and pictures. The unlit corridor smelled of stale urine and vomit. Huff bags, syringes and broken liquor bottles littered the floor.
‘‘Holly lived upstairs,’’ Jan said, walking slowly and holding the spray can of Mace in front of her. ‘‘On the second floor. The stairway’s up ahead.’’
Carrie’s heart was pounding. She had no desire to walk up any dark stairwell, and the rational part of her brain was telling her to turn tail and run. But there was nothing rational about the impulse that had brought her here, and the crazy desire to find the rhino boy overrode all arguments.
She remembered her dream of the blackout, heard in her mind Juan’s raspy chuckle and the two English words whispered by Rosalia: ‘‘He’s coming.’’ The panic she felt now was eerily similar to the emotion she’d experienced in the nightmare, and she gripped her pepper spray more tightly as she and Jan approached the open stairwell. The two of them walked up the steps together. Shadows bathed the landing, and the strong, sickening stench of feces arose about them. Gagging, Carrie tried to breathe through her mouth, being careful where she stepped, although in the darkness she couldn’t really see the stairs beneath her feet.
They reached the second floor without incident.
The hallway was dark, the building quiet.
Too quiet.
Carrie hadn’t noticed it before, but the sounds of life usually heard in apartment buildings—crying babies, radios, televisions, arguments—were completely absent. Instead, an unnatural stillness seemed to have settled over the tenement house. They were in the center of the building, surrounded by dozens of rooms, yet it seemed as though they were all alone.
He’s coming.
There was indeed a looming sense that someone—or something —was approaching, that if any people other than themselves were in the building, they were sitting in frightened silence behind closed, locked doors, desperately trying not to make a sound. As much as the threatening physical surroundings, it was this completely unfounded feeling that something big was on its way that made her pulse pound and struck terror in her heart. Carrie looked down the hallway, suddenly seized by the irrational conviction that if they could only get inside one of the apartments and out of the corridor, they would be safe.
He’s coming.
She glanced over at Jan. The other social worker seemed, if not unconcerned for their safety, at least oblivious to this unseen threat, and Carrie forced herself to breathe deeply, calm down. She wasn’t ordinarily an imaginative person, but something about Juan and the rhino boy and the entire situation set her nerves on edge and made her far more susceptible to illusory dangers than she usually was.
‘‘Apartment 210,’’ Jan said, and though her voice wasn’t loud, it sounded amplified in the stillness. She must have noticed it, too, because when she said, ‘‘It’s right up here on the left,’’ she whispered the words.
If there was a focal point to the silence, a still center about which the noiselessness spiraled, it was apartment number 210. Carrie had no idea what made her think such a thing, but as she stopped in front of the battered door, she was convinced that it was so. The two of them stood there for a moment, looking at each other, both of them nervous.
It was Jan who stepped forward and knocked on the door.
They waited several seconds, but there was no answer.
‘‘Maybe she’s not here,’’ Carrie suggested. ‘‘Maybe she’s on the street.’’
‘‘Or strung out,’’ Jan said hopefully.
But neither of them believed that, and as Jan turned the knob of the unlocked door and pushed against the peeling facade, Carrie prepared herself for what they might find inside.
It was a good thing she did.
The front room had been trashed. A coffee table was split in half, a mirror smashed, several wooden chairs broken, a television screen shattered, a crib crushed under the
‘‘Holly lived upstairs,’’ Jan said, walking slowly and holding the spray can of Mace in front of her. ‘‘On the second floor. The stairway’s up ahead.’’
Carrie’s heart was pounding. She had no desire to walk up any dark stairwell, and the rational part of her brain was telling her to turn tail and run. But there was nothing rational about the impulse that had brought her here, and the crazy desire to find the rhino boy overrode all arguments.
She remembered her dream of the blackout, heard in her mind Juan’s raspy chuckle and the two English words whispered by Rosalia: ‘‘He’s coming.’’ The panic she felt now was eerily similar to the emotion she’d experienced in the nightmare, and she gripped her pepper spray more tightly as she and Jan approached the open stairwell. The two of them walked up the steps together. Shadows bathed the landing, and the strong, sickening stench of feces arose about them. Gagging, Carrie tried to breathe through her mouth, being careful where she stepped, although in the darkness she couldn’t really see the stairs beneath her feet.
They reached the second floor without incident.
The hallway was dark, the building quiet.
Too quiet.
Carrie hadn’t noticed it before, but the sounds of life usually heard in apartment buildings—crying babies, radios, televisions, arguments—were completely absent. Instead, an unnatural stillness seemed to have settled over the tenement house. They were in the center of the building, surrounded by dozens of rooms, yet it seemed as though they were all alone.
He’s coming.
There was indeed a looming sense that someone—or something —was approaching, that if any people other than themselves were in the building, they were sitting in frightened silence behind closed, locked doors, desperately trying not to make a sound. As much as the threatening physical surroundings, it was this completely unfounded feeling that something big was on its way that made her pulse pound and struck terror in her heart. Carrie looked down the hallway, suddenly seized by the irrational conviction that if they could only get inside one of the apartments and out of the corridor, they would be safe.
He’s coming.
She glanced over at Jan. The other social worker seemed, if not unconcerned for their safety, at least oblivious to this unseen threat, and Carrie forced herself to breathe deeply, calm down. She wasn’t ordinarily an imaginative person, but something about Juan and the rhino boy and the entire situation set her nerves on edge and made her far more susceptible to illusory dangers than she usually was.
‘‘Apartment 210,’’ Jan said, and though her voice wasn’t loud, it sounded amplified in the stillness. She must have noticed it, too, because when she said, ‘‘It’s right up here on the left,’’ she whispered the words.
If there was a focal point to the silence, a still center about which the noiselessness spiraled, it was apartment number 210. Carrie had no idea what made her think such a thing, but as she stopped in front of the battered door, she was convinced that it was so. The two of them stood there for a moment, looking at each other, both of them nervous.
It was Jan who stepped forward and knocked on the door.
They waited several seconds, but there was no answer.
‘‘Maybe she’s not here,’’ Carrie suggested. ‘‘Maybe she’s on the street.’’
‘‘Or strung out,’’ Jan said hopefully.
But neither of them believed that, and as Jan turned the knob of the unlocked door and pushed against the peeling facade, Carrie prepared herself for what they might find inside.
It was a good thing she did.
The front room had been trashed. A coffee table was split in half, a mirror smashed, several wooden chairs broken, a television screen shattered, a crib crushed under the
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