No. She couldn't do that. Her poor mother was having such a terrible time in Tucson trying to care for her sister. Margaret couldn't frighten her like that.
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But no footsteps.
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She could still hear water splashing into the bathroom sink.
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Terrified.
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He isn't coming after me, she told herself, letting out a long, silent sigh.
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How could I have thought that? How could I have been so terrified -- of my own father?
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If only Mom were home, she thought.
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She glanced at the clock. Two-forty-three.
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Margaret pulled the covers up to her chin. She realized she was trembling, her whole body shaking and chilled.
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Of her own father.
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But sitting there in bed, trembling so violently, holding onto the covers so hard, listening for his approaching footsteps, Margaret realized that she was terrified.
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It was the first time the word had crossed her mind.
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She held her breath and listened.
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Without thinking, she reached for the phone. She had the idea in her head to call her mother, wake her up, tell her to come home as fast as she could. Tell her something terrible was happening to Dad. That he was changing. That he was acting so weird…
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Besides, what could she say? How could she explain to her mother how she had become terrified of her own father?
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I'm going to be a wreck tomorrow, she thought, making her way silently through the hall and down the stairs.
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She heard the water in the sink shut off. She heard the bathroom light being clicked off. Then she heard her father pad slowly to his room at the end of the hall.
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That never worked. She tried counting to one thousand. At 375, she sat up. Her head throbbed. Her mouth was as dry as cotton.
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He had leaves growing out of his head, he was eating dirt, and his blood was green.
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She tried counting sheep.
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It is tomorrow.
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Caught up…
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Mrs. Brewer would just tell her to calm down. That her father still loved her. That he would never harm her. That he was just caught up in his work.
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She decided to go downstairs and get a drink of cold water from the refrigerator.
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Caught up…
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Margaret relaxed a little, slid down in the bed, loosened her grip on the blankets. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.
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"What are you doing up?" he replied, half asleep, his blond hair matted against his forehead.
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"Aii!" She cried out and dropped the open bottle onto the floor. Ice-cold water puddled around her feet. She leapt back, but her feet were soaked.
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The kitchen floor creaked beneath her bare feet. The refrigerator motor clicked on noisily, startling her.
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She had opened the refrigerator and was reaching for the water bottle when a hand grabbed her shoulder.
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What am I going to do? I've got to get to sleep.
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"I couldn't sleep. Help me mop up this water."
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"I just keep thinking about things," Casey said, tossing a soaking wad of paper towel onto the counter. "That's why I can't sleep."
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"You made me spill it!" Margaret declared shrilly. She grabbed a roll of paper towels off the counter and handed him a wad of them. "Come on. Hurry."
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Be cool, she told herself. You've got to be cool.
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"I didn't spill it," he said, backing away. "You mop it up."
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They both got down on their knees and, by the light from the refrigerator, began mopping up the cold water.
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"Casey -- you scared me!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing up?"
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"Do you think it's a plant?" Casey asked very quietly. "Do you think it's one of Dad's plants?"
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Margaret gasped and stopped dabbing at the water. "What was that?"
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Casey's eyes filled with fear.
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Margaret climbed to her feet, collected the wet clumps of paper towel, and deposited them in the trash can under the sink. Then she closed the refrigerator door, covering the room in darkness.
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She started to say something else, but a sound from the hallway stopped her. It was a plaintive cry, a moan filled with sadness.
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"It -- it's coming from the basement," Margaret said.
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Another moan, softer this time but just as mournful.
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"I don't think Dad told us the truth," she told Casey, staring into his eyes. He looked pale and frightened in the dim refrigerator light. "I don't think a tomato plant would make a sound like that."
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Her hand on Casey's shoulder, she guided him out of the kitchen and through the hall. They stopped at the basement door, and listened.
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Margaret didn't answer. She crouched on her knees, not moving, just listening.
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They heard it again, such a sad sound, like a plea, a mournful plea.
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"Me, too," Margaret said, frowning.
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Silence now.
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Casey tried the door. It was locked.
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"It's so human," Casey whispered.
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Another low moan, sounding very nearby now.
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Margaret shuddered. What was going on down in the basement? What was really going on?
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She led the way up the stairs and waited at her doorway until Casey was safely in his room. He gave her a wave, yawning silently, and closed the door behind him.
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A few seconds later, Margaret was back in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin despite the warmth of the night. Her mouth was still achingly dry, she realized. She had never managed to get a drink.
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Somehow she drifted into a restless sleep.
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Her alarm went off at seven-thirty. She sat up and thought about school. Then she remembered there was no school for the next two days because of some kind of teachers' conference.
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She turned off the clock radio, slumped back onto her pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. But she was awake now, thoughts of the night before pouring back into her mind, flooding her with the fear she had felt just a few hours earlier.
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I don't.
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He didn't seem to be there.
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"Dad? Are you up?"
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Taking a deep breath, she walked the rest of the hall and stopped at her parents' bedroom. The door was open.
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If I don't, he'll disappear down to the basement, and I'll sit around thinking these frightening thoughts all day, she told herself.
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"Dad?"
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She stood up and stretched, and decided to go talk to her father, to confront him first thing, to ask all the questions she wanted to ask.
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No, she decided. The poor guy was up half the night. I'll let him sleep.
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She stopped in front of Casey's room, wondering if she should wake him so that he could ask their father questions, too.
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She stepped into the room. "Dad?"
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She pulled a light cotton robe over her pajamas, found her slippers in the cluttered closet, and stepped out into the hallway. It was hot and stuffy in the hall, almost suffocating. Pale, morning light filtered down from the skylight overhead.
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No reply.
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I don't want to be terrified of my own father.
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The air in here was heavy and smelled strangely sour. The curtains were drawn. The bedclothes were rumpled and tossed down at the foot of the bed. Margaret took a few more steps toward the bed.
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Margaret stared down at it, not breathing, not moving.
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No. The dirt wasn't moving.
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Margaret clicked on a dresser lamp and stepped up beside the bed.
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"Oh, no!" she cried, raising her hands to her face in horror.
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The dirt was black and appeared to be moist.
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The bedsheet was covered with a thick layer of dirt. Clumps of dirt.
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"Dad?"
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No. She had missed him. He was probably already locked in his basement workroom, she realized unhappily.
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What was that in the bed?
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Moving?
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It can't be, Margaret thought. That's impossible.
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She leaned down to take a closer look at the layer of dirt.
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And the dirt was moving.
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He must have gotten up very early and --
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The dirt was filled with dozens of moving insects. And long, brown earthworms. All crawling through the wet, black clumps that lined her father's bed.
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