The Grievance

Steve guns his Beetle down Route 21, speeding past crops of grain and tall grass. He drives until he runs out of pavement and sees a ‘For Rent’ sign pointing to the driveway. Making a sharp right, he finds himself on a long dirt road set in a field of long grass. It feels like he travels at least a half a mile before he even sees the house.

Several yards later, he climbs out, never taking his eyes off of it. The house looks a lot like it did on Zillow, but not quite.

It’s freshly painted but even with the sun hanging low just over its roof, the windows carry a dark stillness that belies the picturesque brightness he saw in the photos. And there’s a lot more foliage covering it, which makes it look like an abandoned home overrun by the forest. It’s still a nice place. Too nice to be sitting empty for over a month.

There’s always a catch

Steve’s mother’s voice, concerned and fond, often echoes in his head. The ache it conjures up now is a familiar old thing, like worsening arthritis in the rain.

Catch or not, Steve is determined to stop freeloading and move off of Sam and Wanda’s couch.

Steve slows his steps as he assesses the place. A white Victorian cottage with black shutters, the rectangular black spaces look more like the house’s eyes than windows. He frowns and stops, surveying the entire property. This side of the tracks is pretty rural, and the next house has to be at least a mile or two away. It’s pretty isolated. Still, Steve can’t shake the feeling that someone is already in the house, and whoever it is, they’re watching him.

Maybe it’s the real estate agent. Steve checks his watch. He’s ten minutes early and there’s no car other than his here.

Steve steps forward, eyes focused on the side of the house when he hears the rumble of an engine approaching. He turns his head sharply to see a black mini sedan kicking up dust as it heads his way.

The hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up. It’s the same sort of foreboding he used to get before a bully jumped out from behind a corner. Steve whips his head back to look at the house like it really could attack him. The windows are just black, no shadows, and suddenly he feels silly.

“Dumbass,” he chides himself.

A very cute blonde woman emerges from the car. Her smile is rather tight but she seems dedicated to it, so Steve offers one back.

“You Steve Rogers?” she asks, her hand already extended. Steve gives it a firm shake.

“Yep, and you’re Sharon Carter, right?”

“That’s me,” she says, her smile more genuine now. “Sorry I’m a little late, was held up by a phone call from another interested renter. This place has a lot of people watching it.”

Steve wrinkles his nose because he smells bullshit. But he reminds himself that it’s her job to make the sale. He can’t really hold that against her.

“Come on, I’ll show you around,” she says in a rush like she’s in a hurry.

It’s amazing how fast she moves in those heels. Steve’s a little out of breath, trying to keep up, but he’ll never let her think he can’t, so he quickens his steps and tries to breathe deeply to stave off an asthma attack.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about that….Zillow says it’s been available for rent for about a month? For the price, that’s pretty surprising. Doesn’t exactly scream popular to me,” Steve says with a raised eyebrow.

Sharon doesn’t turn around or respond, but her back stiffens as she reaches the front door. She puts the key in the lock and jiggles it a little. The door opens without a sound.

Steve tries to peer past her, but it’s very dark in there. Finally, she turns to look him in the eye.

“Alright, you got me.” Her eyes are sharp. “I’ll level with you. I’m having trouble renting this place. I didn’t completely lie though, people do show interest… at first.”

Steve eyes narrow. “And then what?”

Sharon visibly swallows and then sighs, sounding very tired. “Listen, do me a favor, okay? Let me give you a walkthrough, and then full disclosure about everything. I promise.”

Steve pulls back, looking at the exhaustion lined around Sharon’s eyes and the way her hair is trying to fly away and sympathy holds his tongue. He gives her a simple nod, and the relief in her expression is a little pitiful.

As soon as they step inside, Steve coughs. The long foyer is cloaked in the stale smell of disuse. When Sharon turns on the light, Steve is surprised at the length of it, and the deep dark walnut color of the hardwood floor.

He follows her through the living room, and into the dining room. It’s all furnished, nicely. The kind of quality stuff you can’t get at IKEA. The walls are white, and the carpet is neutral beige throughout. There’s no artwork, but Steve is already picturing what pieces he will mount and where.

Sharon moves quickly towards the large kitchen, and if Steve were a more paranoid man, he’d say she was running. The kitchen leads out back to a modest deck and before Steve can ask about lawn maintenance, Sharon is walking back towards the foyer. They pass a locked door with a heavy-duty padlock on it. Steve makes a mental note to ask about it later as they take to the stairs. At the top, there are two bedrooms and Steve mentally claims the one with the bathroom attached.

As they descend the stairs again, Sharon claps her hands. “So, what do you think?”

Steve looks around again, and his eyes catch on the locked door.

“Basement?”

Sharon sighs. “Eh, more like a cellar. It’s unfinished, though, and not really up to code, if I’m being honest. There’s nothing down there you’ll need. The main fuse box is in the utility closet next to the kitchen.”

“Right,” Steve says slowly, studying her blue eyes for dishonesty. He’s pretty intuitive when it comes to sizing up character, and Sharon isn’t easy to read, which makes Steve uncomfortable.

“You said there’d be full disclosure after the tour,” he says, a demand lacing his words.

The way Sharon’s eyes slide past Steve makes her look like she’s crafting a way to bend the truth - or actually looking at something behind him.

Steve has the sudden urge to look behind him, but that would look very silly, so he doesn’t. It doesn’t stop him from squaring his shoulders.

Sharon sighs in resignation. “Well, I guess you could say this place is good at attracting people, but not so good at keeping them. There’s some history, a few deaths. Murders,” she clarifies when Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Long, long time ago,” she waves her hand dismissively. “And then more recently a few heart attacks. You know, people with bad health. All random, and pure coincidence of course! But the locals insist it’s haunted, which gives any irresponsible jerk who wants to break lease an excuse to vacate without notice. The last assholes left in the middle of the night and didn't even take all their stuff! I mean, who does that?”

She shakes her head, exasperation on her face. “Listen, I really would like to see this house occupied. It’s just sitting here, and frankly, I need better numbers this quarter.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I might be interested, but I want the rent lowered.”

*

A new sense of freedom and hope clings to Steve like a lovesick passenger as he speeds back to Sam’s place. With the windows all the way down and the radio station cranked up, Steve basks in the wind slapping his face, making his eyes tear up.

He has his own place, a real house. No shared walls, no neighbors downstairs to worry about disturbing. And if he keeps his agreement with Sharon not to just run off, his rent will be $100 less than what he was paying before he got evicted. It’s like the universe finally noticed its neglected child and is trying to make up.

Steve leans into the steering wheel and looks up to the sky. ‘Thanks, Ma.”

Because there’s no way the universe did this on its own. It’s always hated him, given him a raw deal. Since his mother passed away from cancer four years ago, Steve’s convinced his Ma has been up there, fighting God, Allah, Buddha, or whoever to finally give him a break. Today, it looks like she finally won a round.

By the time he reaches Sam and Wanda’s apartment, the sun is slowly retiring and twilight has given the sky a striking purple veil that makes him pause to take it all in.

He strides through the door with a satisfied grin, walking right past Wanda and Sam who are in the kitchen collaborating on some dish, the way they always do.

Steve picks up his duffel bag from where it sits beside the couch and goes to collect his toiletries from the bathroom.

“I was gonna ask how it went, but I guess there’s my answer,” Sam calls.

“So everything checked out?” Wanda calls.

“Yep!” Steve shouts back.

“And it’s not too good to be true?” Sam asks.

“Nope!” Steve says, coming back down the hall. “Just a bunch of local superstitions about ghosts and shit.”

Sam chuckles. “They shouldn’t have even told you that. Probably only made you want it more.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not that stubborn.”

The ‘are you fucking kidding me’ stare of Sam's is too much, and Steve gives up on trying to protest.

“Alright, alright, it sorta sold the place for me. But Sam, haunted rep aside, this place is huge, mostly furnished, and the rent is cheaper than my last apartment.”

Sam hums. “My mama always said if it’s too good to be true…”

“Then it is,” Steve finishes. “Yeah yeah, my ma said the same thing. Don’t worry, I’ll be on the lookout for any funny stuff. Plus, the leasing contract is pretty loose. The real estate agent just wanted to put a warm body in it."

“I bet,” Sam mutters.

“Stop, seriously.”

Sam snorts and returns to his cooking, but Wanda stops cutting vegetables to look at him. Her eyes reflect concern, and Steve really doesn’t want to hear what’s coming next.

“Steve, I know you’re not a believer, but…”

“Wanda, please, don’t,” Steve says firmly. “I really need this place. And you’re right, I don’t believe in supernatural stuff. I appreciate your concern, but please drop it.”

The look of disappointment on her face makes Steve feel terribly guilty about shutting down the conversation. There’s an awkward lull until Sam swoops in and plants a big kiss on Wanda’s cheek.

“What’s the hold up with those vegetables, woman? You’re gonna throw my masterpiece off. Timing is everything”

Wanda scoffs and swats him away, smiling. Steve throws Sam a grateful smile for the save.

They make small talk about the day and plans for tomorrow. Steve leans against the wall, watching how Sam and Wanda move gracefully around each other, adding things to the pan and cleaning up after the other’s mess like a coordinated dance. It makes Steve a little fond and jealous.

“You moving tonight?” Sam asks, plating the meal on the dishes Wanda presents to him.

Steve smiles and dumps his now fully packed duffel bag down the floor. “Yep, after dinner, of course.”

Wanda and Sam laugh. “Of course.”

*

The ride back feels longer than before, perhaps because on rural roads, there’s little light. It’s pitch black save for the bright high beams of Steve’s car on the black pavement. Fields of grain fly by, but in the dark, it all looks like overgrown grass, and Steve recalls a black and white photograph of a neglected estate he once saw at an art exhibit. This side of town certainly feels abandoned, now more than it did earlier. Steve nearly misses the turn for his new home, but he cuts a right just in time, sending up a dirt cloud that invades his car and aggravates his lungs.

The sight of a single light in the far right window has his heart speeding up. The heavy feeling of being watched returns. Steve turns off the ignition and stares up at that window for a long time, half expecting the appearance of a silhouette.

Finally, he shakes his head and forces himself to turn to rationality. Sharon probably left the light on, maybe she even flipped it on during the tour. Steve doesn’t really recall; he was so enamored with the layout, he wasn’t really paying attention to her every move.

He grabs his duffel back from the passenger seat, heaves it onto his shoulder and then reaches in the back for the air mattress Sam and Wanda let him borrow. It takes him a solid minute to fish out his keys, find the new one, and turn the lock on the door. But once he does, the door creaks open loudly.

Steve distinctly remembers it didn’t creak before when Sharon opened it.

But she was trying to make a sale. And she did.

Steve smiles. He’s home.

*

He takes to the stairs immediately, because there’s nothing downstairs he needs or wants. He drops his duffel down on the carpet of the largest bedroom, the one with the bathroom.

There’s no TV, but Steve isn’t really a big TV watcher anyway. He’s used to using Sam’s laptop to watch things, but now he has nothing. Still, it is a bit too quiet out here for his tastes. He hooks up his iPod to the speaker to break the silence as he gets settled in his new bedroom.

There are hangers in the closet. Steve chuckles and runs his hand down the line of them. He doesn’t even have enough clothing to use for them. But that’s a nice problem. He hangs up the few things that deserve a hanger and goes to switch off the light when he sees a crack in the closet floor.

He leans over to inspect and realizes the floor wasn't cracked, it was cut, and that cut goes straight down to meet another. Even in the light of the closet, it’s hard to see where the lines lead, so he retrieves his phone from his pocket and shines its flashlight down at it.

The lines meet up at four sharp corners, that when taken all together look an awful lot like a hidden door. A flare of excitement has Steve crouching down.

Tracing his fingers along the lines, Steve looks for a way to open it, but there’s no latch. The lines aren’t wide enough to allow his fingers in between. He frowns, too tired to fool with it right now. He still has to blow up the air mattress. He huffs and turns to retrieve the pump for filling it.

There’s no free wifi here, and Steve not going to use up his data just to play tunes. So he sings to himself to pass the time while the air pump fills the mattress.

The pump must be cheap or defective because it takes forever. Steve knows this because he’s on his fifth song and the mattress is still only half-full.

He rolls his eyes and groans up at the ceiling. As he lowers his head, his eyes catch on a shadow by the door of the room across the hall. Steve freezes and stares. The shadow is still there, small and black. When it blinks, revealing feline grey eyes, Steve gasps.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmurs, rising slowly. With slow, careful steps he moves towards the door, his lips quirking. He’s always loved animals, and even with all of his allergies, he’s drawn to cute, furry things. Besides, he has his inhaler and a new prescription of antihistamines.

He crouches a little and offers the small cat a smile. It blinks and then yawns.

Steve frowns because its mouth is stretching and stretching, too wide even for a cat. The urge to cringe and step back is strong, but before Steve can do anything, the cat just vanishes.

Steve tries not to blink as he stands rooted in place, staring at the black void of the bedroom across the hallway. Perhaps the cat ran back into the room. It is dark, and the cat is black.

It makes sense, but it really doesn’t because Steve hadn’t blinked or seen the cat retreat. A rush of frustration and determination to get to the bottom of it pulls him across the hall, turning on the lights to the room as he enters. He searches around the furniture and behind the door. No cat.

“Fine then, no food for you. I was gonna feed ya,” he says loudly, turning back to see how his air mattress is filling out.

In the end, Steve doesn’t have the patience to wait for it to fill completely. It’s full enough. Actually, this air mattress is huge, much bigger than Steve’s last bed. The only problem is the way it pops when he sinks into it or when he gets up. It feels and sounds like someone else is climbing into bed with him or getting up after him. Both are rather unsettling. In the quiet of the house, the pop is even more pronounced, so Steve doesn’t move around a lot once he settles into it.

*

Steve wakes up to the chirping of his phone alarm.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, massaging his neck. There’s a crick in it, courtesy of sleeping on a half-full air mattress.

He grunts and rolls out of bed, and heads for the bathroom. Steve resists the urge to look behind him as the unnerving pop, pop, pop of the air mattress follows him across the room as it readjusts to the absence of his body. He scrubs a lazy hand over his eyes to wipe the crust away while he turns on the bathroom light with the other.

A shadow, or something, flutters across the oval bathroom mirror that hangs over the sink. Steve blinks and walks towards the mirror slowly, his pulse picking up. He stops at the sink and stares at the door and blue-tiled wall behind him, before focusing on his reflection. The only shadows here are the ones beneath his eyes. He could use a couple more hours of sleep.

The shower is cold, even after five minutes of running the water, and Steve just gives up on it and jumps in with clattering teeth. It’s not the smartest move with his immune system, but he has studio time scheduled today and an art project due by the end of the week.

By the time he finishes getting dressed, he’s starving. But there’s no food in the house.

As he walks downstairs to head out, his mind is occupied with making calculations, weighing how much he can get with $20. Eggs, bread, milk, some pasta and cheap tomato sauce - he can make it work. How to do more with less was one of the best lessons his Ma imparted on him.

The sound of a young girl giggling stops him halfway down the stairs. Steve grips the banister and slowly leans to peer over the foyer where the sound came from.

He’s not really breathing, he realizes, and he tells himself to calm down, that his mind is playing tricks on him. Hunger tends to do that to people.

Steve is pulling back when he hears the giggling again, this time louder and much longer.

“Hello?” he calls, a bit angrier than is called for. It’s obviously just a kid. She sounds rather young too. Maybe she thought the house was abandoned. It had been, until last night.

“It’s okay,” he says loudly, walking down and rounding the corner of the staircase where the sounds came from. “You can come out. My name is Steve.”

He stands in the foyer for a moment, listening.

It’s incredibly quiet. Unnaturally so. Steve realizes that his house is in the middle of the woods and he has yet to hear one bird or any type of wildlife.

“Good walls,” he murmurs, staring at the padlocked door to the cellar.

He bites his lip, wondering what Sharon would do if he broke that lock and took a look around. Locks are replaceable.

Something brushes against his leg and Steve yelps, jumping back.

It’s the black cat from the night before, and it’s just sitting there, staring up at him, with its weird pale grey eyes.

“There are you are, you little shit. I was looking for you,” he says, crouching down. He holds out his hand slowly, giving the kitten fair notice.

It hisses and Steve pulls his hand back.

“Alright then, be like that,” Steve mutters, standing up.

Another giggle draws his eyes up, towards the kitchen. Steve gasps. Standing with her pale face pressed to the window is a little girl with long dark hair styled in two thick ponytails. She’s got black eyes and a cute little smile. But something is off about her.

“Hey,” Steve says in his friendliest voice.

The little girl’s smile dims and she turns and runs.

Steve doesn’t even think about it; he runs to the kitchen, past the island, to the patio doors that lead to the deck. He pulls them open and runs out.

It’s cold, too cold to be outside without a jacket, especially for Steve. But his curiosity and irritation compel him to search the sides of the house and under the deck, looking for any trace of the little girl. She couldn’t have gotten far. His house is out in the sticks. Unless she’s from some house nearby he’s not aware of.

That must be it.

Steve makes another mental note to get acquainted with his neighbors. Wherever they are and warn them their kid is running unsupervised on his property.

It’s best to nip this problem in the bud before it leads to trouble.

*

Steve is half an hour early, and the art studio is still locked, so he decides to get on the computer to do a little research.

He Googles his address to see what comes up. A lot of listings, both new and old on various real estate sites. He’s about to give up when he gets to page three and sees his address listed under a Haunted New York Tour site.

Scrolling down, he pauses at the picture of his home. It’s a pretty current picture, which brings him no comfort. Does that mean people drop in to take pictures? Will some kooky ghosthunter ring his bell asking him for a tour?

He huffs, and leans in to read the description.

Built in 1892, this Victorian cottage has earned quite a reputation. In 1945, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes purchased the property. Less than six months later, he died violently inside under mysterious circumstances.

Steve raises his eyebrows and tries to resist the urge to cringe. He doesn’t believe in ghosts, or that places and things can have bad energy, but the thought of a violent death occurring in his home is very unpleasant.

Many say it was related to Barnes’ alleged war crimes. The exact accusations remain a mystery, but what is clear is that Sergeant Barnes still roams the property.

Steve huffs out a chuckle. It’s just the sort of drivel written to entice gullible superstitious types. Still, Steve has always held a fascination for the military, since his various ailments prevented him from serving. So this WWII veteran Sergeant Barnes and his alleged war crimes are rather interesting, and really, Steve wants to know how this guy died.

He amends his search to “Sergeant James Barnes” and “war crimes” and “Alfred, NY”. The results are much better, and he begins to piece the history of Sergeant Barnes, and his house, together.

Originally from Indiana, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes served in the 107th infantry. During Barnes’ service, tragedy struck, and his parents George and Winifred were killed in an automobile accident. Shortly after, Barnes claimed he was honorably discharged, and returned to the U.S. to care for his 12-year-old sister, Rebecca Barnes. In the summer of 1945, both Barnes and his sister moved into a cottage located in Alfred, NY.

A instant punch of empathy hits Steve as he remembers how much it messed him up to learn of his Ma’s passing while he was away, doing his undergraduate degree. He reads the paragraph again and suddenly feels a strange kinship to James Barnes.

Barnes was described as a very quiet and handsome man with a possible injury to one or both of his arms. He was said to be polite and helpful, volunteering his time to those in need around town.

Steve stops reading. The man served his country, suffered a tragedy, and came back to do right by his sister and others. By all accounts, Barnes was a decent guy.

Suddenly, Steve needs to see the guy's face. He momentarily ignores the rest of the text to find a picture.

When Steve finds it, his eyes pop and he leans in to study a black and white photograph of a beautiful man in an Army uniform, hat included. Steve bites his bottom lip and then feels his cheeks flush. He’s totally crushing on a dated picture of a dead man. Weird. He can already hear the jokes Sam would make about this, and yeah, maybe he is a little lonely because he’s still staring.

He shakes his head and finds another website. This one has all of the sensational headlines positioned together like a morbid digital scrapbook.

Military Police Arrive in Alfred to Arrest Local Vet

Sgt. Barnes Accused of War Crimes, Including Multiple Murders

Sgt. James Barnes Placed Under House Arrest with Supervision, Local Sheriff Says Its Out of His Hands

Steve frowns. That doesn’t sound right. Steve’s been studying World War II history since he was a child, and he knows that Nazi war criminals are always extradited to a federal prison. No one gets house arrest, especially supervised by military police.

Barnes’ Younger Sister, Rebecca, Goes Missing

As Steve reads on, he finds speculation that the girl ran away, but there were more sinister insinuations that perhaps Barnes had killed her.

Steve gulps. “So maybe not such a nice guy.”

Local Sheriff Makes Grim Discovery at Barnes Residence

Steve covers his mouth with one hand and leans in closer until his nose is practically touching the monitor. He’s not quite sure why he’s so invested in James Barnes’ story, but there’s a strange knot in his stomach.

Six Found Dead at Barnes Residence, No Motive or Suspects Yet

Coroner Says Sgt. Barnes’ Body Shows Signs of Torture

Other Bodies Damaged Beyond Recognition, Coroner Requests Dental Records for Identification

Ten Years Later, Another Death at Barnes’ Residence

Barnes’ House Cursed, Third Renter Death in Five Years

“All heart attacks,” Steve murmurs.

“Hey!”

Steve literally jumps back, an embarrassing noise escaping him.

It’s the custodian, Larry, who always unlocks the art studio for him. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.” He’s looking at Steve with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

Steve quickly closes out the browser and then winces when he realizes what this must look like. The last thing he needs is Larry thinking he uses school equipment for porn.

“Uh, thanks. Sorry, I was doing some research,” he explains.

Larry looks unconvinced, but he nods anyway. “It's all ready for you.”

“Thanks, Larry,” Steve says, gathering his bookbag and sketchpad.

*

When the opportunity to paint freely presents itself, time is of no consequence to Steve. Business at the tattoo shop is slow, and the boss knows he has a project due soon, so he has the next few days off. A few people come through the studio to work on their own projects, but Steve stays in his corner, vacillating between pacing and painting, his canvas a strange explosion of black, grey, and red.

He’s not really sure where he’s going with this one; it’s nothing like the sketches he’s mapped out carefully, but he feels inspired, really driven to paint, his emotions leading the way.

It isn’t until Carmen, the evening custodian, comes by that he realizes the image looks a lot like a Rorschach test. Abstractly, he thinks it could be viewed as chaos, a mixture of mania and rage. But Steve knows better: through the mess of stripes and smudges, he can see the fine jawline of Sergeant Barnes and those piercing eyes he’s memorized from the picture.

“Staying late again, Steve?”

Steve pulls his eyes away from the canvas. “Evening, Carmen. Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “Lost track of time. I’ll get out of your hair,” he says with an embarrassed smile, crossing quickly to the sink to clean his brushes.

“That’s okay,” Carmen says kindly, pushing the trash cart just beyond the door. “You take your time. I’ll be back around in about an hour to lock up.”

“Thank you,” Steve says.

By the time Steve finishes cleaning up, the sun has gone down and all of the hustle and bustle of the day has died. As he walks out of the studio and enters the long corridor leading to the exit, the silence slaps him hard. Steve stiffens, hyper-alert, and self-conscious, but not sure why.

The hallway goes on forever, and Steve picks up his steps, walking like a man late for an appointment, even though the only thing waiting for him is a TV dinner. His breathing grows labored, but he refuses to slow down because the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.

Someone is behind him.

Swallowing, he forces himself to turn his head and look.

Way down at the opposite end of the hallway is a dark shadow. It has the figure of a fit man with muscled arms, but from what Steve can see, the figure’s face is obscured by a curtain of loose wavy black hair, and the outline of the figure is not solid like it should be. It’s literally a shadow.

The man? stalks forward and the overhead ceiling light he passes under shuts off like the bulb just burnt out. Steve gulps and picks up his pace, clutching his sketchpad like a shield as he backsteps his way to the exit.

“Hello?” he calls, dreading the reply.

He probably should just run, but Steve can’t seem to turn his back on this thing or peel his eyes away.

“What do you want? Huh? Who the fuck are you?!” he shouts, his voice echoing loudly down the hallway.

The ceiling lights darken, one by one.

Those are security lights, he realizes. In the two years, Steve’s been in grad school, the art wing has always been lit, even late at night.

Stubborn will wars with fear. Steve has never been one to back down from a fight, but his Ma also didn’t raise no fool. That shadow is not human, at least not anymore, and Steve’s not sticking around to find out what exactly it is.

So he runs.

Making it outside is only half the battle, though. Once Steve breaks through the exit, his feet sliding across rocky gravel, the security light by the door flickers.

Steve runs even harder, his lungs struggling.

He’s going to pay for this dearly, but he’d rather have an asthma attack in the car on the way to somewhere safe than stand still waiting for that thing to catch up to him.

As he passes empty parking spots, the long-stemmed parking lot lights begin to turn off.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, reaching around his backpack to feel for the zipper to the small pouch where he keeps his keys.

His Beetle is too old to have one of those fancy automatic unlocking systems that act both as a homing beacon and alarm. But it stands out in the empty parking lot, and thank God because Steve’s legs are feeling wobbly.

He chances a glance behind him and sees a sea of darkness. His car is only a few feet away, and he sprints the last bit to get to it, cursing his shaky hands and telling himself to keep it steady.

When he finally gets the key in the door, the only light left in the parking lot, the one next to his car, goes completely dark.

Steve scrambles to get the door open and climbs in, slams the door, and locks it. Breathing is hard. His eyes are tearing up from the effort, and all he can hear is the loud wheezing of his lungs trying to work.

He starts the car, taking labored breaths as he tries to calm down.

The parking lot is completely dark now, and Steve turns on his high beams to cut through it and reassure himself he’s safe inside the car. It’s not very comforting at all, so he decides that pulling off right away would be best. There are no cars parked behind or beside him, so when he glances up at the rearview mirror, it’s more out of habit than anything.

Under a curtain of dark, wavy hair, two black eyes meet his in the rearview.

Steve screams.

It doesn’t seem to faze the very pale and dead-looking man sitting in his backseat. Their eyes remain locked as the man opens his mouth, wider and wider, like the cat the night before.

Steve’s scream dies in his throat as a long, dry croaking sound spills from the dead man’s mouth.

For just one moment, Steve stares at the man, transfixed by his wide black stare and impossibly wide mouth, and then instinct kicks in and he’s grabbing at his door.

The knock on his driver’s side window startles another scream out of him. It’s Carmen, and she looks just as frightened as he is.

Steve opens the door and she jumps back, her hands drawn close to her chest. When Steve looks back into his car, he only sees balled paper bags from his home-packed lunches. The dead man is gone.

“Are you alright, Steve? I came out to check on you. I saw you running, and then I heard you scream.”

“Did you also see the way the lights shut down? I thought ---”

Carmen’s brow furrows. “You thought, what?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“I think it was one of those rolling blackouts. Happens sometimes. The lights are back on now, see?”

Steve looks past her. The art wing is bright and lit up just like the parking lot now. He nods, unable to really speak now.

“Probably just need some sleep. You look tired,” she says in a tone that reminds Steve of his Ma a little too much.

Suddenly he feels much more tired and really just wants to get out of here.

“Thanks, Carmen.”

He watches as she turns and walks back towards the art wing.

It takes him several minutes before he’s ready to get back into his car, and when he gets back inside, he keeps all of the lights inside on, no matter how ridiculous it looks.

*

He doesn’t go straight home. It’s not like he’s scared of his place, but he’s just not quite ready to go back right now.

Sam and Wanda’s couch is the most comfortable couch Steve’s ever experienced. He sinks into it and exhales over the hot cup of tea Wanda fixed him.

He takes a sip, and then another, trying not to think about those black eyes, or the dead man that stalked him all the way back to his car just an hour ago.

But Sam and Wanda are watching him closely; he can feel their eyes on him.

Finally, he looks at them. They’re sitting beside each other on the right side of him.

“You saw something,” Wanda says with cold certainty, her eyes probing. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Sam shoots a nervous glance between his girlfriend and Steve.

With a firm shake of his head, Steve tries to deny it. It’s his last grab at keeping this conversation in sane and safe territory. But the concerned looks on his friends’ faces tell him that they’re about to take a sharp detour from sanity. Hell, perhaps Steve took that detour an hour ago.

“Steve,” Sam leans in to place a hand on Steve’s thigh, which continues to bounce like he’s keeping time to a dance song. “Look, man, we’ve known you for two years. You don’t do drop-ins. You’re not the kind of guy who just shows up at someone’s house and doesn’t say anything. Something’s got you spooked.”

Steve swallows, pulling his eyes from his tea to look at both of them. “I saw…something.”

Sam nods. “Okay. At your house?”

“Yeah?” Steve says, frowning. “And, and the art studio.”

Sam pulls back a little and looks to Wanda, who’s gone very still.

“What did you see, exactly?” she says abruptly.

So he tells them. As crazy as it sounds and as impossible as it is to believe, Steve just unloads on them. What Sharon told him about the house, what he found on the internet about the house and James Barnes, the way he died, the deaths since, the shadow in the mirror, the cat, the little girl, the shadow in the hallway, the lights, and the man in the car.

“Strigoi,” Wanda murmurs.

“Huh?”

“In my country, angry spirits that haunt the living are known as Strigoi. The Japanese call it Onryō.”

“Why the fuck is it following me? I didn’t do anything to it,” Steve spits angrily, trying to ignore the way his voice is shaking.

“He doesn’t know that. When a person dies unjustly, violently, they cling to the things that were theirs as they search for vengeance. You’re in his home, and since he died there, he may mistake you for one of the people who killed him, and from the sounds of it, his little sister.”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t believe it.”

“You do, or you wouldn’t be here right now, Steve,” Wanda insists.”You’ve seen him now. Don’t go back there. You can stay here with us.”

Steve puts his teacup down, old defiance and pride pushing down fear. “No, it’s my place now, and nothing is gonna run me off. I’ll handle it.”

Sam shakes his head and rises to block Steve. “Nope, no. You’re not doing this, man. At least, not without me. If you insist on being a fool and going back to that house, then I’m coming with you.”

“And what are you gonna do, move in with me?” Steve asks with raised hands. “Sam, you guys have a place here. You can’t come home with me every night, okay?”

Sam sighs, glancing at Wanda as she stands slowly. She reaches out and grabs both of Steve’s hands. Hers are soft and warm, and Steve’s hands feel clammy against her skin.

“If you absolutely must return to that place, then please listen to me.”

Steve nods slowly as the seed of hope that carried him here begins to finally bloom.

“This spirit was wronged. You may never find out why or how, but you can help it find the light. Make it understand that you are not the one who wronged it.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly.

“Steve, I’m serious, you have to say that out loud - I am not the one you have a grievance with. I am not the one who wronged you - and repeat it as many times as it takes. If that doesn’t work, you have to leave. These entities can become very violent.”

Steve clenches his fists, and Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it, Steve. You can’t fight a ghost. Okay? Don’t get yourself hurt or killed trying. Just grab your shit, and get the fuck out of there. I can come and pick you up from wherever you are.”

Wanda leaves the room and returns with a thick bundle of something greenish and a large white candle.

“This is sage and a cleansing candle. Burn both of them as soon as you get in the house, especially in your room, okay?”

Steve stares down at the objects, conscious of his facial expression. He appreciates Wanda’s advice and concern, but in spite of what happened tonight, he’s still not sure he believes in any of this stuff.

“Alright,” he says, taking the items and putting them into his backpack. “Thanks, guys.”

“Call us when you get there, and don’t do anything stupid. You sense danger, you get the fuck out, alright, man?”

“Got it, Sam. Good night.”

*

There’s a tightness in Steve’s chest as he drives back. His high beams hit the black asphalt, but really don’t illuminate much. It’s 1 am and pitch black outside.

Steve’s eyes feel heavy, but his pulse is jumping and he keeps checking his rearview mirror, half expecting to see a pair of dead black eyes looking back at him.

He almost wishes the spirit of Sergeant Barnes would make an appearance, so he can get the confrontation over with. As anxious as he is, there’s a slow, bubbling anger rising within him.

Just when the universe seemed to show him some mercy, it goes and pulls the carpet from right underneath him. Not only is his new place haunted, but apparently the thing haunting it can leave the premises and follow him anywhere.

Seriously?

“Come on, Ma, help me out here,” he grumbles. As soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like shit for saying it. It’s the thinking of a spoiled little boy to expect his mother to swoop in, even after death, to take care of him.

Sarah Rogers sacrificed plenty during her time on Earth. Steve knows he shouldn’t be pinning his hopes on her serving as his guardian angel. But he can’t quite let the wish go.

“Sorry. Just miss you. Wish you were here so we could talk,” he whispers, like a prayer.

When he makes the right onto the long drive up to the house, a gust of cold air hits the side of his face, even though his windows are up. His fingers clench the steering wheel and he forces his eyes to look up into the rearview.

Still nothing.

As he nears the end of the drive, he slows the car, and stares up at the windows, half-expecting to see the lights turn on. For Sergeant Barnes, or his little sister to signal they know he’s home.

But the windows are empty and black in the faint white brick frame of the house.

Steve grabs his backpack and steps out of the car. He walks slowly towards the front porch, his feet crunching loudly in the gravel.

Everything else is deathly silent. Still no birds, or wildlife. Not even crickets.

He grips his keys tightly, worried they will slip from his sweaty hand. When he finally gets the door open, it creaks louder and longer than it ever has. The sound it makes when he shuts and locks it reminds him of a cell closing.

Pressing his back against the door, he surveys his home, his resolve growing stronger. This is his place now, and he’s down to his last $50. If he has to fight to keep it, he will.

Steve’s eyes sweep from the living room to the stairs, and back down the long foyer before him to the dark kitchen.

A pair of grey cat eyes are staring back at him. Steve watches the eyes, trying to make out the body of the animal, but it’s so dark in there.

Something creaks upstairs, pulling Steve’s eyes to the top of the stairs.

Peering down at him, between the white wooden balusters, is the little girl from earlier. And now Steve can see she has the same shaped eyes, nose, and lips as Sergeant Barnes.

“Hello, Rebecca,” Steve tries, hyperaware that there’s a 50 percent chance this may cause offense to her older brother.

The little girl gives Steve a strange smile, and Steve exhales a little and steps forward cautiously. She opens her mouth wide and Steve freezes because it looks like she’s about to scream, but no sound comes out of her mouth.

Steve hesitates a moment and then springs into action, taking the stairs two at a time, determined to resolve this by repeating what Wanda told him.

A hiss from the bottom of the stairs stops him in his tracks. He turns his head to look down at the foot of the stairs, where the black cat sits, staring up at him. Steve frowns and then looks back to the landing of stairs.

The girl is gone.

*

It’s just what Steve needed to shake him from his fear and all of the anticipation. He runs up the stairs and removes the sage and candle from his backpack to set up for the night and prepare for a proper confrontation with Sergeant Barnes. Until he realizes he doesn’t have a lighter. Groaning at his absentmindedness, he goes to the bathroom and searches the drawers half-heartedly, not expecting to find anything.

The second drawer is full of sage incense, a pack of white tea candles, a matchbox, and a long-stemmed butane lighter.

Steve retrieves the lighter, and wonders if this stuff was left by previous owners or Sharon. He lights the bundle of sage and walks around his bedroom with it until the smoke seeps into his lungs.

He has to push up the window and take two puffs of his inhaler before his breathing is back to normal.

“Dumbass,” he murmurs to himself, extinguishing the sage. He’s not even going to bother with the candle.

Deep down, he didn’t have much faith in burning things to ward off a spirit. If it was that easy, this wouldn’t even be an issue.

“Let’s talk, Sergeant Barnes,” he says loudly. “Please show yourself.”

Steve’s eyes are everywhere at once, looking for the slightest movement or sign he’s about to be approached or attacked. But nothing happens.

With a growing paranoia, Steve undresses and puts on his pajamas, all while envisioning a dozen scenarios of how he could fend off an attack in just his underwear. He stares at the light switch for a solid twenty seconds or so, debating about shrouding himself in darkness.

Just as he makes up his mind to turn the light out, a loud thump comes from the closet.

Steve slowly turns his head to look at the closed closet door, his breath quickening.

He slides the closet door open and quickly turns on the closet light. Peeking inside to the very back, his eyes fall to the deep grooves outlining the secret compartment in the floor. Now more than ever, he wants to know what’s inside.

Huffing, he scrambles back to the bedroom and looks through his backpack. He finds his Kiridashi Knife for wood carving and returns to the spot in the closet. With laser focus, he digs and pushes until finally, the board gives. It pops like the top of a Coke bottle, and Steve is quick to grab the edge so it won’t fall back into place. Lifting the lid off, he sees there’s just a small square hole in the floor, but there’s something in it, covered by a sheet so old it bears a yellow tinge.

Carefully, Steve reaches into the hole and grips the sides of the object. It’s solid in his hands, and heavy, like a small treasure chest. He sets it down and unwraps the sheet, revealing a very beautiful wooden box. Probably an antique, with its intricate sunflower carvings covering a domed lid adorned with twinning branches. Steve takes a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship, and run his fingers along with the leaf carvings that twist in indented groves around the box’s edges. Anxious to see what’s inside, he carefully lifts the lid off, where there are two compartments.

The first compartment contains pictures and other small keepsakes. One of the pictures is of a dark-haired family of four, two parents and two children. Steve recognizes the two children immediately. The older brother is about 16 or 17, and there’s a brightness to his eyes that stirs a sadness in Steve about how his life ended. Beside him, his younger sister has a big smile and is holding a small black kitty. Beneath that picture are others - one of Sergeant Barnes and the Howling Commandos that Steve recognizes from the news articles, a vintage-looking postcard with big block letters spelling out Indiana, and a picture of a smiling James Barnes in his service uniform with the legendary Howard Stark. There’s a huge ‘Stark Expo’ sign behind them, and someone’s drawn a pair of devil horns on Stark’s head.

“What the hell?” Steve murmurs, his finger tracing the deep imprint of the crude marks on Stark’s forehead. They almost puncture the picture in places, as if they were done in anger.

In the second compartment, Steve finds a bundle of old, yellowed papers. A Last Will and Testament, a land deed, a car note. Most of them have the names George and Winifred written on them.

Behind the bundle of papers is an old journal. It’s thick with the kind of expensive paper Steve associates with old-school writers, like the sort that used parchment and quills. He opens the journal and notices that the beginning papers are ripped out at the seams. On the first intact page, there there are several false starts and scribbled outlines like the writer wasn’t sure how to start. Near the end of the page, there are a few lines:

They did something to us over there. I do not claim to be innocent, but I am not what they say I am, or what they tried to make me. There were others, many others. But I do not know what happened to them. I escaped. This is my account of a war no newspaper will report, and the soldiers who fight to survive in the face of unspeakable betrayal and crimes against humanity.

Steve turns the page, his hope deflating immediately. That’s it. There’s nothing else.

Steve reads the entry over and over again, his mind racing at the possibilities. Was Sergeant Barnes framed? Was he a POW? If that were true, how did he manage to escape and return to get his sister? Was he really placed on house arrest for suspected war crimes or was that just a coverup for something more sinister?

“What did they do to you?” Steve asks.

Something, or rather someone, gasps loudly like they’re sucking in air, and Steve falls back and looks up.

Beneath a sheet of dark wavy hair hanging down from the ceiling, two black eyes stare back at him.

There’s a sharp pain in Steve’s chest, and he thinks now he understands how someone could have a heart attack from being scared to death.

“James Barnes?” he croaks.

The whites of the eyes grow larger as Sergeant Barnes’ head gets closer, dropping down like it’s not attached to anything.

Steve yelps and scrambles out of the closet, his heart in his throat.

He stares at the closet, looking for any sign of the thing inside, but it just looks like an empty closet. Steve isn’t about to turn the light off, though. He backs up, his eyes still on it.

Something brushes against his leg and he looks down to see the cat. It’s staring up at him.

Steve paces the length of the bedroom for a few minutes, unsure what to do. Sergeant Barnes is here, in his room.

Time passes slowly as Steve waits for the spirit’s reappearance. He closes the bedroom door and locks it. He uses the bathroom.

He even braves a shower. That ends abruptly when he feels fingers in the back of his head. Not like a hand pressing into his head, but a hand reaching out of his scalp. Steve shouts and almost slips and breaks his neck, but manages to stop the fall by grasping the shower curtain.

Toweling his hair thoroughly, he quickly dries off and changes into his pajamas once again. He takes out his sketch pad and begins drawing. The only thing in his head are the dead eyes of Sergeant Barnes, but he doesn’t want to draw that. So he tries to work on his landscape project for class.

Eventually his pencil moves slower and his arm begins to feel just as heavy as his eyelids. The events of the evening have worn him down, and he’s so tired he thinks he wouldn’t even care if Sergeant Barnes’ spirit showed up right now.

Steve stumbles onto his feet to turn off his bedroom light, faintly noting the sound of the air mattress popping right behind him.

He’s halfway to dozing off when he awakes to a tapping. Steve slowly opens his eyes and sees a very pale-faced Rebecca Barnes sitting on the edge of his bed. Her legs are folded up against her body and she’s tapping her fingers on his sketchpad.

Steve lies frozen, unsure of what to do when he feels something tickling his forehead.

He looks up and into the soulless eyes of Sergeant James Barnes.

He’s hanging over Steve at almost a 90-degree angle, his mouth stretched wide like he wants to swallow Steve whole.

Wanda’s words come to him clear as if she were right there next to him.

“I’m not the one you have a grievance with. I am not the one who wronged you,” he says, his voice only slightly more than a whisper. “I’m not the one you have a grievance with. I swear it. I’m not the one who wronged you.”

He says it over and over again, his chant developing a candace, and all the while his eyes never leave Sergeant Barnes.

A high pitched scream echoes throughout the house far away but loud like it came from the bowels of the house. Steve glances at the door and sees that it’s now open. When he looks back up, Sergeant Barnes has disappeared.

He looks down to the foot of his bed and sees that Rebecca is gone too, and there’s no trace of the cat.

The open door feels like an invitation, but Steve’s not sure he wants to accept.

When he doesn’t make any effort to move, the air mattress begins to pop, pop, pop, like it usually does when he lies down or rolls out. Only he isn’t moving now.

Steve sucks in a sharp breath and looks down.

Beneath his duvet, there’s movement, jerky and fast, coming right towards him, between his legs. Muscled arms and the sides of a torso slide against his inner thighs. Steve tries to jump up, but he can’t. An invisible weight holds him down. Beneath the duvet, something croaks loudly; the sound is long and ragged, like someone taking their last breath.

Steve whines, his heart hammering. This is how he dies, he thinks. This has to be it.

When the thing between his legs moves over his chest, the duvet rises with it, and Steve decides to face his death, look it straight in the eye.

The pale face of Sergeant Barnes slinks out from beneath the duvet, his wide black eyes boring into Steve’s, his mouth wide open as he continues to croak.

“James, please! I’m not the one you have a grievance with. I’m not the one who wronged you!” Steve shouts now.

James’ croaking stops suddenly, and he closes his mouth. His eyes slide towards the end of the bed where Rebecca still sits. She’s smiling, and this time when she opens her mouth, a word comes out.

“Bucky.” It comes out like the hiss of a serpent, the last syllable extended. Steve shivers as she says it again, this time reaching up to touch her brother’s back.

“Bucky.”

Steve looks at James.

“Bucky? Is that your nickname?”

There’s a slight curl that almost looks like a smile on James’ lips.

Steve nods. “Okay. Bucky, then.”

Bucky pulls back and he and his sister turn their heads to stare at the open bedroom door. Steve’s eyes follow and suddenly he can move again.

Bucky is no longer on top of him. He’s at the door, beckoning.

Steve gets out of bed and follows.

*

The house is pitch black, but it’s impossible to miss Bucky’s solid muscular form and the jerky way he stalks down the stairs like he’s broken and dragging his weight to move.

Steve’s heart is doing double time and he keeps thinking about his inhaler, but turning back now seems like a betrayal. Whatever tentative trust stopped Bucky from killing him, or whatever it was he was going to do, has to be handled with care. So Steve stays close behind him.

Bucky lifts his hand to the heavy-duty lock on the cellar door and there’s a sizzling sound like bacon frying, followed by the thud of the lock dropping onto the hardwood floor.

The door swings back hard, smacking the wall, and a rush of cool air furls around Steve’s body, making him shiver.

He swallows as Bucky just stands there, staring at him.

“You want me to go down there?”

No response, just the same vacant stare.

Steve nods and reaches inside the door frame, feeling the wall for a switch. There is none.

He waves his hand before him, searching for a pull chain. A long string caresses his hand and he sighs in relief as he yanks it down.

A soft white light flickers, once, twice, before illuminating the worn, dry rot of the wooden stairs and concrete floor at the bottom.

Steve looks back, expecting to see Bucky, but he’s gone.

A soft purr and brush of a tail near his leg surprise him, but it’s a welcome one. The cat takes the stairs, pausing midway to look up.

Steve starts his descent. The creak and moan of the stairs don’t inspire confidence. If he falls through one or slips, he’s fucked. So he takes his time, testing his weight on each one until he reaches the bottom.

The cellar smells like bleach, too much bleach, and rust. It’s bare, nothing but a water heater, and a tall dusty white bookshelf column, which looks out of place in a concrete cellar. Steve walks slowly over to it, studying the weird way the edges of the bookshelf meld against the concrete wall. It’s like the bookshelf was made to fill a hole.

Steve hums and tries pull at the edges of the shelves, to pry it away from the wall. He caresses the interior of the shelves, looking for a button or lever. Anything.

After several minutes, he huffs and kicks it in frustration. There’s a loud click, and Steve steps back as the bookshelf pulls away from the wall, just like a normal door.

Steve gapes at the opening for several seconds. It’s very dark in there, and he can still smell the acrid stench of something rotting beneath the attempts to bleach it out. Slowly, he steps forward, his left arm stretched out before him.

As soon as he’s inside the door, it slams closed like a vault in a bank. Steve runs back, feeling for a doorknob or a lever. There is none. Panic swirls in his gut and his lungs have to work harder. His asthma can be triggered by allergies and stress, so he tries to calm down by taking deeper breaths.

Sometimes the only way out is through

His mother’s words come to Steve as clear as if she said them right in his ear. Steve reins in his fear and starts feeling along the wall for a light switch.

The coarse feel of concrete beneath his fingers goes on and on, and he’s sure he’s walked the entire circumference of the room when his hand touches something metal and cool. Tracing along the edges, he pulls and the metal box opens. There are switches in there.

Steve flips several of them, and many things happen at once.

Bright and unforgiving light floods the room. There’s a buzzing sound like an electric bug zapper, and in the light, it becomes clear where the sound is coming from. There’s a metal chair in the middle of the room. It isn’t like any chair Steve has ever seen. It has stirrups and straps and it vibrates like it’s conducting energy or something…

Someone screams, loud and torturous. Steve looks to his left and nearly jumps when he sees Bucky standing there, looking back at him.

His mouth is wide open again, impossibly wide like before, his scream never faltering.

“What is it?” Steve shouts, trying to get a hold of the situation and calm Bucky down the way he did before. “Let me help you. Please.”

Bucky jerks back and crouches down low, like he’s trying to hide. When Steve moves towards him, the lights extinguish, and once again he’s in the dark.

Before he can turn around and switch on the lights again, they flicker on, and then off.

Steve freezes as the lights flicker on and off twice more. This time when the screaming starts, it comes from the middle of the room, from the chair.

When the lights flicker on again, Bucky’s sitting there, strapped down by the restraints. Steve rushes towards the chair, but the lights turn off again. When they turn on again, Steve’s much closer, but Bucky looks different. He’s shirtless now, and his flesh is no longer grey; it looks more like Steve’s, except for his left arm. It’s made of metal, and there’s a deep jagged scar where it meets Bucky’s shoulder.

And his eyes are no longer soulless. They’re full of life and pain and they’re a hypnotic shade of blue-grey.

Steve steps forward to unstrap Bucky, but the chair shakes violently and Bucky convulses. There’s some sort of contraption around his head, and it keeps shooting blue charges that make Bucky froth at the mouth. Steve watches helplessly as Bucky jerks in his binds while his fingers flex and clench in protest.

“Stop it, stop it!” Steve screams. “Please make it stop.”

The screaming starts again, and suddenly the room is alive with it. It’s not just coming from Bucky, it’s coming from the very walls surrounding them. All of the pain, fear, and rage contained in Bucky crackles into the air and wraps itself around Steve, pulling at his sanity. It’s too much. Steve’s chest hurts from the effort to breathe because the air’s just not coming in and out of his lungs fast enough.

“Ma, please, help us. Please Ma,” Steve begins to wheeze as he holds his hands over his ears.

His knees almost buckle when he feels a soft touch on his right shoulders.

Sarah Rogers looks every bit as beautiful as Steve remembers. Steve wants to hug her, to ask her so many questions, but first, he wants to put an end to this. To give Bucky relief.

The small smile Sarah offers is pained, and they both turn their gaze to Bucky’s convulsing figure in the chair. Sarah extends her right hand, pointing over to the far corner of the room, just to the left of the fuse box.

Steve walks over there.

Several loose cinder blocks sit piled on top of each other like a crude house of cards. Steve looks up and Sarah is right there, beside him, staring at the pile intently.

Steve removes the top cinderblock and sets it down, and then picks up another. It takes him five minutes to work through the pile but when he’s done he can see a black metal trap door.

He glances up at his mother and she nods.

Steve lifts the door and is surprised to find the space it covers is shallow, about two or three feet deep, but it’s long. Long enough to fit a wooden chest box. His mind races about the contents, and how it could possibly help Bucky. Planting his feet firmly, Steve uses both hands to pull it up by one of the side handles.

It’s lighter than Steve anticipated and he falls back a bit. He looks up for reassurance from his mother, but it’s not Sarah standing over him. It’s Bucky.

He’s out of the chair. His skin is grey once again and his eyes are obsidian.

There’s no lock on the box, so Steve quickly opens it.

Bucky whines above him.

Steve leans in and sees bones. Very small and delicate bones of a child. On top of those bones is a thick red journal with a black star on it, and a small pistol.

“This is Rebecca, isn’t it? Your sister?”

Bucky just stands there, motionless, staring down into the box. Steve slowly retrieves the journal and opens it.

There are photographs, dates, and words written in a language Steve doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t need to, because the pictures tell most of the story. There are several pictures of Bucky’s metal arm from different angles. Then there’s a picture of Bucky cuffed, head bowed, surrounded by two doctors in lab coats and men wearing a foreign uniform.

The rest of the photographs show Bucky in various states. Nearly naked and tied down to a metal slab. Strapped into the chair unconscious. Strapped in the chair, awake, his eyes wild and full of pain, his mouth frozen mid-scream.

The last picture is the least offensive and somehow that makes it even worse. Rebecca Barnes is looking straight at the camera, wearing pigtails and holding her black cat tightly. Her eyes are too mature for a girl her age and there’s a resigned look in them that makes Steve sick. The dress she wears has the same pattern as the tattered one in the box of bones.

“They killed her?” Steve whispers, glancing up. “I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry for it all.”

Bucky’s face contorts into something ugly and menacing, and Steve is blown onto his back by a blast of sheer power.

Steve groans. His back feels bruised, and his vision is blurry from tears, but he can still make out Bucky’s jerky movements as he stands over Rebecca’s remains, moaning out a wail so wretched it makes Steve’s blood curdle.

“Burn it.”

Steve blinks and sees his Ma standing by Bucky and the box. She’s looking right at him, her eyes full of the same conviction she often wore when he was being stubborn.

“You have to burn it, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head. “Burn what? The house?”

“Yes. Free him. Free them all.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest, and then he sees the way Bucky’s body shakes over his sister’s remains. All of the rational reasons for not burning his new rental house down die on Steve’s lips.

“Help me, Ma? Can you help me burn it?’

Sarah smiles. It’s the same proud smile she often wore when he would rescue an animal or help out someone in the neighborhood.

“Of course, darling.”

*

When Steve comes to, he’s being placed on a gurney and there’s an oxygen mask on his face. Someone shouts when he opens his eyes, and he sees Sam and Wanda pushing to get closer. The paramedics try to fend them off.

“Steve, are you okay, man?” Sam asks loudly. “I’m not leaving you. We’re following the ambulance.”

“It’s alright, Steve, we’re here. Don’t you worry about anything. Just focus on breathing,” Wanda says.

Steve squeezes his eyes. They sting and he coughs hard.

“Let's get him in the ambulance. Go, go, go!” one of the paramedics shouts.

Steve’s head lolls to the side to see what happened to the house. There’s nothing there but smoke and smoldering embers.

Just beyond the smoke, though, he thinks he sees a pale woman with blonde hair. Next to her is a little girl with pigtails, holding hands with a tall, muscular man with longish dark hair.

Steve can’t really see their faces, but somehow he knows, they’re all smiling.