Page 5 of When the Night Comes Knocking

He merely grunts and keeps his eyes focused on the bloodred of his cast, as if he can see all the way down to the bone where it shattered in three different places.

Not like some words will make any difference now.

Cassie lets out one of her famous dramatic sighs. If Thomas knows his older sister at all, she has likely retreated somewhere outside with a glass of terribly sweet wine.

“I just mean that the last thing we need is all of y’all’s negativity coming in and stinking up the place right before Mom and Dad drop the news,” she explains. “We really need to be supportive of them right now. This couldn’t have been an easy decision, given everything that’s happened.”

Thomas goes to run his hand through his hair and huffs as he remembers to use his left arm instead. “Why do you always assume it’s me being the problem?” he asks.

Because sweet little Jane could never possibly do anything wrong, he hears in his mother’s lilting voice.

“Because you’re a real ass when you want to be,” Cassie fills in. “I know it’s all for show, but she doesn’t, Thomas. You’re her hero and she thinks you despise her.”

Hearing this stings more than it should.

“I don’t…” He trails off, unsure of how to even answer. He clenches his fingers through the hole of his cast, gritting his teeth at the lack of control there. By now, it all should have been easier.

“Look, we’re getting the marshmallows,” he says. “We’ll see y’all in a bit.”

Does he despise his little sister?

Yes, he thinks immediately. He can still picture her that night two months ago with perfect clarity, still remembers the complete and utter shame he felt for her before she got into his car. Still remembers—

Thomas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing the memory not to encroach any further on this already miserable evening. When he opens his eyes again, the light bulb flickers out, washing him in total darkness.

“Shit.”

He swipes open his phone, turning on the flashlight. The reflection of it beams off the mirror, revealing only Thomas’s shadowy outline and the darkened concrete room behind him.

“How hard is it to change a fucking light bulb,” he mutters, turning for the door when a sound reaches his ears.

It’s too quiet to make out at first against the sudden gush of wind, but then it grows closer, a low, animal-like chittering followed by what sounds like something scraping against a surface.

Thomas lifts the flashlight toward the dark space behind him, angling it around the empty corners. He drags the beam up the concrete walls one after the other, looking for signs of a small rodent that might have crawled inside for warmth. He shines the light on the open window next, nearly dropping the phone at the sight of something white and sharp retracting over the ledge.

He backs up until he hits the door, flipping the light switch on the wall a few times before the bulb finally comes back to life, casting its low glow across the empty restroom. His heart races in his chest as he eyes the window ledge, where four long, pencil-thin lines are now scratched into the concrete.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, trying to recall the image of what exactly he saw—or thought he saw.

The unnatural length, the sharpness. But they couldn’t have been, he thinks, even as the same word repeats itself over and over in his mind.

Claws.

Thomas pauses only long enough to listen for any more of the strange noises, though the only sounds are that of the struggling light bulb, a slow drip from the sink faucet, and his own heart in his ears.

You need to eat something, idiot.

He shakes his head, wiping a hand down his face before turning for the door. A papier-mâché turkey is taped to its steel surface: “Remember to be thankful!” it reads in big block letters.

He wants to rip it to shreds.

Three

with a heavy heart.

Jane ambles down aisle three, searching for the baking ingredients. From the neighboring aisle she can hear a man talking to his partner, voicing a bet on whether their unborn son will be a Christmas Day or New Year’s Day baby. His beaming smile is palpable even from out of sight, and she feels a sudden, visceral longing for that excitement. It wasn’t so long ago that she woke up feeling that way every day, eager to see what new shapes her life might take on.

Now her excitement has been traded in for a feeling more akin to walking on eggshells. She tries to picture how this Thanksgiving will go with their family—will it be largely shallow conversations, cushioned only with Thomas’s low grumblings and Cassie’s mindless chatter, until the weekend slips by in a meaningless blip? Or will someone finally blow a fuse and shout something unforgivable?