my grandfather—and my father—somehow aware of the supernatural, Ashford knew it. Long before he ever showed up at our house.
LIAM: You’d think between the three of us we could scrape up a functioning parental figure.
ABBY: What about “Shakespeare mum”?
LIAM: Okay, fair point, that’s one. Still a pathetic average.
Liam huffs a bit as they reach the site of the bunker. The door is shut and covered in a mottled layer of rust.
LIAM: And here we are. The forbidden bunker.
ABBY: Does it open?
LIAM: You know, I don’t know. I’ve honestly never been tempted to explore it.
There’s a beat as they stare at each other.
LIAM: Oh, I’m sorry. You want me to go first. I suppose it’s the gentlemanly thing to get eaten first.
ABBY: It’s less about you getting eaten before me, and more that when you get eaten I need to capture it on camera.
LIAM: That’s much better. Very reassuring.
He walks up to the door and hauls on it. The metal squeaks, but there’s no appreciable movement.
ABBY: Hold on. I’ll help.
She sets the camera down on a rock—it is already mounted on a small tripod—and makes sure it’s trained on the door. Together, they strain to pull on the handle, but other than a slightly louder squeal, this produces no result.
LIAM: Ah. Damn. Look, it’s been welded shut. We’ll never get that open.
Abby runs a finger along the welded seam. It’s hardly precision work, but it is thorough.
ABBY: That’s a lot of effort to protect some empty rooms. Considering the only people who come here are, theoretically, trained professionals.
LIAM: Yes, but they’re also field scientists.
ABBY: Which means what?
LIAM: Field scientists are particularly noted for their tendency to do questionable things in pursuit of discovery. The things they will lick in the name of science would astound you.
ABBY: Wait. Hush.
She holds up a finger, tilting her head toward the door in concentration. Liam looks confused but complies. His eyes widen. He presses his ear to the door.
LIAM: It’s coming from in there.
Abby glances around, chewing on her lip.
ABBY: Maybe there’s another way in.
Liam shakes his head.
LIAM: Just the one entrance.
ABBY: That you know of. We should check anyway. Geography is negotiable under these circumstances.
LIAM: You sound like you’re quoting someone.
ABBY: Ashford.
LIAM: Ah.
She clears her throat and looks away.
ABBY: That damn music. I—
LIAM: Something just moved down there.
He points. Abby squints in the direction he indicates, down the slope.
ABBY: I don’t see anything. Wait. What is that?
LIAM: It’s a bird. I think it’s hurt. Look at the way it’s moving.
He moves toward it.
ABBY: Hold on. Where do you think you’re going?
LIAM: They’re endangered. The LARC does rehab too. If it’s hurt, I’ll have to call the others to come collect it.
He strides off.
Grumbling, she follows him. Their footsteps fade as they move off-screen.*
ABBY: So? Is it [hurt]?
LIAM: [Indistinct]
ABBY: What are you doing? [Indistinct]
The microphone picks up a new sound, a strange, discordant humming.
The door swings open.
Beyond is darkness; the camera, adjusted for the bright daylight, shows only flat black. And yet something moves within. The image is too grainy to make out any detail. In one frame it seems as if it might be a person; in another, it seems to expand, as if many wings are unfurling around it. The shape recedes; the strange humming swells.
LIAM: We need [to go/to know].
ABBY: What’s that on your hands? Where’s the bird? Liam—
LIAM: It’s [near/here].
ABBY: Liam, look at me. Damn it.
Several seconds pass. Then Liam walks back into frame. He walks steadily, eyes fixed ahead, hands by his sides. Something black and viscous drips from his fingers, the substance coating his right hand all the way to the wrist.
Abby follows at a wary distance. When she sees the open door, she lets out a hiss between her teeth. Liam never breaks his stride as he heads in.
ABBY: All right, then. We’re doing this.
She picks up the camera and follows.
19
WE RAN FOR the door together, the flashlight beam bouncing over toppled tables and chairs and casting crazed shadows on the walls. I skidded around the corner first. The door was shut tight. I walked up to it and shoved with a shaking hand. It didn’t budge.
“Let me try,” Lily said. I knew it wouldn’t work, but I stepped aside. As she pushed and strained, I wandered back toward the other room. There were drips of something on the floor I hadn’t noticed before. Not blood, I thought, kneeling.
The flashlight beam fell across me as Lily abandoned her efforts, and I touched a finger to the black blot.