The Black Lake: Tales of Melancholic Horror by Jon Athan Page A

would not budge. Lawrence handed Richie to Patricia, then proceeded towards the door. Lawrence kicked at the door with brute force, then rammed the door with his shoulder. Despite his mighty effort, the door did not rattle or wobble. The unwavering door remained unmarked.
    From the neighboring archway, Jonathan explained, “I don't want you to take him to the hospital. You treat him like a king, like if he's better than me. He's not. He's an idiot. I'm tired of him cheating. I'm tired of you pretending like it's okay.”
    Patricia's bottom lip quivered as she asked, “Wha–What are you doing, sweetie? We just want to help your brother, okay? Is... Is that okay?”
    “No, it's not okay. I don't want you to help him anymore. He can help himself...”
    Suddenly, the hardwood floorboards rattled as Lawrence stomped. His cheeks were flushed and his ears were crimson from the uncontrollable anger. He scowled as he wagged his index finger towards his truculent son.
    Lawrence shouted, “Open this damn door! Now!” As Jonathan chuckled, Lawrence yelled, “I swear, you will regret this, Jonathan! You cannot keep us hostage! You cannot stop us from helping your brother! I won't tolerate this bullshit anymore!”
    Jonathan nonchalantly crossed his arms and legs as he leaned on the archway and said, “I already stopped you.”
    Lawrence marched into the living room, Patricia followed closely behind. Lawrence gritted his teeth as he pulled on the bay windows overlooking the kempt front lawn. Thick veins protruded on his brow and his jugulars bulged as he exerted all of his energy to no avail – the windows did not budge. He breathed heavily as he turned towards the black end table by the sofa, then yanked the sturdy lamp from the tabletop.
    “What's going on? What are you doing?” Patricia asked as she held Richie's head to her bosom. “What are you going to do, Lawrence? What are you...”
    Before she could complete her inquiry, Lawrence heaved the heavy lamp towards the pristine bay windows. Lawrence and Patricia stared at the glass barriers in utter disbelief. The windows wobbled and the frame groaned, but there wasn't a single speck or crack on the immaculate glass. Lawrence stared at the windows with glum eyes.
    He whispered, “It's impossible...”
    Jonathan strolled into the living room and said, “I don't want you to go anywhere. I want you to stay. I want to play a game.”
    Patricia's teeth chattered as she repeated in a dubious tone, “A–A game?”
    Jonathan grinned and responded, “Yes. It's called, 'Pick The Least Favorite Child.' It'll be fun.”
    ***
    Patricia sniveled, then said, “You can't do this to us, Jonathan. Please, Jonny, don't make us do something like this. We just wanted to help your brother. That's all.” Her eyes widened as a bulb illuminated atop her dome – an idea materialized. Patricia suggested, “You said cheating was wrong, remember? Well, this isn't right, either. There's no such thing as a least favorite child for a parent. It would be wrong to make us choose. We'd be lying. We'd be cheating. ”
    Jonathan scoffed, “There is. We will play or else.”
    Richie's head swayed as he dozed in-and-out of consciousness. Patricia placed her immobilized son on the three-seat sofa and nuzzled his forehead. Jonathan sauntered towards the recliner. He glared at Cecilia, his sharp eyes piercing into her pusillanimous soul. Without a single word exchanged between the pair, Cecilia knew she could not trounce her younger brother. She stood from her seat, then walked towards the three-seat sofa. Like a king on his throne, Jonathan sat on the recliner and overlooked his family.
    Jonathan coughed to clear his throat, then said, “We're going to play this game. Cecilia and Richie will prove they are worthy to be children of this family. If not, I'll get rid of them. Mom and dad will vote for their least favorite at the end.”
    Like if he had given up all hope, Lawrence staggered to the windowsill.