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security of their home. Stop the intruder from entering and then the oven becomes a non-issue. Eric argued that the intruder was attempting to send them a message and the oven acted as the messenger — removing the oven from the equation meant no more messages.
     
    This was so unlike them. They’d had arguments like any other couple, but never to this degree. The bed hadn’t been put together because he was too tired and it was too hot. They lay on the box spring and mattress on the floor of their master bedroom.
     
    He had time to hook locks up to our new oven and borrow a weapon from the local cop, but not enough time to set up our bed like he’d promised.
     
    The anger she had directed at him earlier had more to do with his behavior on their first day in their new house than her fear.
     
    The movers had delivered all their belongings two days before they’d arrived. Everything was where it was supposed to be. They had been prepared to spend the long May weekend painting and cleaning the house but instead, the weekend had started off with a fight.
     
    She looked over at the window to see if it was open. The moon illuminated the sill with its soft white light. The sounds of the night had died off, leaving her with the cadence of Eric’s breathing.
     
    She had been lying in bed at least two hours. The heat in the room seemed to be increasing. The back of her neck was slick with sweat. She eased off the mattress slowly, trying not to wake Eric.
     
    On the balls of her feet, she made no noise as she reached the window. As hard as she tugged, it wouldn’t budge.
     
    Sweat beaded down into her eyes. She wiped it away in frustration and headed out of the room. In the kitchen, the tape recorder still sat on the counter. She took one look at it, opened the fridge and pulled out the bottled water. She drank almost half of it. She used the towel by the sink to wipe her face and neck off.
     
    Why the hell is it so hot in here?
     
    She thought of the rain and how it had sizzled off the house.
     
    Why didn’t I tell Eric about that?
     
    Without thinking, she tilted the bottle of water until a fat drip left the lip and fell to the floor. It hit and spread out a little with minor splatter. Then it bubbled up. The small bubbles danced on the surface of the wood and decreased in size until they disappeared. The floor increased in heat under her feet in the same second it took for the drop of water to disappear.
     
    “What the fuck is going on?”
     
    It suddenly felt like she stood on hot pavement in the middle of a heat wave in August. She had to alternate feet as the heat under her rose.
     
    She left the kitchen and grabbed her shoes at the door. After they were on, she walked back into the kitchen, her feet tucked in socks and shoes.
     
    Should I wake Eric up and tell him, or film it and prove to him that there’s a problem?
     
    Without another thought, Tessa grabbed the recorder, hit the record button and set the camera on the kitchen table with its back supported on a book to aim camera down.
     
    She brought the water bottle close so it was directly in front of the camera. Moving slowly, she tilted the open bottle and let a large drop of water escape.
     
    She could still detect heat through her shoes, but not enough to make her hop on the spot.
     
    The water hit the wooden floor and dissolved in front of the camera just as it had the moment before.
     
    “Holy fuck. I’ve got that on camera too.”
     
    She turned to lift the camera up but her feet stuck, like she’d stepped in gum. The floor had heated up so much that the bottom of her rubber soles had melted into the floor. Within seconds she’d be standing on the burning floor in her sock feet.
     
    She lifted her legs hard, dislodging each shoe, but with every step, they stuck and burned again.
     
    The floor reminded her of a hot quicksand.
     
    Something was burning the house from the basement up.
     
    But we don’t have a basement.
     
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