The One That Got Away

Chapter 5

Two weeks passed. Few lucid days that remained were spent locked up in the processing area until there was no need, anymore. When the fits of sanity diminished and quelled to nothing, the house acquired a tenor of uninterrupted domesticity and an uncanny peace. Subsequent days passed quietly. Every little thing that had gone amiss was righted, from the table to the bloodstains.

Ethan sat on a barstool in the rec room, wobbling absently on the uneven legs and rewinding VHS tapes. Supper would be ready soon and the few cassettes that needed attention could wind with or without him. The VCR whirred with an antique hum and the smell of heat and dust spouted from the fan. It would be quicker to stop the playback and let the blank blue standby fill the screen while the reels turned, but something about watching the events play out in reverse was more satisfying. There weren't many to rewind. "Welcome Back," "Happy Birthday," and "Derelict House, June 1" all sat in a stack on the right side of the TV. One had a torn label. A dim "M" forcefully erased still contrasted on the ochre tape. He checked the reels and slid it into the VCR.

The screen lit up with the color testing bars as a timer ticked rapidly in the top left corner, just above "Jul. 19, 2017." The color bars flickered a few times and white writing appeared in the center: "Please watch this. stf452 kp-26mx Njtl." The words quivered and then blinked out, and the color bars were sucked to the center of the screen. Solid blue took its place and a tracking bar waffled fickley at the bottom.

The tape whirred loudly for a few seconds, then clicked, and the date in the corner was replaced by "STOP." Ethan set it off to the side. As long as the supply reel was wound, they could tape over it later. The cassette ejected with heavy analog shifts and he slid the next one in.

The stippling of handguns thundered through heavy rounds, as the gunfire grew more distant. The comm on Redfield's shoulder crackled as old updates came in, warbled and squeaky. A sign hung on the door of the mansion. The words "Avoid all contact... evac immediately... biohazard" erased in rushed scratchy strokes. The cover of the manilla folder cleaved to its spine as Redfield set it on the desk. The panic settled. Wide-eyed faces placidly resumed their work.

It was a sentiment that Ethan shared.

When the tape had finished winding he set it in a new pile. The other two were of poor Clancy, foolishly thinking he could escape. In the footage, he rose from fire, carved the scars from his arm, circled the house for any promise of help. Ethan smiled to himself as he watched his futile efforts run backwards, bringing him always out of danger but never to freedom. It could have been so easy, he thought, if only poor Clancy had just given in. The dark hidden alleyways cleared to the living room, all the Sewer Gators alive with no idea what awaited them. It felt like starting over except each action they took resulted the same, timelessly, inevitably, and the door to the VCR slot opened.

"E-than!" Jack called, his voice carrying across the house in a high register. "Supper's on!"

As he left the rec room the smell of stewing meat carried easily upstairs, mingling with a salty piscine stench. It grew stronger as he approached the dining area, and billowed in steam from a heavy pot on the table. Jack was already seated, setting a plate and silverware at the spot on his right. A spoon stood near vertically from the thick dark gumbo in front of him and puffed breaths of steam with every stir.

"This looks great," Ethan said, giving Jack's shoulder a squeeze as he circled the table and took his seat. Jack scooped a plateful of cubed white meat and shellfish. The brick roux oozed to the lip of the plate and covered the mottled browns and beiges that mingled within it.

"There's still a good amount of meat on her." Jack said, passing the pot over. "Should last us a while."

"Or we just need more people to feed," Ethan suggested, helping himself to a serving. A charged silence hung in the air and Jack tipped his head with surprise and interest. "I found a blank tape upstairs," he continued with a sly smile. An anticipated tone honeyed his voice. "We could make something for the next ghost hunter or operative that comes by. Start it all over again."

"Now there's an idea." Jack smiled and pointed his knife for emphasis. "This house has been too empty for too long."

An eastern wind swept through the gaps and broken boards in the slatting. The house shuddered, too big for only two. The tremor spread through the extensive walls of the hallway and rattled the dogs' heads in their setting. A four legged molded pawed at the porch door, tapping the deadbolts against the frames. There was no need to change the systems where all was closed and locked. The puzzles remained in tact. Each one, still in its place.