But soap and water, ammonia, and a scrub brush had no effect on the paint. Looking at her watch Sarah guessed that it was too late, on a Sunday, to find anyplace open that would sell paint remover, and added that item to her list of things to buy. She closed off the bedroom and went into her office.
She couldn’t settle down. She couldn’t concentrate. Sarah laid aside the letters of Flannery O’Connor and prowled restlessly through the house. Her nerves were strung tight, and every small noise made her heart beat faster. She looked sharply at the windows time and again, expecting, beyond all reason, to find Valerie’s mad, grinning face looking in at her, expecting to see a thin figure lurking in the bushes. The doors were locked every time she checked; the windows undisturbed. Still there were sounds—scrabblings behind walls, beneath the floors, overhead. Sometimes aggressively loud, sometimes so quietly that it might have been someone whispering in another room. Sarah had the irrational feeling that the rat, having seen her fearful departure from the cellar, was taunting her now, daring her to do something.
Twice Sarah grabbed her purse and jacket and headed for the back door only to stop herself. She wasn’t going to leave. She wouldn’t let her own silly fears drive her out. Where would she go? Beverly and Pete deserved some respite from her company, and she had to get used to living alone.
The house began to feel cold as evening came on. Sarah plugged in the electric heater in the living room and closed the door to her office to conserve the heat. She busied herself making dinner: a large plate of macaroni and cheese with a few strips of bacon on the side, and then settled with the food and a glass of wine on the living room couch. She wrapped a soft blue blanket around herself and turned the television on to a movie about a husband and wife detective team.
The show was mindless and relaxing and Sarah was grateful for the opportunity not to think. The sound of pleasant, California voices and bland background music covered any other sounds she might have heard, and Sarah felt herself drifting, the food and wine and pleasant warmth all comforting her. The movie ended and Sarah meant to rise and turn off the television, but it was too much trouble. Just too much trouble to move. She was stretched out on the couch, the blanket enveloping her, and the thought of sitting up, unwrapping the blanket, and walking across the room to the television set was exhausting. It was too much work. It was much easier to stay where she was, with the light and the television on, and make no effort. Easier to relax. To let go. To give in.
It took her a little while to realize that these were not her own thoughts. Giving in, letting go—that was what the rat wanted her to do.
The rat’s eyes were like flames. It sat up on its haunches and glared at her, and burned its will into her mind.
Give up. Let go.
She had to look away, Sarah thought, confused. It was hard to think, but she could feel the urgency of that. If she kept looking into those eyes it would become harder and harder to resist. The rat was hypnotizing her, compelling her, and, in time, those flaming eyes would burn her mind away. Already the flames were singeing the edges of her will, and once it was gone, she knew, once her will had been burned up like a piece of paper, the rat could do whatever it wanted. She would not be able to oppose it. She knew that, and yet it was so hard to look away. She had to, to save her own life, and yet it was hard to think of anything beside those golden, glowing eyes. But if she did not turn away, she would die. The rat would leap upon her with its cold, sharp claws, and scrabble up her motionless, will-less body, and bite out her throat.
In a moment she would turn her head, and save herself from those twin flames. In a moment.
Sarah woke, shuddering, to darkness and cold. For one horrible moment she thought she was lying in the cellar, but then she felt the solid, rather hard cushions of the couch beneath her, and the softness of the blanket, and knew where she was. She had been dreaming.
But why was it so cold? And why so dark? She missed the hum and glow of the electric heater, and the light, and the television. She didn’t remember turning any of them off. Her last memory was of falling asleep amid babble and glow.
Who had turned out the light?
Sarah’s heart pounded and she held her breath, listening. She was afraid to sit up, afraid to reach out to the lamp beside the couch, afraid that someone was waiting for her to move, waiting to grab.
Perhaps a fuse had blown. Perhaps she herself had turned off the light and forgotten about it. It was ridiculous to lie here terrifying herself with fantasies. Sarah sat up and made herself reach out, her skin prickling with fear, anticipating sudden, tearing pain from the jaws of a rat.
