Free Pray To Stay Dead by Mason James Cole Page A

featureless little table. It was one of those quiet houses with a loud clock. A bead curtain obscured the dimly-lit room beyond the vestibule.
    They followed Sam through the beads and into a large living room that smelled stale like the inside of the confessional at St. Anthony’s. Sam clicked on a lamp. The place hadn’t been redecorated since the fifties. With its boxy art deco cabinet and nearly round screen, the television sitting atop four skinny legs across from the stained and sprung couch looked to Colleen like it may have been older than the house.
    “ That thing work?” Daniel asked, reading her mind.
    Sam made a face. “Not so great, man, but we never watch it all that much, anyway.”
    There was a low coffee table between the couch and the television, its surface furry with dust.
    “ You can all crash here, I guess,” Samson said. “No one really stays here anymore, not since mom died. Dad lives in his workshop, mostly, but he still comes down here when he misses her. It’s pretty sad.”
    “ Where do you and your brother stay?”
    “ My dad built us all a little place further up the road. I’ll show you later.”
    The place felt like a frozen moment, a fading memory grown soft around the edges and losing definition.
    “ I think I’d just as soon set up our tents and enjoy the fresh air,” Guy said, and Daniel murmured his assent. “We really don’t want to impose.”
    “ Sure,” Sam said. “I don’t blame you. The place is a mess. You can’t camp out forever, though, so maybe we can clean up a bit later on, right?”
    “ Maybe so,” Guy said. “Is there a phone here?”
    “ There is, in the kitchen, but it’s disconnected.”
    “ Okay,” Guy said, after a moment. “Is there a phone that isn’t disconnected?”
    “ Up at my dad’s workshop, yeah, but I don’t think you’ll reach anyone. I think they’re all dead now.”
    “ I’d still like to try.”
    “ Oh, yeah,” Sam said. “We’ll head up that way in a bit. Last stop of the tour. Come on.”
    “ Wait,” Colleen said. “Can I use the bathroom?”
    Sam looked uncertain for a second, uncertain and maybe a little worried, and then he brightened. “Of course.” He indicated the hallway at the other end of the living room. “First door on the right.”
    Three of the four bulbs were dead, and the remaining one burned weakly behind frosted glass, offered little light. A dingy shower curtain concealed a claw-foot bathtub that seemed out of place even here, and the toilet bowl was dry, the water having long since evaporated, leaving behind a brown ring as the only evidence that it had been there at all.
    Colleen pressed the plunger and watched as the bowl filled with the stagnant contents of the toilet tank. Pipes gurgled and knocked. She waited for the tank to refill completely and then flushed again.
    In the cabinet beneath the sink, she found a roll of toilet paper and a stack of neatly folded face-cloths. She placed the toilet paper on the counter and took one of the towels from the middle of the stack. She thought about it for a second, took four more, and pressed them into her pockets. She removed a fifth towel and wiped down the toilet seat with it.
    A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, having disposed of her bloated and leaking pad and replaced it with one of the face-cloths.
    In the living room, Sam tried to get the television to work. The screen displayed only a dim haze of snow. He battered the side of the old beast and tussled with the rabbit ears, and a voice and face emerged from the snow, another grim network newscaster.
    “… dent Nixon is urging Americans to cooperate with local and state law enforcement. Sources close to the President say that tonight’s speech will outline his administration’s ‘plan of attack’ regarding the current situation, in addition to addressing concerns over recent statements by Russian President Nikolai Podgorny that—”
    The rabbit-ears tipped backward