The Keeper by Sarah Langan

thought that she and Liz would finally grow closer, now that reminders of another era were finally gone. Instead, Bobby Fullbright came along, and it was as if Mary had no family at all.
    Like most of the houses in the area, hers came with high ceilings and a sparseness that could never be filled, not even with clutter. When she was alone, she thought she could hear history within its walls. Memories replaying. Her elder child bouncing a pink rubber ball, the thwack-thwack that was really the boiler in the basement, or she would forget for a moment that the radio was turned on and it was the sound of Liz and Ted laughing.
    These were the things she always thought would happen to her when she was old. But they started after Ted died, maybe because that’s what widows do, ruminate and grieve. Or maybe now that he was gone, she finally had the time to regret.
    Mary looked out the window. Melting snow slid down the valley like a slow, liquid avalanche. In Corpus Christi they used to have jokes about people from Bedford. How many of them does it take to screw in a light bulb? What are you if your cousin is your brother is your uncle? What’s the place that God forgot?
    There were some who blamed her daughter for the darkness that had swallowed Bedford. They were right, of course. Right about the thing that for nine months had lived in her womb. And the terrible dreams, that with every night grew more vivid.
    Last night Mary dreamed that she was standing in her basement. The floor had flooded with water as high as her knees. On the other side of the room, six-year-old Susan had held her arms open wide. The water level kept rising, and Mary had wanted to run to her daughter, but she’d been frightened. Cruel girl. Angry girl. Heart full of ashes, she had thought. The house began to settle, creaking and groaning, and then the ceiling came crashing down.
    When she saw Susan on the street now, Mary turned and walked in the opposite direction. But that didn’t stop the nightmares. Mary shut her eyes tight and tried to think of something else. Anything else. Rain. Spring days. Work tonight. In her mind’s eye she saw her elder daughter, six years old. Pretty girl. Angry girl. You could see madness in her eyes.
    The boiler kicked, and Mary cried out. In her mind, it was Susan in the basement. It was Susan, coming home.
    Just then, the back door opened. The sound startled Mary and she jumped. Standing in the kitchen was Liz, looking wet and out of breath. She tracked mud on the freshly mopped linoleum as she walked toward Mary.
    Though her children looked nothing alike, Mary became confused for a moment, lost in time. She thought this cherub before her was the other daughter. Instinctively, she stepped back. She pointed at the muddy floor, “Boots!” she screeched.
    Liz halted. She must have run home from school, because she was panting so hard that her breath was wheezy. She unlaced her boots and held them by their heels with her index fingers. She started toward Mary again. “All of it,” Mary said, still pointing, “Coat, too!”
    “Mommy,” Liz said, still panting, “Something ha-happened.” Her still face crumpled into a look of pain, and she held her arms wide, as if for a hug.
    “Coat, too!”
    Liz took off her coat and rolled it into a ball. Then she looked down at her jeans, which dripped water onto the floor. She sniffled, her nose and eyes runny. She peeled her jeans off, too. Wearing only a red wool sweater and pale blue cotton panties, she stood in the center of the room. Her plump little legs were red and splotchy. Though Mary knew better, she recognized the daughter with whom she was now speaking, she could not help but keep her distance. “Go take a shower,” she said, “I have to cover the night shift for Matt Ambrosia, so dinner’s in half an hour.” With slumped shoulders and still sniffling, Liz skulked out of the room.
    A half hour later, Liz came down the stairs freshly showered, dressed in a light