He watched the door for a minute, and then climbed up the staircase, humming thoughtfully. 

The tune was in his head now too. 
  
     "...and the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls..." 

What the fuck was that all about? I wondered, leaning against the rough bathroom door and sliding down to sit on the floor.  In the heavy, damp air, the tiles were shockingly cold. I could have sworn they did the laundry yesterday.  

I sat there for a long time, letting my thoughts wander away from disturbing questions and dark memories.  I started picturing my family and what I would do first when I got home.  I still wasn't used to the idea of not living with them, and after three months at college, I wanted to see them again.  But I'm really going to miss Julie when I go home, I thought, smiling at the image of my best friend who was waiting for me upstairs.  I guess I'm just going to have to make the most of this visit.  With that thought, I pushed myself off the ground and stood up, opening the door. 

The rush of cold air dried my skin and left me shivering.  I walked quickly through the blackness of the basement and up the stairs, rubbing away the goosebumps that broke out on my arms.  
  
The living room was dark except for the sickly glow from the television that pulsed bright and dim.  I couldn't see anything other than the peeling wall.  The curling tatters of the wallpaper, lined with tiny purple flowers, trembled under the fan blades that circled slowly overhead. I stepped closer to the doorway, and the TV came into view.  The fifth game of the Bulls-Sonics championship series was on television. The sound was turned down; the low rumbling reminded me of a fast-approaching truck.  Michael Jordans sweaty, laboring face graced the screen. 

     "Whos winning?" I asked as I stepped into the room. 

Julies father sat up on the faded green couch.  In the dim light, it looked like the diseased bullfrog that I had dissected once in biology. The riotous patterns of yellow flowers bloomed like those monstrous tumors on its distended belly.  

He grinned at me, and I smiled back, watching the couch.  It lay under him, puffed up as if holding it's breath. 

     "The Sonics are winning," he said, moving over on the couch to make room for me.  Its rusted springs croaked at me snidely.  I remained standing. 
     "That won't last long," I said, edging a little closer. 
     "The Bulls are going to kill them.  I can't stay and watch the slaughter though.  I have to go upstairs, Julies waiting for me." 

He shifted back towards me and picked up my hand, holding it firmly in his small, papery grip. 

He looked up at me and smiled again.  "You're such a good little girl, arent you sweetie?" he said to me, placing a fatherly kiss on my palm. His mouth was dry, and it sucked the moisture from my dampened skin. I wasn't sure what he had said.  "I have to go upstairs, sir," I replied, not moving, distracted by the sight of his huge head bent over my hand. His mouth moved up to kiss my wrist enthusiastically.  His free hand reached out and lighted on my back.  

I felt my spine stiffen painfully, aching to escape that insidious touch. Oh god no, I panicked, letting the walls crowd in on me as his hand began to rub me, moving down my back.