for her, too, just to be sure. She wasn't there. Frank would love to hear about this.

A change of clothes. That was all I came for, I told myself as I climbed the stairs. Tomorrow night I would be sleeping in the room upstairs—'my room', 'at home'. Too bad most of my personal belongings that made it 'mine' were in my room at Frank's house.

Because going into my small room in the one-and-a-half story house, with its sparse white walls, scratchy bedspread and the draft seeping in from the weak spot in the old window, none of it felt like mine.

I didn't belong there. Hadn't in years.

Thankfully, though, the scent that lingered on me—of woods mixed with dirt bike exhaust—overpowered my senses and reminded me of the last hour I spent driving through trails, clearing my head. I didn't do all that just to get here and lose it. I couldn't stay in there much longer. I stashed an outfit of clothing into my backpack without even checking to see what I grabbed, all for getting the hell out of dodge before Marilyn came around. At least then I would have a viable excuse for Frank.

After I nearly flew down the stairs, I couldn't help but pause at the foot. Every time I was in this house I had to focus all my energy on not thinking about it. What happened... with Kara. But on their own accord, my hands let go of my backpack and it fell to the floor as I stared down the stairs that led to the basement.

Having gone through years of blocking it all out, I never even let myself recall it. But lately that resolve, that wall in the back of my mind that kept me my sanity began to crack. Even through blocking those memories… that night… out, I could never be comfortable in the house. I had never been.

I drew a deep breath. Frank was leaving within twenty four hours, and being there in this house all of my fears would return. I would sleep even less than I did at Frank's, I would wake up from nightmares and not be able to sleep for days. I would relive it. For months.

To top it all off my anxiety had been worse lately, not that I filled anyone in on it. As I stared down at the door that had to be replaced six years ago, I wondered how the hell I would get through it without the refuge of Frank's house.

These past six years had been spent in a bubble. A tiny bubble that spanned from here, to getting into trouble at school, to Frank's house. I never dared to break any of the set patterns. To just ‘forget it’ is what I'd always been told. But it was so hard to forget when it came to Kara. My sister and my best friend, and I'd lost her at such a young age.

All of it had to stop, which I knew meant I would have to venture outside of my comfort zone. This, with Dean Winchester and with Marilyn getting crazier by the minute. It was hard sometimes to remember the fact that I was still just a teenager. Especially when I had to deal with a death no one could get past... not even me, and the family secrets I knew to exist but never knew the full details of. And to disrupt the pattern... it had to start with facing my fears.

Once and for all.

I felt for my inhaler, zipped into my inside coat pocket, just to reassure myself it was there. Several calming exhales released, and I still felt like an eleven on Devon’s Scale of Wigging Out. Taking that first step down the stairs was nerve-racking. I never went down there unless I absolutely had to. And this? This was freaking insane for me to even think about. I felt sure, then, that I would end up with a heart attack and even less dignity over this.

Calm the hell down. Frank would have a field day if he saw me acting like this, and then be disappointed.

As I thought about it, it was a good thing Marilyn wasn't around to witness this. She would add that extra dash of crazy that would surely send me into an anxiety attack.

My hand rested on the doorknob, and I took a moment to just rest my forehead against it. Like the basement it led into, it was unusually cold, and while I hoped it would cool my racing heart and the stress-sweat that broke out above my brow, it only served to send me further into a panic.

So much for facing my fears. I couldn't even get past the door.

No. I could. This was just my stupid phobia and years of living with it talking. With a brave huff I pushed the door open; the eerie creak resonated up the stairs.

Goosebumps erupted down my arms and the hair on the back of my neck stood. That familiar, dreadful feeling of panic pushed its way up. And through it, I set foot in the darkness.

I could do this. I could. It was only darkness. I repeated that mantra until I scuttled over to the light, nearly accomplished in my goal. I reached for the ball chain and as soon as the dim, forty watt bulb lit up as much of the dank space as it could, a box behind me toppled onto the floor. I jumped at the sound of it, a frightened clammy hand pressed to my mouth in fright.

That happens, I stupidly reasoned with myself. Marilyn all but threw these boxes down here, so of course some of them would fall.

I mightn't have believed a word I told myself, but it kept me down there just that little bit longer. My eyes focused on nothing and I stared straight ahead. If I did, I was sure I would think the shadows were out to get me. A chill crept up my spine then, but not just that creepy feeling you get when you're scared.

The room temperature. It must have dropped several degrees in just a split second and I was freezing even through my coat.

I let go of all the breath I'd been holding for the past thirty seconds. It released in a condensed, crystallized fog that lingered in front of my face.

"Fucking shit," I swore under my breath, no longer able to keep my fear quiet.

I stared at the fog in shock. Had that really just happened? I mean, it was usually cold down in the basement, sure... but this. This was impossible. The light directly above my head began to flicker. It felt as if I would die down there without that little light, as useless as it was, and I pleadingly stared up at it.

Enough. This was enough.

It came at me all at once in a rush. A scream, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time—even in my head—shattered the unnerving silence. It was so loud, so intense it brought me to my knees. I recognized it. Its staggering familiarity was what stunned me into a heap on the floor, clutching my ears and heaving my own, silent shout.

Kara’s scream.

I wasn't imagining it. I'm not crazy. No, I was reliving it. This was happening all because I tempted fate and went down there. A place I should have avoided at all costs. And it didn’t stop, not long enough for me to catch my breath or open my eyes to try and figure out what the hell was happening to me. As soon as that first deafening, pain-racked scream stopped another began. This time it was louder and it was worse.

I couldn't take any more. Still clutching my head, I stumbled toward the door. I watched with this dazed sort of shock as it began its slow descent back to the door-jamb. Another piercing scream jolted me onto my knees again, and I sobbed as I crawled forward.

It was closing. The door was closing on its own.

The floor was level, and no drafts made their way downstairs to encourage the door shut. I couldn't for the life of me figure out a way to explain it away.

Not that any of this was explainable.

Something else fell behind me, except this time it was loud and it crashed onto the floor with the sound of scraping metal. While it didn’t even put a dent in the constant wails in my head, it was enough to finally knock me out of my shock and I bolted for the door as I watched, like something out of a horror movie, as it closed even further. I stuck my fingers in the small crack between the door and the frame just before it shut and I shoved it back open, slipping through as soon as I could fit.

I didn't stop at the stairs. Or even in the house. I couldn't, not with the screams still bubbling up from the basement. As soon as I was past the back door I fell to the wet grass. On my knees again I tore at the fallen leaves, looking for anything to grip onto as I cried. An unknown amount of time passed, just sitting there freezing on the cold ground meters from my bike. I took a good shot of my puffer and jittered from its effects on my body. I didn’t even resent having to take it. While I stopped crying, I felt like I didn’t have the strength to stand.

A shutter ripped through me as I realized what happened. I just relived that entire night—the night that ended my sister’s life.

Finally, after several minutes of talking myself up, I stood back up. I couldn’t even look behind at the house. In a robotic fashion I sat back on my bike with shaking limbs and refastened my helmet.

I could never go back there again.