Evelyn Epps may not have been a saint deserving of heaven, but she knew for a fact that she didn't deserve these eggs either. She spat the tasteless mush back onto her plate. Charlie—no, the thing that called himself Charlie—sighed loudly. His fork clacked onto clayware.

“Eve, what’s the matter now? Scrambled eggs are your favorite!” he whined.

“Well, next time give me those, and not a plate of mud,” she said.

Char’s chair legs scraped against the porch wood. When Eve heard her plate scratch the table, she snatched the porcelain back. “I can take out my own dishes. Besides, I want to sit here a while. Clear my head before I start writing.”



Char went quiet. Either way, Eve would have to learn to trust him. 'Here' isn't where she wanted to be.

He left her to brood.



Eve knew something was terribly amiss. Typically, summers at her cabin were hot but not this hot, quiet but not this quiet. She could hear no birds singing, no wind blowing. Even the sound of rustling leaves was gone.

All this trouble began after she had taken that nasty tumble down the stairs two weeks prior. She’d misjudged the depth of that damn seventh step again, and woke up only after Char had found her lying at the bottom of the stairwell.

The change in the air had been instantaneous. Something went wrong with her sense of taste. Everything held the distinct sapor of wet paper. And her skin tingled. At first, she assumed this had been in shock, but when after a week, the symptoms did not fade, she began to worry.

The hospital, St. Peters, was out of the question—As much as Char insisted that she leave the cabin with him by car, the nearest town was four hours away, and she had a book to finish writing.

Evelyn adjusted the shades upon her nose, then reached out with her arm. After a minute, her hand touched something twiny and coarse, a rope she’d had Char—the real one—connect from the door to the porch railing years ago. Making sure not to cause too much commotion, she rose and followed its length to the edge of the landing.

Though she could not see it, she could sense something strange beyond the porch. She'd tried to rope her way out there last week while Char was supposedly asleep, but barely made it onto the landing before he’d caught her.

“You can't leave that way,” he had said. “I'll drive you, but I'm not letting you go anywhere by feet.”

Son of a bitch. If he wasn't so good at cooking and screwing, she would’ve gotten rid of him long ago.

Her brow twitched. She bit down upon her thumbnail, and held her other hand out past the railing.

Hot. The air was so hot it stung.

She felt the sudden urge to make a quick dash into the yard. Something at the end of that rope was wrong, and she just needed to feel for herself what it was. But Char’s eyes were on her all the time now. She didn't need her sight to know that.

What she needed was to get a few feet past the steps. Hearing the crunch of earth would at least be enough to calm her nerves.

She’d only taken one small step toward the porch stairs before she heard the front door open.

“Aren’t you hot out here, Eve?” Char called from the doorway.

She could hear the stifled delight in his voice. “I am, actually. Why is it so damn hot around here lately?” she asked.

“Cooler inside. Why don't you come on in? I'll fix you a drink,” he replied.

Eve frowned. Frustration welled up inside of her until she felt her cheeks cook. “I don't want to. I was going to rope around the yard a little to stretch my legs.” Her voice was cracking.

“Now, Eve, you know you aren’t well enough for that rope. I can't let you leave unless it's both of us in the car.”

For a moment, Evelyn was tempted to say yes to the stupid car ride, just to get away from the cabin for a bit. That was before that pang of indescribable fear hit her again. The air was suffocating. Up ahead, the rope line was pulled taut.

“Come on inside now, Evelyn,” Char insisted.

Eve waited a moment, adjusted her shades, then turned to follow the line back toward the door.