Silk

And she’d drawn a circle around the table, as perfect a circle as she could draw in the crystal-powder white of Morton’s iodized table salt.

“Safe from me,” she whispered and hugged the dream catcher close. Half an hour earlier, she’d pulled it off the boards nailed over her old bedroom door. Had carefully unwound each black strand of Byron’s hair and laid them on his chest. Now the dream catcher was fraying, undone, lessened by subtraction and her busy fingers.

“Oh, Spyder. What have you done?” and Spyder looked up: Niki was standing in the doorway, beautiful confusion, rumpled clothes and hair, bags beneath her dark eyes, eyes puffy from sleep or crying or both.

“If I tell you,” Spyder said, “you have to promise-you have to fucking swear to me-that you’re never go

“I want you to go back to the hospital,” she said, finally, and Spyder said no, laughed and said no again.

“Please, Spyder. You’re frightening me.” Niki took a step closer, moved so slow, one small step and another, and she kneeled, close enough that Spyder could reach out and touch her now, would have if it could have done anything but make things worse; for a second, Spyder thought she smelled jasmine, maybe, but it was only the cleansers or bug spray under the sink.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I don’t want to scare you.”

“Well, you are. You’ve got me scared shitless.”

“I’m sorry. I am sorry.” She laid one hand palm-up on the floor, empty, so Niki could take it if she chose.

“It’s not too late to work this shit out, to get you out of here,” and Niki did take her hand, squeezed it, twined their fingers together, weave of Spyder’s pale, chilled flesh and Niki’s dusky, warm flesh. “I think maybe this house is making you sick, Spyder. Or keeping you from getting any better. Too much bad shit’s happened to you here. It’s no wonder you can’t stop thinking about it.”

It’s not even half that simple, but all Spyder said was, “It’s been too late for a long time,” and Niki frowned, heat lightning flash of anger across her face and sudden anger behind her words. “Don’t give me that crap, goddammit. I don’t want to hear it. All you have to do is get up and let me take you to the hospital.”

Spyder shook her head, let go of Niki’s hand; the separation hurt, physical pain and pain inside that was worse, pulling away from the last bit of warmth in the world.

“Do you still want to hear what I was go

“I want to help you, Spyder.”

“Then listen, ’cause I don’t think there’s anything else you can do.”

Spyder saw the moment clear in Niki’s eyes, swollen moment of decision; saw it come like the shadows before a summer thundershower, lingering, sweet rain scent and ozone and the hair on your arms and the back of your neck prickling from the static charge, and then it was gone, and Niki sighed loudly, sat down next to Spyder and held her hand again. Decision made, and Spyder was glad for her touch, but couldn’t look at her face, the fear and regret stamped there, stared over the edge of the sink and out the kitchen window instead, the cold night gathering around the house, taking its place, and when it had settled, when it was comfortable, she started to talk.

Not the night that he cut her face, a month later, maybe, and the cross scar between her eyes is bubblegum pink and fresh. And it made no difference at all, because the angels still haven’t taken them all away, haven’t taken him away, and that’s really all that matters anymore. But they sit in the basement, inside his charm, listening to two radios at once, one playing the preaching and the other playing hymns. The orange extension cords hang in loops from the ceiling so they won’t break the circle; nothing must break the circle, ever.

The circle keeps out the monsters, the wicked things that are go

And this is the time that her mother didn’t go down with them, the only time she said no, and so he hit her. Her mother a ball on the floor, ski

“Please,” she says. “For god’s sake, don’t take her down there tonight!”

And he reaches down, helps her mother up off the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, my head hurts Trish or I would never hurt you, but my head hurts. It’s too small to hold it all in, everything I’ve seen, everything I know.”

“I just can’t do it anymore, Carl. I just can’t sit down there anymore. Please let me take her. Let us go.”

“No,” he says, turns around and looks at Lila, like she said something and he’s trying to think of an answer, like he’s forgotten who she is.

“We’ll go to the church. I’ll take her to the church, okay? We’ll be safe there, Carl. You could even come with us. It’ll be safe there.”

“There’s only one church,” he says and her mother starts screaming, fuck you fuck you fuck you you crazy drunk bastard shit she’s my daughter and there they sit, he in his chair, Lila in hers, her mother’s chair empty and both radios turned up loud. He’s been sitting for a long time with his head down in his hands, shaking hands, like his head’s go

“They’re tellin’ me what I got to do,” he says, and by now her mother’s stopped banging on the basement door, she’s stopped screaming at him to let her in. So the monsters must have taken her away, but Lila would rather believe she ran away to hide in the church, that Brother Taylor and the woman who plays the organ are watching over her.

“They’re tellin’ me, and I’ve been tryin’ not to listen, Lila. ’Cause it don’t seem right. It don’t seem right at all.” She can hardly understand him, he’s crying so hard, wet face in the lamplight from crying and snot. “But it’s the only way, and this is the last night. They’re ru

He stops, opens his red Bible and reads something from the back that she tries not to hear, locusts and seals, locusts and seals, and then she sees the jar beneath his chair for the first time when he reaches for it. Big Mason jar and there’s something inside, but she can’t tell what, except it moves when he picks it up. Her father holds the Bible up in one hand and the jar in the other, holds them high up, and he stands so that his long arms almost reach the ceiling. She watches his lips, moving and making words but no sound coming out until finally, Please don’t make me do this. Someone else, Lord. Not me.

“Daddy?” and there’s a sound above them like thunder, and she’s too scared to say anything else.