The Black Lake: Tales of Melancholic Horror by Jon Athan

the black three-seat sofa in the living room. Patricia slid two couch cushions beneath Richie's leg to elevate the injured limb. She ran to the opposite end of the couch, then slid under Richie's head – resting his dome on her lap. Cecilia nonchalantly skipped into the living room, humming and capering about as she brought a bag of ice to her mother.
    As she placed the ice on Richie's kneecap, Patricia explained, “This will make it feel better. It'll stop the swelling and pain for a while.” She glanced over her shoulder and asked, “Did you call 911?”
    Lawrence stood by a black console table with a black landline phone planted on his ear. He shrugged and said, “We're disconnected. We'll have to take him to the hospital ourselves. No point in wasting time here.”
    Patricia grimaced and stuttered, “I–I don't... I don't know, Lawrence. I...” She bit her bottom lip as she struggled to speak. She said, “We shouldn't leave... We can't go out again. We can't risk leaving with or without...”
    Patricia glided her eyes towards Jonathan. Without uttering a single word, she delivered her explanation – an adequate unspoken word. Lawrence sighed as he glanced towards his gleaming dress shoes. He understood his wife very well.
    Lawrence turned towards Jonathan and asked, “What happened out there?”
    Jonathan leaned on the kitchen archway with his arms crossed. He clenched his jaw, refusing to answer to authority. Lawrence's lip curled as his body swelled with anger – the irrepressible fury coursed through each limb.
    From the adjacent recliner in the living room, Cecilia responded, “I think it was Jonathan. I think he...”
    Lawrence glanced at Cecilia and interrupted, “I know. I know, sweetie.” He turned towards Jonathan and asked, “Why? Why'd you do it this time? Why would you hurt your little brother like that?”
    Jonathan inhaled deeply from his nose, then responded, “ He cheated. You should never cheat. That's what you taught me and that's what I taught him. It's not right. I warned him, so it's all his fault anyway.”
    Lawrence tightly clenched his fists as he glowered. His protruding fingernails pierced into his palm. A droplet of blood dribbled from the self-inflicted wound. Jonathan smirked and huffed as he watched his infuriated father, like if he were watching a peddling jester from a golden throne. He happily called all of his father's bluffs – intimidation was nothing without the actions to back it.
    Lawrence sternly said, “You can't always have it your way, boy. I swear, I'll...”
    Suddenly, Richie cried, “It hurts! It hurts! Please, mom, it hurts so much!”
    Teary-eyed, Patricia said, “I know, sweetie, I know...” She loudly swallowed the lump in her throat, then said, “We... I guess we have to go. We should go to the hospital. I don't want my baby to feel this pain. I can't do anything here. Not this time.”
    Lawrence nodded and said, “Fine. Let's go.” He turned towards his unscathed children and said, “Cecilia, you're in charge until we get back. Don't open the door for anyone, answer the phone when we call, and don't mess around with anything. We'll be back in a few hours.”
    “Okay,” Cecilia whispered.
    Cecilia glanced over at Jonathan with narrowed eyes. The luster in her eyes had vanished as she gazed at Jonathan's nonchalant but vindictive demeanor. She knew she was not in charge of the situation. She was a puppet, like her father.
    Lawrence lifted Richie from the couch, cradling his son like a newborn baby. Patricia grabbed the clanking key ring from the console table, then bolted through the adjacent archway leading into the main hall. The keys clicked and clanked as she unlocked the front door.
    Standing at the archway, Lawrence asked, “What are you doing?”
    Patricia frantically tugged on the doorknob and said, “It won't open.”
    She tightly gripped the doorknob and leaned her entire body away from the sturdy door, but to no avail – the door