it in. The box is worn down, it’ll take a few strikes. You’re not stopping to make sure.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Eileen’s best guess, in the wake of the lights going out, was that the electricity company had finally caught on to the fact that their customer at 2270 Laramie was deceased. That, or the storm was to blame. Either way they were screwed. Eileen could already feel the winter cold seeping through the old windows, overtaking the artificial heat that had formerly filled the house. They were in for a frigid, dark night. The sisters had decided, though, that it was better to stay inside, with blankets and a fireplace, then risk going out in the deluge. They’d stick it out one night, said Claire, and tomorrow they’d get out of town. Storms had to stop eventually.
“Stop dicking around and let me do it,” Eileen said, making a grab for the box of matches Claire had scavenged from a kitchen drawer.
Claire avoided Eileen’s grasp, twisting her arm to shield the box behind her back. “I can light a fire.”
“Then stop being a wuss and do it already. Put your back into it.”
“Put your back up your ass.”
“Excuse me?”
Eileen wasn’t offended, just impressed Claire had cussed. It had only taken half a day for her prim and proper ways to break down. What would her lord and savior Harper Everly have to say about that?
Then something more unexpected happened. Claire struck a match and this time waited for the flame to spark. Without flinching, she crouched toward the firewood and the crumpled newspaper the girls had placed in the hearth, and threw the match the short distance left between her and the kindling. The flame caught the paper alight, and the fire started to grow.
Claire stood, tossed the matches to Eileen, and said, “I’m not a wuss.”
The box hit Eileen soundly in the chest. She’d forgotten this side of Claire: the stubbornness and resolve. When they’d been little, how many times had Eileen shamed Claire into being brave? Like the time she’d convinced her to get on the Area 51 spinning ride at the county fair, or how she’d given Claire endless grief about being too scared to shave her legs until she’d finally done it, knee cuts and all. In retrospect, maybe Eileen could have been gentler in her methods, but Claire was better for them. Of course, the way Claire behaved, you’d think Harper Everly had taught her to walk and talk.
Murphy joined Eileen and Claire in a trip upstairs to gather blankets and pillows from the bedrooms. She refused, though, to go into the bedroom with the porcelain doll, and no one approached the bat-infested turret. Eventually they returned to the parlor with enough bedding to make a decent campfire arrangement.
It would’ve been a cute setup in an alternate universe. Not in this dimension, though. Claire griped about the littlest things, like getting stuck with the scratchy blanket and the lumpy pillow. The only good thing she’d had to say all afternoon was when she’d emerged from the downstairs bathroom and announced that the plumbing, at least, was working.
Now that the three of them were gathered around the fire, Eileen looked to the windows, trying to figure out the time of day. There was no trace of sun in the storm, but the rain-ridden outside had turned from a sickly white to a deepening gray. It was nearing sunset—four o’clock, Eileen guessed.
“Hey,” she said to Claire. “What time is it?”
Claire gave her a bizarre look, like Eileen had asked her to offer forth her firstborn.
“What?” Eileen said.
Claire pointed to the curtainless windows. “It’s getting dark. What more do you need to know?”
This wasn’t the first time Eileen had wanted to call her sister a bitch. She had before, but saying it again would be a waste of breath. Instead, she headed to the kitchen to check the oven clock, only to remember that, of course, the electricity was out. There were no analog clocks that Eileen could see, either. For such an outdated house, Patrick Enright sure had kept his clocks in step with the digital age. As Eileen soon discovered, upon further kitchen inspection, he’d also kept his pantry stocked. She gave its contents a once-over and grabbed what looked best: an unopened box of Pop-Tarts. When she returned to the parlor, Murphy was at the piano and Claire was sitting on a stack of pillows by the fire, that bizarre look still smeared across her