Chapter Text
Claire Nuñez couldn’t open the door.
In the darkness of the closet she could feel everything, from the straining muscles of her legs, to the rough panel that brushed against her back. She was tucked as deep as she could go. Her mother’s clothes tickled her forehead, fancy shoes dug into her butt and her mother’s blood seeped into her socks.
In front of her, the door was closed and she couldn’t open it.
She shivered.
It all started in the same way that all things start.
In the middle of a middle.
It started at the end of another normal afternoon in the small town of Arcadia Oaks.
It started with Claire Nuñez and her family enjoying a rare day when they were all together. Her mother’s schedule had been cleared for the weekend, and so they took a day out in the town’s square, where they bought snacks from nice vendors and enjoyed the small conversations about nothing in particular. Her father had laid down a blanket for them to sit on, and under a tall old oak tree, Claire could relax and watch Javier Nuñez play with her little brother while Enrique babbled and laughed.
She was finishing up a scoop of vanilla ice cream when her phone rang and the familiar guitar riff from Papa Skull filled the small family bubble. Feeling her mother’s eyes on her back, Claire stared down at Darci’s name before refusing the call and texting back.
"Don’t you usually complain to me when I have my cell phone on?" Ophelia Nuñez mentioned, because there would still come a day when her mother would not point out hypocrisy.
"Sorry, Mom. It’s Darci."
"Louis’ daughter, right? I like him."
Of course you do, Claire thought. As a councilwoman running for reelection, Claire knew her mother was already waving alliances and good will with the police union, and she also knew that, as nice as the day had been, it would be a long time before another came along.
"Dad says you’ll be going to Los Angeles next week." She spoke, testing the waters, but her mother rarely revealed much from her face alone.
"That is right. If you one day get into politics, you should know to never keep things local. The world is a big place and you should remember that, Claire."
"I’ll try." She said, picturing a week of school and an empty house. Her father would never trust her with Enrique for a week, not after the last time. "It’s just that today has been really good."
Her mother smiled. "I know."
"I liked it."
"Me too, Claire." Her mother said, her cropped hair moving slightly in the wind. "I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about something."
"What?"
"Your father and I were thinking of easing your punishment for leaving Enrique alone with a stranger."
"Shannon wasn’t a stranger, mom."
"She was to me and your father, and don’t take that tone with me, young lady." Claire looked down, her face burning as the warmth of the day faded behind a heavy gray cloud. She felt her father sitting on her other side and instantly knew this had all been planned. "What you did was very irresponsible. Leaving your brother alone for a music concert, I... I still have no words.”
Old shame suddenly coiled around her gut as she heard her mother’s words. It was like a bad reprise at this point, repeated again and again, as if she wasn’t already good at making herself feel bad. Claire snapped. "I already said that I’m sorry!"
"Claire," her father said now, his brow furrowed in a silent warning.
Her mother sighed. "We are not here to rehash that, Claire; this is about your grades."
"My grades?"
"Yes, that concert wasn’t the first time you’ve acted out, and now you've got two B’s."
"I was busy, mom! I had to do the play, and I hadn’t seen my friends to work on it since you made me stay home every night. Also, do you know how hard it is to study without internet?"
"I didn't have the internet back in my day, so don't even try to use that as an excuse.” Her mother said. “We let you be part of that play because you promised it wouldn’t interfere with your studies, but we don’t know if that is the case anymore."
Claire pursed her lips, her fingers digging into the grass on her side and ripping the small blades to bits. "Lots of kids get B's."
"Well, you’re not of them, Claire; you’re our daughter!" Claire flinched in surprise, not at the words, but because they had come from her father of all people; “You should start acting as our daughter, whatever happened to that well behaved girl who had so much fun doing her homework?”
Her father had never really minded her grades all that much, and she knew he was on her mother’s side now for another reason: sneaking out to a concert and riding on Steve Palchuk’s vespa. Claire wasn’t sure she had ever been more mortified than when he asked if she was having sex behind their backs.
"Claire." Her mother’s tone had softened, but it was barely perceptible. "You need to understand that the things you do reflect on other people, and it's been a while since you’ve been losing our trust."
Trust—the word had a very funny ring to it. Looking down at her ice cream, Claire ignored the childish sting behind her eyes and opted for a short laugh instead. "Well, what about my trust in you?"
"What is that?"
"You are never home!" She snapped. "How do you even know what interferes with my studies? You can’t know! You’re not around to know, none of you are!"
"That is enough, Claire!" Said her father, his voice much stronger than hers.
Her mother, meanwhile, looked at her like she had been slapped in the face, eyes wide and fuming. "We give you everything, Claire, every single thing! You have no idea how much work it takes to give you that nice house and put food on the table. You’re not talking to me like that, do you hear me?"
"Well, maybe I wouldn't have to if you listened!”
“I always listen.”
“You don’t!” Claire screamed; she felt the ice-cream melting on her fingers and threw it on the ground, splashing the dessert on her mother’s pants.
"That is it!" Her mother had enough. "You’re out of the theater club, and your punishment stays." Ophelia rose to her feet, tall and unyelding. "You go to school and then come home; nothing else!"
"But…"
"Let’s go."
Claire watched her mother walk away without looking back. The wind was cold, touching her legs through her leggings. Her father was shaking his head at her like she had just deeply disappointed him. Her little brother was oblivious, and the ice cream was was going to stain the sheet. Out of shame, she helped her father pack their stuff back into the car.
The ride home was silent and uncomfortable, with all parties keeping their eyes out of the windows. Claire herself was watching the horizon run behind Arcadia as Enrique babbled behind her and his chubby arms played with a stuffed bunny. Occasionally, her mother would start a new rant, going on and on about all the things they bought for her—all the books and clothes and furniture for her bedroom—but after a while, she would run out of steam and Claire would remain still, taking each barb to her heart until she felt the familiar odd pressure in front of her head. As they crossed the bridge over the canal, the sunset painted the sky in strong reds and oranges, while deep, dark shadows appeared, stronger than they might’ve seem during the day. Sometimes she would even swear she saw the black moving against the canal banks.
Automatic lights were already working on the porch when they got home, and the street lights took their own time getting to work; one of the lamps blinked, buzzed and remained dark.
"Honey, remind me to get ‘street lighting’ on my notebook later."
"Si, querida," her father said as they got closer to one another, but whatever they would talk about, Claire didn’t want to hear.
She walked inside, yearning only for the shelter of her bedroom, the tightness in her chess vanishing only when she found herself safely behind the door. The homework she had started that morning was still on her table, half finished, but out of rebellion she closed her math book and went searching through her small library for something to distract herself.
After shedding her daily clothes for the loose shirt and sweatpants she liked to sleep in, every single thing her mother screamed back at her stormed through her mind, leaving only guilt in its wake. As her eyes roamed over the text of Much Ado About Nothing, she stopped right as Beatrice referred to Benedict as Signor Montanto, and a strange sense of numbness wouldn’t even allow her to appreciate the boner joke.
Claire had planned to argue her case with Ms. Janeth about doing this play because, as much as she loved Romeo and Juliet, she was always looking for new opportunities to try her acting skills. I could be a damn good Beatrice.
She saw little point in continuing now.
In her solitude, she considered ways to make her mother change her mind, and as much as the idea of an apology felt repulsive, her mind conjured the possibility that she might be wrong. If she was wrong, there would be nothing bad about apologizing, and her mother might let her keep up with her acting. They do buy everything I need, and they do take care of me... Right? Rising from the bed, Claire frowned at the gust of wind entering her room, but there were no answers in its whispers. Maybe I’m just a horrible daughter.
The back of her house was very open, stretching out into the preserved woods that surrounded Arcadia. The trees there were thick, their branches singing and rustling against one another, sometimes even looking like the claws of emerging monsters. She closed the window and opened her door. Downstairs, the TV was on, and she could hear the Spanish audio of a gun robot movie. She gritted her teeth, freezing at the foot of the stairs. Of course, they could take whatever they wanted and still go enjoy a movie together.
A surge of emotion made her swallow, bracing herself before entering the living room. Her mother always praised her for her careful arguments. When Claire first told her she wanted to try acting, she had prepared a whole list of reasons to do it and even more promises. Had she broken those? Yes, Claire thought, flinching at her own voice. They still had no right, though! I still do everything they say, all the time!
When she stopped in the living room and looked at her parents, she wondered if her anger was visible in her eyes, but whatever the outcome of the conversation might’ve been, Claire would never know because before she could open her mouth, the world ended.
When the door opened, it was not with a knock or a twist of the handle. When the door opened, it did so by bursting into pieces and splinters under the heavy weight of a massive stone fist.
Claire screamed. Her mother screamed, and Enrique, who was strapped to his jumper, began to cry.
Since she was in the hallway, Claire was the first to see what was behind the door when the portal cracked and shattered under the strain of a heavy moving body. The creature loomed, black and tall, with deep eyes, orange like fire. It was smiling as well, a sharptoothed smile, his exhale filling the house with a rancid breath that almost made her choke.
“Claire!”
Claire turned, seeing her father racing towards her. Her mother was screaming her name as the windows exploded around the house. The movie was still going, loud machine guns chanting as more monsters came down on the walls, but Claire had only eyes for her father. He was reaching out with his hand, and she felt his fingers brushing her shoulder before his whole body was pulled back by a violent force.
Then her mother slammed against her, her bruising grip closing around her wrist while her father’s voice became a shrieked, pained scream at her back.
“Papa!” Claire tripped, her knees hitting the steps on the stairs, but her mother pulled her up anyway, half dragging her to the hallway until her shoulder felt like it was snapping from its socket and just as Claire felt the massive shadow moving after her. Then she was being shoved into her parents' bedroom, where rich, fancy furniture was perfectly assembled and cleaned. Her mother was locking the door before pulling back, hands reaching into her pockets.
“Phone! Phone!" She screamed. "Claire, your phone!”
Claire looked at her mother’s eyes and shook her head, whimpering for disappointing the woman yet again, a thousand apologies forming a lump at the back of her throat. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’msorryI’msorryI’m...
A sudden glare of light made both women look toward the window. The world outside was burning and she could hear screams as well, screams that were not coming from a movie.
The ground shook, the ceiling dropping dust on her mother’s expensive carpet. She will be mad, Claire thought as the particles floated in front of her nose, ripping a sneeze from her one, two, and three times. Ophelia Nunez stepped away from the door, looked frantically around the room, and threw open her closet. Claire watched her at a loss, the growing snarl beyond the door making her flinch, and then freeze. "We forgot Enrique," she whispered, picturing the baby in his small little jumper. Her father had screamed. “We forgot Enrique, Mom! Dad and Enrique are down there!”
But her mother was yelling now, telling her to shut up, and suddenly Claire was being pushed against a small, dark space. She felt clothes drop on top of her head, blocking her view just a second before her mother closed the door and disappeared.
Eyes wide, Claire stared at the slit of light visible between the double doors. She breathed in through her nose, smelling the sweet scent of fabric softener, her heart hammering inside her chest. She heard the bedroom door getting destroyed and Ophelia Nuñez shouted, a loud sound that would imprint on Claire’s heart forever. A roar followed, deep and malicious. A snarl, guttural like the depths of a cave. Something snapped and the inhuman sound that followed could not possibly be from her mom.
Shivering, Claire used her own hand to cover her mouth. She heard a crackling, something ripping apart and crunching, and while she pressed herself as tightly as possible to the back of the closet, she hated how much the noise reminded her of a sleepover with her friends, when they would spend the night watching movies and chewing on dry cereal
Claire Nuñez couldn’t open the door.
In the darkness of the closet she could feel everything, from the straining muscles of her legs, to the rough panel that brushed against her back. She was tucked as deep as she could go. Her mother’s clothes tickled her forehead, fancy shoes dug into her butt and her mother’s blood seeped into her socks.
In front of her, the door was closed and she couldn’t open it.
She shivered.
The heavy thing that had invaded her home was gone, or at least she couldn’t hear it anymore. In front of her, the door was a black wall, a tall moonlit split by a slit of flickering golden light. She wanted to open it, reach out with her hand, and push it away, maybe breath fresh air instead of the stench of blood and vomit. Outside, chaos reigned, muffled and distant. Every single scream sounded like her mother’s, her father's, and sometimes Enrique's, and in the end, she couldn’t open the door.
Están muertos
At some point, her eyes began to feel heavy, but whenever she felt close to falling asleep, she would snap herself awake, fearing the monsters would find her. Why do I care, though? She asked every time it happened, but she would open her eyes anyway, listening to any strange noises that might scream danger.
She had no idea how long she had been hidden. The closet should be reeking, but eventually even the smell moved to the back of her mind. The dark pool at her feet had dried just as her tears, and eventually, her legs began to shift at the familiar and unwelcome pressure coming from her bladder.
In front of her, the monolith was solid black.
The light had vanished.
Están todos muertos.
The sounds from outside changed. Muffled or horror-filled, they were now just noise, as natural as the wind, gunfire, or the singing of a bird she couldn’t bother paying attention to.
If her hand reached out, feeling the solid wood with the pads of her fingers, the movement would feel numb and clumsy. Her fingers grew silly as they tried to move. Like vines growing inside her skin, fear quickly returned and pulled her back. Squeezing her legs together, she held on.
I can’t open the door, she thought, feeling oddly all right with the idea.
Thirst and hunger made themselves known later—a hollow, painful stabbing in her guts. Her lips felt dry, and her heart would beat like it was trying to move thick goo through her veins. Swallowing her own spit, she laid her head back and stared at the door, her eyes roaming over the flat wooden surface. Mama is out there, she thought. When the pressure in her bladder became too painful to endure, she let go right there, and when warm urine drenched her pants, she wanted to die.
She couldn’t open the door.
When a voice called for her name, Claire heard it muffled and from far away. She blinked in the darkness, shivering as the cold seeped into her bones. She thought of Mary and Darci, but the voice didn’t sound like theirs; it was very different.
"Claire Nuñez? Clai…" The voice stopped short, and she could hear it now inside her parents’ bedroom. It stepped in, moved, stopped again, and turned into an ugly retching noise that made her flinch. "Claire?" It called again after a while when she heard it panting and heaving.
It was a small and fearful voice.
Running her tongue over dry lips, Claire opened her mouth on pure instinct, an answer at the tip of her tongue, but the words were locked away, pulled back by chains that her own heart had forged—chains of shame, fear, and guilt.
Why bother?
She couldn’t open the door.
Están todos muertos.
In the closet, Claire Nuñez tried to remember the last words she had wished to say to her parents and knew for certain that they hadn’t been kind. Her last thoughts about them hadn’t been kind, because every single moment of her life now flared to life in a tapestry of resentment and shame, a piece of art drenched in hatred.
Claire Nuñez wondered if, for all that, she deserved to rot in that closet.
It wouldn’t be so bad, and she was fine just keeping quiet and letting whomever had come for her give up and leave for good.
Except the voice called her again, in a shy, almost pleading voice.
Begging.
Pathetic and small.
Just like her.