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Implied sexual assault of a teen, death of an animaledited by Hal Y. Zhang
I toss the keys on the green Formica counter. I always aim for the same spot: that ugly, little brown ring—bubbled up and cracking—where Bill had once put the scalding, hot coffee pot. I like to cover it up, pretend it isn’t there.
“Hello?”
No one answers.
I set two bags of groceries on the kitchen table; two more remain in the car.
“Can I get a little help?”
Again, silence.
No talking, no water running. Not even the television. It was on when I left, Bill settling in for another Saturday afternoon James Bond marathon. Jamie holed up in her room, blasting some of her trashy pop music. Probably by one of those tarts with a single name.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
My heart starts to race, the familiar stillness disquieting.
Then a high-pitched ringing. A low tone, at first—like last time—as if it’s far away.
I walk into the living room afraid of what I’ll see, hoping I won’t see it.
But I do. A lifeless tableau before me, like the house has transformed itself into a scene from a museum.
How has this happened again?
Bill sits in his red, imitation La-Z-Boy, hands in his lap, both feet on the ground. His shirt is untucked, his belt unbuckled. Brow furrowed, mouth tight, he stares and stares and stares at the TV. He does not look at me, doesn’t say a word, makes no acknowledgment of my presence. But for the small rise and fall of his chest, he is frozen.
The television screen is frozen: that big, awful man with the silver teeth—what’s his name? Clamp? Jaws?—is frozen, horrifying mouth hovering near James Bond’s head.
I snap my fingers in front of Bill’s face, just to be sure. He doesn’t flinch.
The scent of sweat and musk permeates the room, the air warmer than usual. I thought Bill had taken a shower this morning. He must’ve forgotten his deodorant.
Why is there a glass of scotch on the end table? He told me he’d stopped doing that during the day.
The ringing becomes louder, steadier.
Aunt Ruth’s coffee table is askew. My favorite green blanket is on the floor.
Jamie lazes on the couch, body as still as her father’s. One leg on, one leg off; red marks along her arms and legs; both her shirt and skirt riding up, exposing way too much skin. That’s no way to sit in a skirt. She should know better. Maybe I need to monitor her music a little more closely.
“Jamie!”
She doesn’t even blink. Why is the couch cushion wet? Did she spill her water? She left her glass on Aunt Ruth’s table. Nothing underneath it, of course. My only physical connection to the woman who practically raised me, and my daughter is hell-bent on ruining it.
“How many times do I have to ask you to use a coaster?”
But my words are futile. Can she hear them over the ringing?
Can she hear the ringing?
I nudge the table back into place, lining the legs up with the little imprints in the carpet. I grab a coaster from the end table and put it under the glass. I fold the blanket, the one Bill and I used on our first date—a double-feature at the drive-in. Also Deuce’s old blanket.
***
When this happened before—last year—I found Bill hovering over the television, the image of a college football game fixed on the screen.
At least Jamie had been away at a sleepover. Even better because Deuce had died. He was an annoying little shit of a chihuahua, but we all loved him in our own way. Jamie especially. We got him for her tenth birthday.
When I came home from the grocery store, his small, unmoving body lay curled up at the bottom of the front steps in a pile of snow. I don’t know how long he’d been out there. He was a little escape artist and would sneak out when Bill left the garage door open, regardless of the weather. But the garage door wasn’t open that day, and all the other doors had been locked.
I ran inside, yelling about the dog, but I was met with silence, stillness. Like the house had taken a snapshot of the scene just before I entered. Then the ringing started. Bill was a granite sculpture of a man, trying to change the channel. I screamed his name, clapped by his ear, even tapped him a bit. But nothing. I thought about calling the police, the medics, but I didn’t want them to think I was losing my mind.
Jamie always blamed him. She’d never said it to his face—neither one of us was brave enough to do something like that.
But she’d always blamed him. I think he knew it, too.
The door to the small linen closet behind Bill’s chair had been left open again. Why is it so hard for people to close a door? When I slammed it shut, the ringing stopped. Bill came back to life, unaware of the lost time. I ran back outside to check on Deuce, but the spell had not worn off on him.
***
A big tear rolls down Jamie’s cheek.
“Jamie?” I tap her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
The horrible ringing fills my head, fills the room.
I open the door to the linen closet and shut it with a bang.
The ringing stops.
Replaced by grunting and yelling from the television.
“Where’d you come from?” Bill’s low, raspy voice.
More yelling. I mute the TV.
“It happened again. Like last year.”
A peculiar expression crosses his face.
Jamie wipes her cheek and storms off to her room, closing the door with a soft click.
“What’s the matter with her?” I say.
Bill shrugs, grabs the remote, and turns the volume back on.
© 2026 by Meghan Arcuri
975 words
Author’s Note: This story was inspired by “The Basement”, a photograph by Gregory Crewdson. In 2022, I attended the Colgate University Writers Conference. We had writing prompts every day, given to us by our instructor, John Gregory Brown. One day, we each received different Crewdson photos. I’d never seen his work before and was completely taken by it. Each photo was so arresting, so full of story. “The Basement” appealed to my speculative fiction mind, and because I write a lot of horror, I went a little dark.
Meghan Arcuri is a Bram Stoker Award®-nominated author. Her work can be found in various anthologies, including Borderlands 7 (Borderlands Press) and Chiral Mad 3 (Written Backwards). She served as the Vice President of the Horror Writers Association for over four years and is the recipient of the 2022 Richard Laymon President’s Award.
In 2023, she wrote her first children’s picture book, Milk the Cat (Yap Jr). Her second children’s book, Hobie the Bear (Lawley Publishing), comes out the summer of 2026.
Prior to writing, she taught high school math, having earned her B.A. from Colgate University—with a double major in mathematics and English—and her masters from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute.
She lives with her family in New York’s Hudson Valley. More about Meghan and her work can be found at meghanarcuri.com, or on Instagram (@meghanarcurimoran) and Facebook.
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