27 Apr Familiar Wounds

Part I

A single droplet of rain zigzagged across the crack in my windshield, tracing its way to the bottom.

“Daddy, why are we staying at Gigi’s?” Zoe asked from the backseat.

I adjusted the rearview mirror, offering her a halfhearted smile.

“Told you already, Zoe. We’re not staying. Gi just… needs our help more these days, that’s all.”

“Because she’s sick?”

I nodded and flicked my eyes back to the road, making the next turn.

“What about Uncle Micah? Doesn’t he live here?”

“He can’t be here twenty-four seven. He’s busy with work. We’ve been over this. What’s really bothering you?”

She picked at her fingernails.

“Zoe, you’ve got to stop doing that,” I chided gently.

“It’s just not fair. I miss my school. I miss my friends. I miss Mom.”

There were a lot of things I could have said. Things she wouldn’t understand yet.

How could I make her see that her mother didn’t want anything to do with either of us? Was it crueler to lie and let her believe her mom still loved her?

“I’m sorry,” I said instead. “You’re right. It’s going to be hard. But I promise it’ll be worth it.”

She kept pouting, and I focused on the drive.

“We’re almost there,” I told her.

“Good. I’m starving.”

The resilience of children, I thought, pulling into my old neighborhood. I wondered when I’d lost that tenacity for change. Maybe after too many times being forced to start over, it just… wears you numb.

Not much had changed. The two-story brick house still sat amid two foreclosed properties, stubborn and scrappy, like an ugly thicket that refused to be cleared.

A blue political sign leaned in the wind. I pulled up and honked the horn, wondering if Micah was even home like he said he would be.

Even though this place should have felt safe—my childhood home—an uneasiness clung to me.

Temporary, I reminded myself, as Zoe hopped out and slung her Hello Kitty backpack over her shoulder.

Across the street, a few white neighbors stopped what they were doing to stare at us.
Their expressions hadn’t changed much since I was a kid either—a mix of suspicion and judgment, sharper somehow when aimed at the only Black family left in the neighborhood.

“Come on, Zoe,” I said, waving her up the cracked path.

The front yard was worse than I remembered. Rust-stained drainpipes dangled from the roofline. A lopsided swing set sagged next to a trampoline whose frame looked one bounce away from collapse. Dead potted plants and a deflated basketball cluttered the porch like forgotten relics.

Shame prickled my neck. I hated how much this mess confirmed the neighbors’ worst assumptions about us.

I pressed the doorbell and ushered Zoe through the mosquito netting.

We waited. No answer.

I peeked through the tattered blinds, then knocked and called out, “Mom? It’s Ty! We’re here!”

The house seemed to sag in on itself, a stale, musty smell leaking through the screen door.

I remembered—vaguely—that my mother used to keep a spare key under one of the flowerpots.
Zoe helped me search, and after four pots, we found it, half-buried in damp dirt.

The door groaned as we pushed inside, the warmth of the house only slightly beating back the damp chill outside.

“Mom?” I called again, moving room to room.

When I found her, my gut twisted. She was half-slumped off the side of her bed, a scattering of pillows and the TV remote on the carpet nearby.

I dropped our bags and rushed to her side.

“Micah? That you?” she mumbled as I eased her back onto the bed.

“It’s Ty, Mom. Are you hurt? Where’s Micah?”

Recognition flickered weakly in her eyes, but confusion clouded them too. I spotted bruises on her shoulder and neck—not fresh, but angry-looking. She must have fallen hours ago.

Behind me, Zoe hovered in the doorway, her little face trying hard not to show fear.

“I’ll be right back,” I whispered to Mom, then crossed the room to Zoe.

“What’s wrong with Gigi?” she whispered.

“She’s going to be fine. Go get settled in your room, sweetie.”

Just then, a car pulled up behind my SUV.

Micah.

I stepped onto the porch to meet him, squaring my shoulders.

“I see you let yourself in,” he said dryly, slamming his car door.

“It’s a good thing I did!” I snapped. “Mom fell off the bed while you were gone. You told me someone would be here to watch her.”

Micah brushed past me without a word, heading inside to check on her himself.

Only once he was satisfied she was resting again did he speak.

“The last nurse quit this morning. Just walked out. Unlike you, I don’t have a lot of free time to chase down replacements.”

I crossed my arms, biting back the anger.

“Which room are Zoe and I staying in?”

He pointed toward the back, near the laundry room.

“Cleared it out the best I could. Mom’s got a hoarding problem now—can’t throw anything away without her flipping out.”

I nodded grimly. One look around told me he wasn’t exaggerating.

“This place won’t pass a city inspection,” I muttered without thinking.

Micah’s glare could have curdled milk.

“We’ll make it work,” he said coldly, “just like we always have.”

Over the next hour, I unpacked our things, took a much-needed shower, and got Zoe connected to the Wi-Fi.

When I emerged, I found Micah rifling through the fridge.

“Any dinner plans?” I asked.

“Whatever’s in here,” he said without looking up. “Unless you’re contributing something?”

When I didn’t answer, he chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

The little digs were starting to get under my skin.

“Look, I just got here,” I said. “Cut me some slack.”

Micah rounded on me, a scowl twisting his face.

“Cut you some slack? I’ve been here every damn day for six years while you were out living your life and knocking girls up.”

I noticed Zoe listening behind her door. I motioned for her to close it before stepping into the den with Micah.

“Fine. You wanna go there?” I said, my voice low. “Yeah, I made mistakes. At least I own them. Before Mom got sick, she used to call me, Micah—crying about you. Begging me to move back. I wish I had listened sooner.”

Mom’s walker clattered behind us. She appeared in the hallway, her frail voice cutting through the tension.

“If you boys don’t apologize right now,” she barked, “there will be hell to pay when your father gets home!”

Micah and I shared a glance—unease, frustration, and regret, all tangled together. We mumbled our apologies and helped Mom back to her recliner.

Micah fixed her a plate of leftovers while I sat nearby, feeling the bitterness drain from me, replaced by something heavier.

“This past year’s been a lot,” I said quietly. “I had no idea she was getting this bad.”

“Reverend Mana says we should think about finding her alternative housing,” Micah said, almost whispering. “But… I can’t do that to her. This is her home.”

I rested a hand on his shoulder, feeling the old brotherly bond, battered but not broken.

“We’ll make it work,” I said again, meaning it this time. “We always do.”

* * * * * *

That night, I lay beside Zoe, staring at the low ceiling, trying to force sleep to come. But when it did, it brought dreams I hadn’t asked for.

In the dream, I was small again—a boy chasing a shadow down an endless hallway. The figure ahead of me never turned, never slowed, always just out of reach. No voice, no face, only the gnawing certainty of abandonment.

I screamed after him, begged him to stop. If he came back, I thought foolishly, everything would be okay. But deep down, I knew better.

The shadow grew larger, until it loomed over me like a mountain. A boot, worn and cracked, lifted high above my tiny body.

The last thing I felt before waking was pure fear—not of pain, but of being forgotten.

I bolted upright, heart hammering, drenched in sweat.

For a moment, I was back there, crushed under that boot. I wiped my face and turned to check on Zoe, ready to apologize in case I’d woken her with my thrashing.

Her side of the mattress was empty.

I swung my legs over the side, house shoes scraping against the cold tile.
The door to the hallway stood slightly ajar.

“Zoe?” I whispered.

No answer.

The house felt different at night. Every pile of clutter twisted the shadows into grotesque shapes. The steady hum of the old refrigerator was the only sound.

I passed the den, where Micah snored softly, sprawled across the couch, the TV still flickering.

The kitchen was empty.

Frowning, I moved toward Mom’s room—and froze.

Her door was wide open, a yawning mouth of darkness.

I eased it open wider, stepping inside quietly to avoid waking her.

A soft noise came from behind me—a scurry and a creak.

I turned and saw one of Mom’s little rat terriers darting from the closet, dragging a shoe.

Curious, I approached the closet and tugged the string hanging overhead, flicking on the light.

I pushed the coats aside—and stopped cold. Behind them was a hole in the drywall, low and jagged, about the size of a child.

“Zoe? You better answer me!” I called, my voice low but urgent.

A faint sound—breathing?—answered from the other side.

Muttering, I kicked at the hole, widening it enough to crawl through. Behind me, Mom stirred in her sleep, and I froze.

When she settled, I crouched low and pushed into the hidey-hole.

The smell of damp earth immediately filled my nose, and claustrophobia hit me instantly. The crawlspace was barely wider than my shoulders.

I called for Zoe again, trying not to panic.

This was probably just an adventure to her. Some kind of “Dora the Explorer” fantasy. But all I could think about was rats, spiders, and God knew what else.

Suddenly, my foot caught on something—a nail sticking out of the floor—and I stumbled forward, crashing down a short flight of stairs.

I landed hard, coughing and gasping as murky water soaked through my clothes.

When I caught my breath and sat up, I realized something that made my skin crawl: This wasn’t just a crawlspace. It was an entire network of tunnels.

Narrow corridors branched off in every direction, disappearing into darkness.

The construction reminded me of the old pictures from history class—secret escape routes from the Underground Railroad. Except now, nothing moved down here but worms and mold.

I pressed a hand to the slimy wall and rose to my feet, calling out again.

“Zoe!”

A glimmer of light answered me—a flicker at the far end of a tunnel.

A moment later, Zoe came sprinting toward me, flashlight app open on her phone, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Daddy! I got lost! I couldn’t find the way back!”

I scooped Zoe up, heart bursting with relief.

“It’s okay, baby. Let’s get out of here.”

I used her phone to light our path, but the stairs I’d fallen down were nowhere to be found. Every way forward seemed alien and wrong.

I stumbled toward a new staircase, trying the walls. A hollow thud echoed when I struck one section.

“Stand back,” I told Zoe, kicking at the wall.

After a few hard strikes, the drywall caved in, and we tumbled into the laundry room—right next to our mattress.

The noise woke Micah, who stormed into the hallway, shotgun in hand.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

I pushed the washing machine in front of the hole, my hands shaking.

“Later,” I said hoarsely. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Zoe clung to me all night, trembling.

I didn’t sleep. I just lay there, staring at the washer, feeling certain—in a way I couldn’t explain—that something down there was staring back.

Part II

We didn’t talk about it the next morning.

Micah went to interview at-home nurses, and I had my own nightmare to handle: getting Zoe registered for school.

“I thought you said we weren’t staying,” Zoe pouted as we pulled up to the first elementary.

“I said we’re helping Gigi and Uncle Micah. You still need an education.”

“You mean get out of your hair,” she muttered. “Is this because I got lost? Am I being punished? Why can’t I just stay with Mom?”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

“Look,” I said, “Uncle Micah says the teachers here are really nice. Why don’t we go inside and take a look? If you hate it, we’ll figure something out.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“For real? You’d let me go back to my old school?”

“I didn’t say that. But we’ll figure it out.”

By the third school, each one worse than the last, I was ready to scream.

“All these schools suck,” Zoe said, arms folded tight across her chest.

“Zoe,” I said, trying to stay patient, “I can’t have you tagging along everywhere. If you don’t pick a school, your only other option is sitting at home staring at the walls with Gigi. Would you rather be homeschooled?”

“I’d rather be with my friends.”

She shoved her AirPods into her ears and slumped in her seat. I sighed and drove us back toward Chimera Avenue, the conversation dead in the water.

Back home, I shifted gears. If I couldn’t fix Zoe’s schooling right away, maybe I could figure out what the hell we’d stumbled into last night.

I called City Hall.

“Chimera Avenue, under Dolores Wallace,” I told the clerk after waiting on hold for twenty minutes.

“Doesn’t seem to be listed under that name,” she said. “You sure?”

I frowned.

“Try Micah Wallace?”

“Ah, here it is. Three-bedroom, two-bath property.”

“No mention of historical markers? Underground structures?”

“No, sir. Standard property. Would you like the paperwork to register a historic site?”

“No, thanks. One more thing. When was the property transferred into Micah’s name?”

“Looks like… 2021. Says the previous owner passed away, and Mr. Wallace filed the certificates.”

I blinked.

Passed away?

“Thank you,” I mumbled, hanging up.

I sat in the driveway, the pieces spinning in my head.

Micah had filed Mom’s death certificate? Why? What was he hiding?

Trying to shake the ugly thoughts loose, I went to the mailbox, retrieved everything from it, and herded Zoe and the dogs onto the porch.

Mom was outside watering her struggling plants, looking more lucid than she had the day before.

I bent to hug her.

“Hey, Gigi. You doing okay?”

She smiled brightly at me and called me by a name that sent ice through my chest.

“Derek! About time you got back. Did you know Tyrone’s home now? He’s married and has the most beautiful daughter. She has your eyes.”

Derek.

My father’s name.

I forced a smile, brushing it off like Micah probably did all the time.

Inside, I unloaded the groceries and tried to ask casually, “Hey, did you notice anything weird about your closet earlier?”

Mom’s face clouded instantly.

“We were just putting up some drywall,” I lied quickly. “Didn’t want you to be surprised.”

“Don’t go back down there,” she whispered, gripping my arm. “Please, Derek. Nothing good comes from those tunnels.”

My stomach knotted.

“Have you seen them before, Mom?”

Her hands trembled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I promised her I wouldn’t go back.

But deep down, I knew I would.

* * * * * *

After lunch, one of the terriers went missing.

I found muddy pawprints leading straight to the closet.

“Stay upstairs,” I told Zoe, grabbing a better flashlight from the garage.

I pushed through the coats and slipped into the crawlspace again, trying to ignore the tightening claustrophobia.

The air down here smelled worse than before—damp and rotted, and thick with something organic. When I reached the main tunnels, I marked the wall with a Sharpie so I wouldn’t get lost.

I turned right, following fresher footprints. To my surprise and dismay, the corridor widened into a larger chamber.

Somewhere deeper in the tunnels, I heard the faint bark of the terrier.

Heart pounding, I followed the sound, deeper into the warren. That’s when I first glimpsed it—

A figure darting out of sight at the end of a corridor.

Not an animal.

A man.

Naked and gray-skinned, and hulking, hunched like a giant mole rat.

I shouted, flashlight beam swinging wildly, but the figure vanished into the shadows.

The little dog raced back to me, tail wagging furiously.

I scooped him up, glancing around.

I saw bedding, discarded animal bones, and countless piles of filth and waste.

Someone, or something, had been living down here for a long time.

Gripping the dog tighter, I made my way back toward the house.

I didn’t know who or what we had just disturbed, but I knew one thing for sure.

It wasn’t gone.

And it wasn’t finished.

Part III

When I climbed back up with the dog in my arms, the house felt wrong—colder somehow.

I was barely through the door when Micah stormed in, shotgun slung across his back.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he barked.

“I found someone—something—living under the house.”

Micah’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t call the cops, did you?”

I hesitated. “I was about to. Do you realize how dangerous this is?”

Micah lunged, snatching the phone from my hand and hanging it up. “You can’t bring the cops here! If they see the state of this house, they’ll condemn it! They’ll put Mom in a home!”

I stepped closer, voice low but seething. “There’s a naked freak living under our floorboards, Micah! I’m not risking my daughter’s safety because you’re scared of paperwork!”

Micah’s face darkened. “You think I don’t care about her? About Mom? I’ve been here every the whole time you were out there screwing up your life!”

“You’re pocketing her checks, aren’t you?” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “City Hall says Mom’s legally dead.”

Micah shoved me hard enough that I staggered. “Shut your mouth, Tyrone, before I shut it for you!” he hissed.

Before either of us could throw a punch, Zoe burst into the room, tears brimming in her eyes.

“Stop it!” she cried.

Micah and I froze, guilt crashing over us in heavy waves. He turned away, breathing heavily.

I knelt beside Zoe, whispering, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”

Micah stalked out without another word. I stayed kneeling there when he came back minutes later, panic written across his face.

“I can’t find Mom.”

My gut twisted. The tunnels.

We sprinted to her bedroom. The closet door stood open, coats strewn on the floor.

“Zoe,” I said urgently, “go to the neighbor’s house. Stay there until I come for you.”

She nodded, scared but understanding.

Micah and I squeezed into the crawlspace, the walls seeming tighter than ever.

“Mom!” Micah called, voice echoing.

We moved quickly, tracing the faint wet footprints smeared across the floor, down the stairs, and into the larger tunnels.

Ahead, in the dim light of my flashlight, we saw her. Mom crouched over something huddled on the ground.

The feral man.

He didn’t look human up close—his skin patchy and raw, his hairless scalp gleaming, his body wasted and twitching.

Mom was whispering to him, tears streaming down her face.

“Derek,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave.”

Micah shouted, rushing forward.

The feral man snarled and lunged. They collided hard, Micah slamming him into the dirt.

The creature fought like a cornered animal, clawing and biting. I grabbed Mom, frantically dragging her backward toward the exit.

Micah shouted in pain, a horrible crack of bone echoing down the tunnels. I turned back just in time to see the feral man slam Micah against the wall with inhuman strength.

Micah crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his mouth.

“Hang on!” I screamed, trying to reach him. But the creature shrieked, blocking the way—and I realized if I stayed, we’d both die down here.

I half-carried, half-dragged Mom back toward the house.

Behind us, the tunnels twisted, growing narrower and darker, as if trying to swallow us whole.

Hours later, my world was unrecognizable.

The neighbor had called 911. The police had come. Paramedics had carried Micah out on a stretcher, his face pale and broken. Somehow, miraculously, he survived.

In the chaos, authorities discovered the true state of the house—and the secret Micah had been hiding.

They charged him with elder abuse, and me with neglect.

* * * * * *

I sit now in the sterile waiting room, watching Micah struggle for breath through a tangle of tubes and machines. Zoe sits beside me, head resting on my shoulder, too exhausted to cry anymore.

I had come back thinking I could fix things and make them right. Instead, I had only exposed the rot beneath the surface. I had pulled it into the light—and it had devoured us.

Mom is gone now, placed into state care. The house is condemned.

Our family—what’s left of it—is shattered beyond repair.

I squeeze Zoe’s hand, whispering promises I’m not sure I can keep.

We’ll leave, and we’ll find somewhere safe. We’ll try again. But deep inside, I still feel the tunnels reaching for us. Still whispering.

The hospital lights flicker briefly, and Zoe sits up, wide-eyed.

“Did you hear that, Daddy?” she whispers.

I strain my ears, and hear faint scratching—so soft it could have been our imaginations—coming from the far corner of the room.

Or maybe from something roaming freely in the shadows, somewhere much deeper, much farther below.