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“I’m going upstairs,” Josie called out. She raised one foot and the dog moved with her, keeping an eye on Josie and hopping up one step at a time.
When Josie reached the landing and turned to face the upstairs hallway, her mouth dropped open and an invisible vacuum sucked the air out of her lungs. There was a long smear along the wall, like a modern art painting she didn’t quite understand. It was a red, drippy brush stroke and it looked like blood. Because there was no air left in her body, Josie couldn’t call out to Meredith down below. And maybe she didn’t want to. She didn’t want Meredith to think she couldn’t handle this.
Josie clamped her mouth closed. She wasn’t sure what propelled her body the rest of the way up the stairs. Her bare knees lifted as if she were a marionette doll with strings attached to her limbs. She walked strangely, straight up and down, not using her usual side-side gait. The dog was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. When Josie made it all the way up, she could see that the brush stroke led down the hall to the master bedroom. The dog scurried to the doorway of the room, but she wouldn’t go in. Josie floated down the hall, following the painted trail, like a sleepwalker only half-aware that she was moving through space. At the end, in the doorjamb, was a handprint. An ancient marking. Beware.