Chapter 10 - The Converted Mother
Mark froze, his arms still wrapped tightly around Lily while his wife knelt on the concrete floor a few feet away. Sarah’s breathing was shallow and rhythmic, completely devoid of the panic she had exhibited just moments ago. The warm, frantic mother who had tumbled down the stairs was gone, replaced by a vessel with the same chilling, blank expression that had overtaken Lily.
"Sarah?" Mark whispered, his voice cracking with a mixture of horror and profound grief. "Sarah, look at me. What did they do to you?"
Sarah slowly raised her head, her milky white eyes fixing on Mark with an unsettling, predatory intensity. A thin stream of dark, stagnant water trickled from the corner of her mouth, exactly like the water leaking from Lily just minutes before.
"She didn't suffer at all, Mark," Sarah spoke, her voice layered with the same strange, multi-toned echo that belonged to Abigail. "She realized that the living world is far too noisy, far too complicated. We are all much safer down here in the dark."
Lily stirred in Mark’s arms, whimpering softly as she pressed her face deeper into his jacket. "Daddy, don't look at her eyes. She’s not mommy anymore. Mommy stayed upstairs in the mirror."
Mark’s mind reeled. He tightened his grip on his daughter, his boots slipping slightly on the frost-covered concrete as he backed away toward the far corner of the cellar, putting as much distance between himself and the transformed woman as possible. The cellar walls seemed to be closing in, the rough concrete foundations bowing slightly inward as if the weight of the entire suburban house above them was settling heavily onto their heads.
"We are leaving. Right now," Mark muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes scanning the cellar for an alternative exit.
The high storm windows near the ceiling were small, reinforced with iron security bars, and too narrow for an adult to squeeze through. There was only one way out—back up the stairs past Sarah and the ghostly apparition of Abigail, who stood silently beside the washing machine, watching them with a cold, unblinking stare.
Abigail stepped forward, her small white dress swaying gently despite the lack of any breeze in the room. "You can't leave, Mark. The foundation has set. A house built on a grave must keep its family complete, or else the walls will come down on top of everyone."
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Before Mark could formulate a plan, the lights in the entire house flickered once, twice, and then went completely dead, plunging the basement into absolute, pitch-black darkness, save for the flickering beam of his dying smartphone flashlight.
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