The Elevator. Angela Hunt

      “I’m still here.” Her mother’s voice had gone flat, almost pleasant. Anyone passing by might have thought she was waiting to give her daughter a welcome-home hug.

      Harley growled and pulled at the leash. Shelly rocked back on her haunches, one hand pressed to her mouth as a cry bubbled up from someplace in her chest. She tried to choke off the sound, but she failed and began to sob in a high, pitiful, coughing hack. “Ma-ma! I—can’t—come—with—”

      “Stop your cryin’, Shel, I didn’t raise no coward. I’ll hold the dumb dog—you get yourself out here right now.”

      “But—I—can’t—”

      “If you don’t, I’m letting Harley go. Wonder how long it’ll take him to wiggle under there and tear you up? I saw him get a possum the other day. Even though the critter played dead, he tore that thing to pieces. Not a pretty sight, not a’tall.”

      Shelly fell forward and began to creep toward the lattice on shaking limbs. No sense in talking now; her mother had won…again.

      She crawled over the dirt, every atom of her being cringing in revulsion, and trembled as she approached the gap in the lattice. Her mother stood ten feet away, one hand on her hip, one arm extended as Harley strained at the leash.

      Squatting in the opening, Shelly swiped at her wet cheeks with grimy hands, then launched herself upward and ran for the front porch as if her feet were afire. When she reached the bottom step she heard the thrum of the pit bull’s pounding paws; by the time she passed the threshold the dog was on the porch and snapping at the screen door while her mother watched from the grass and…laughed.

      Shelly ran into the bathroom, hiccupping as she washed her hands. She tried her best to clean up, but she couldn’t get the muddy streaks off the counter or the towels.

      Maybe it was the mud that did it, or maybe Momma was past caring about anything but being mad. Without a word, she grabbed Shelly by the arm, pulled her through the living room and thrust her into the linen closet. At the bottom, beneath the shelf where they kept the good sheets, was a space just big enough for Shelly to sit with her knees bent up and her head bent low.

      That space—and its darkness—were as terrifying as the dog. “Momma—”

      “Hush, Shelly. Get in there.”

      “Momma, no.” She knew she shouldn’t touch Momma with damp hands, muddy arms and dirty clothes, but in a desperate plea for mercy she threw herself onto her mother’s frame, shaping herself to the woman’s body, clinging like a shadow. “Momma, Momma, I don’t like the dark—”

      “Don’t be a baby.” Her mother’s iron fingers pulled and pried while her feet pushed Shelly into the closet.

      “Momma, no!”

      “And stop that screamin’. The more you scream, the longer I’m leavin’ you in here.”

      Because Momma did not issue idle threats, Shelly clamped her trembling lips, imprisoning the cries that scratched at her throat. She thrust out her hands in silent entreaty, but Momma pushed her firmly into a sitting position and closed the door.