Black Feathers

by Robert J. Wiersema

  It’s all in your head.

  “Hello?” She tried again, louder this time. “Is someone—”

  Her skin prickled and she shivered. Someone was there. She couldn’t see them, but they were close enough for her to sense.

  Close enough to touch.

  She turned and took a single, careful step toward the furnace room.

  “Hello?” She called out. “Hello?”

  She heard the sound of a breath a fraction of a second before two hands wrapped around her throat in the dark. Mr. Monkey fell to the floor as the fingers tightened.

  “You selfish bitch,” a whisper hissed, close to her ear.

  She brought her hands up, tried to pull the fingers away, but they were too tight, and they tightened even more as she struggled.

  “How could you do this?”

  Bright flashes of light exploded in her eyes and a low buzzing started in her ears.

  “Heather,” she gasped, struggling with her sister’s fingers at her throat. “Please—”

  “You ruined everything.”

  The buzzing grew louder and Cassie dug her fingernails into her sister’s hands, trying to wrench them away. There was a sharp cry, a flinch, but her fingers didn’t release.

  “Heather.”

  “This is what you—”

  With the last of her strength, Cassie kicked out as hard as she could and reached toward the sound of the voice. She caught her sister in the leg with the kick, and as she stumbled forward, Cassie dug her fingernails into Heather’s face, clawing and scratching.

  Heather screamed, and her grip released. Cassie fell to the floor, pulling herself away as she gasped for breath.

  “You fucking bitch,” Heather shrieked. “Why can’t you just die?”

  “Heather, I’m—” She cut herself off and scrambled away from where she had been attacked. In the dark, Heather would only be able to find her if she said anything, made any noise. Otherwise, her sister was just as blind as she was.

  She hoped.

  “Heather I, Heather I, Heather I.” Heather put on a whiny baby voice, parroting her own words back to her. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You don’t care about anybody else. It’s all Cassie’s world to you, isn’t it?”

  Shuffling, almost silent footsteps in the dark. Faltering. Searching.

  Cassie crouched down, trying to make herself small, trying to calm her breathing, trying to be silent.

  “I can hear you,” Heather said. “You can’t hide forever.”

  More shuffling, then a crash as something fell over. Cassie jumped, forced herself not to scream. Heather was searching for her, working her way through the dark.

  “And when I find you, I’m going to—”

  “Girls!” The basement light flashed on overhead, and Cassie slammed her eyes shut and ducked her head at the sudden brightness. “What’s going on in here?”

  With the door closed, he stood stock-still in the kitchen, not breathing, not making a sound. Listening.

  After a long moment, the usual night noises of the house faded away, and there were only the two girls, breathing. Deep, regular, soft breaths. Sleeping breaths. Unbroken. Undisturbed.

  He smiled. No need to rush. No need to squander such an opportunity with undue haste. On this night, the lightest of nights, there was a feast waiting to be savoured, long undisturbed hours of pleasure ahead.

  The smile widened.

  There was time, and space, to do it right this time. To prepare.

  Shoes went beside the door, jacket hung on a hook, pockets emptied onto the counter: a package of cigarettes, a lighter, a handful of change, a receipt from a coffee shop, a battered black journal, duct-taped along the spine.

  The knife was already warm in his hand.

  He smiled. All was ready.

  After a long moment, Cassie risked opening her eyes.

  Heather was standing a few feet away, eyes clenched tightly shut, blood dripping onto her pyjamas from the scratches on her cheeks.

  Cassie shivered: she had backed herself into a corner. It would have been only seconds before her sister found her.

  “Are you two fighting again?”

  Their father was standing in the doorway of the furnace room, dressed in his usual at-home clothes: a pair of jeans and a checkered flannel shirt.

  Again? But they never fought. She and Heather had always been so close. It wasn’t until—

  Cassie had to shake her head to remind herself that she was dreaming. It all seemed so real: the world, the people, the memories. It was hard to keep it all straight.

  “She started it,” Heather cried, taking a few steps toward him, gesturing at her face. “Look at what she did to me!”

  “Let me take a look at you,” their father said, and Heather stepped in front of him, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. “Yeah, that looks pretty bad.”

  Cassie rose slowly to her feet. Mr. Monkey was on the floor a few feet away, and she picked him up and held him close.

  “I don’t think there’s going to be any scars, though.” Taking Heather’s head in his hands, he turned it gently, angling it toward the light so he could see better. “Yeah, I think it’s going to be okay.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  She tried to lower her head, but her father held it fast.

  “What did you do to your sister to make her do this to you?”

  Even from across the room, Cassie could see the way his hands were pressing tighter and tighter around Heather’s head, holding her fast. She took a step forward.

  “I didn’t—” Heather’s words gurgled out of her mouth on a wave of tears and snot. Her body churned and twisted as she tried to pull herself away. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Don’t lie to me, baby,” he said, half-lifting her from the ground by her head, her neck stretching. “You know what I do to lying little girls.”

  “She didn’t do anything,” Cassie said, stepping into the middle of the room.

  Her father turned to her without easing his grip on Heather. Her sister flailed and twisted, but it wasn’t doing any good. Her face was getting redder and redder, covered in a wet sheen.

  “It was an accident—”

  Her father smiled like he had been waiting for that answer.

  “I think it’s really sweet,” he said, his voice dripping. “How you’ll stand here and lie to me, all to save someone who was trying to kill you not five minutes ago.” Heather was making a gurgling, gasping noise, her feet kicking useless pinwheels in the air.

  “She’s not ‘someone,’” Cassie said. “She’s my sister.”

  “She’s nothing,” Cassie’s father said, and there was a cracking noise and one final scream from Heather as her head burst, spraying blood against the wall, collapsing into a red-grey mush of bone and flesh.

  Her father dropped Heather’s body. It landed on the floor with a wet thud.

  He wiped his hands on the front of his shirt.

  “But you—” He turned to face her fully. “You’re less than nothing.”

  Cassie had to fight not to throw up, had to force herself not to look at the crumpled heap on the floor that had once been her sister.

  Had to remind herself, over and over, that it was only a dream.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” her father said, and suddenly they were standing in the furnace room, the wood stove glowing with heat.

  Cassie blinked, shook her head, clung more tightly to Mr. Monkey. But it didn’t change: Furnace room. Stove.

  She knew there was a blanket on the shelf behind her, red and soft. He kept it folded with an even-creased precision.

  “You’re thinking, ‘This is just a dream,’” he said. “You’re thinking that you can do anything here. That you’re in control. That nothing can hurt you. Right?”

  Cassie had never thought that she couldn’t be hurt here—the pain in her neck, her shoulder, the burning in her lungs seemed to make a lie of that—but ultimately, yes, he was ri
ght about what she was thinking.

  Of course he was right: he was part of the same dream.

  “And now you’re thinking, ‘Well, of course he knows what I’m thinking,’ right? He’s part of my psyche, just another bundle of bad thoughts, of course he knows.”

  Cassie didn’t speak, didn’t move.

  Her father took a step toward her and smiled.

  She flinched: the smile looked like something out of a nightmare, wide and wet and reptilian. Like a snake or an alligator.

  It looked hungry.

  “But Cassie, my love my dove my dear little girl …” And the smile widened. “If this is all a dream”—he took a step closer—“why can’t you wake up?”

  He stopped in the doorway to the bedroom, willed himself silent and still.

  The girl was stirring in the bed, twitching and thrashing in her sleep. A mewling cry rose from deep in her throat, a primal sound beyond conscious fear, beyond rational expression.

  It was a sound he loved.

  Had something startled her? The closing of the kitchen drawer? Strange footsteps? Was she just so attuned that she was aware, even deep in sleep, of a presence in the apartment?

  No—this was something else.

  The other girl shifted, seemed to fold herself even more snugly, drawing her arm even more tightly around her friend, nuzzling into the back of her neck.

  “Shh,” she half-moaned. “It’s okay.”

  And, gradually, the girl calmed and stilled. Her breathing slowed, grew even and deep.

  It was possibly the most beautiful moment he had ever experienced. The knife trembled with anticipation.

  Her father smiled as she screamed, as she shredded her throat, as she struggled against the world around her. She had to wake up. It was just a dream. It was just a dream. She could wake up.

  She had to wake up.

  “When you realize you’re dreaming, don’t you wake up?” Her father spoke into her screaming, slow and thoughtful. “Isn’t that how it usually works?”

  All of Cassie’s strength left her at once, as if all of the energy, all of the momentum that her certainty had created all fled.

  She sagged. Almost fell.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot. You’ve never had a normal dream, have you?”

  “What—” She struggled to speak against the waves of exhaustion.

  “That’s a good girl,” he said. “My sleepy, sleepy girl. Here.” He reached past her, drew the red blanket off the shelf and spread it on the floor between them. “Why don’t you lie down?” His eyes flickered; his smile yawned.

  “No.” She shook her head. “No.” She took a step back.

  “Be a good girl,” he said. “Be Daddy’s good little girl.”

  A rush of sad desperation rose inside her; it felt like the world breaking, like she was being shredded, split in two.

  Tears rolled down her face, and she didn’t even notice them.

  “That’s a good girl,” Daddy said, and he crouched beside the blanket. “Why don’t you come lie down?” He patted the blanket, stroked it, showing her how warm and soft it was. “You can bring Mr. Monkey if you like.”

  Cassie nodded, stepped toward the blanket.

  “Are you cold, baby? Do you want me to build up the fire?” He turned toward the stove, opened the heavy iron door.

  When Cassie looked down, there was a chunk of wood in her hand where Mr. Monkey had been seconds before, cut for the stove. Heavy. Solid.

  She raised it over her head.

  She knew what she had to do. She had done it before.

  The wood fell with a deep, crushing thud.

  This time, though, her father didn’t fall into the stove.

  This time, he straightened, and he turned to her.

  “You little bitch,” he said, but he was smiling.

  He was smiling as she slammed the chunk of wood into the side of his head, knocking him sideways to the ground.

  He was smiling as she swung the chunk of wood into his face, crushing his cheekbones, breaking his jaw. He smiled as she beat his face bloody, as she shattered his teeth, broke his nose. He smiled as his breath bubbled out of him in a thick, red slurry.

  He smiled until he wasn’t her daddy anymore. Until there was nothing left that she recognized.

  Until she dropped the chunk of wood on the floor.

  She slumped down onto the blanket, between Mr. Monkey and the thing that had pretended to be her father. The fire crackled in the stove, but the heat wasn’t overwhelming anymore, just a gentle warmth that seemed to enfold her, to comfort and cozy her.

  She couldn’t move. She couldn’t stand. More than anything in the world she wanted to cry, but she didn’t even have the strength to do that.

  She lay there in silence for a long time, hard on the ground, looking over the landscape of her father’s body toward the orange glow of flames in the stove.

  It took her a long time to realize that she was waiting.

  She had done it. She had confronted the dream, taken control. Shouldn’t something be happening? Wasn’t this supposed to bring it all to an end?

  Shouldn’t she be waking up?

  If this was all a dream, shouldn’t it be over now?

  “You’re wrong,” whispered the voice, so close to her ear it was almost as if it was coming from inside her own head. “You’ve always been wrong.”

  She turned with a start, looking for the source of the voice, her heart racing in her chest again.

  But there was no one there.

  “It’s not a dream,” the voice said. “It was never a dream.”

  She looked into the shadows, trying to discern a shape. She looked at the doorway, expecting someone to be there, looking in at her.

  But she was alone.

  “Who—”

  “This is your life,” the voice said. “This is your world.”

  She looked down.

  Mr. Monkey was looking at her, his button eyes reflecting the orange glow of the flames.

  He blinked.

  “This is our place,” the monkey said. “There’s no way out.”

  As the girl stirred again, he stepped back from the bed, into the shadow of the open bedroom door. She moved helplessly, a tiny sobbing sound deep in her throat.

  The dreams she must be having, to trouble her so.

  The other girl woke up slightly, leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “It’s all right, Cassandra. It’s all right.”

  Her words were like music, the most pleasing of lullabies. There was love there, and passion, but a deep caring as well.

  He knew that those things did not always come together, no matter what the greeting cards claimed.

  At the sound of the other girl’s voice, Cassandra—Cassie, like that cop had said—settled again. Her body collapsed into the bed, her head heavy on the pillow, her breathing growing thick and slow.

  It took the other girl longer to settle. She adjusted her pillow, pulled up the blankets and as she curled herself again around Cassandra, she took her hand, interlacing their fingers.

  It was only then that she too went back to sleep.

  Mr. Monkey pushed himself up on his front paws and swung across the blanket. As he moved, he began to grow, to change: his movement was a constantly shifting blur, a wavering between states of being.

  When he swung off the blanket and turned to face her again, Cassie flinched. He was the height of a small child, his features wavering between his familiar stitching and the face of a real monkey, with matted brown fur, loose, snarling lips and yellowing fangs.

  “Stop it,” she said quietly, her voice quavering.

  “You don’t like it?” He danced a few steps, and when he stopped to tip his hat—

  —his hat—when had he gotten a hat?—

  —she recognized him. He looked like one of the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. They had terrified her the first time she’d watched it; she had cried so hard she had thrown
up.

  “Why … why are you doing this?”

  The monkey was still growing, his features still wavering. It wasn’t that the two faces were alternating or shifting; he was both of them at the same time, like those puzzles in the books where the picture is an old lady and a young woman, depending on how you look at it.

  A vase or two faces.

  Two monkeys. One that had been her best friend for as long as she could remember, and one that was one of her oldest memories, the first thing she knew that could terrify her.

  “Doing what?” Mr. Monkey asked, dancing again. Grinning.

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?” Dancing. Tipping his hat. Mocking her.

  “I can’t—” She broke off, not able to go any further. It was all too much. She could feel parts of herself shutting down, going to sleep.

  “No,” the monkey snapped, leaning toward her, his freakishly long body seeming to stretch even farther. “You can’t, can you?” He spat the words, tendrils of thick drool hanging off his fangs. “You can’t do anything.”

  “It’s all too much.”

  The monkey stopped stock-still and cocked its head, studying her with its yellow eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” it said, and Cassie couldn’t be sure if it was still mocking her. “Is this better?”

  The room was gone. It didn’t vanish, it was just gone, all of it—the rows of stacked wood, the stove, the blanket, her father’s body, her father’s blood, gone. Like they had never existed.

  Cassie was standing outside. Snow was falling in huge white flakes, and there were several inches on the ground between her and the monkey. But there was nothing else: no light, no dark, nothing hinted at in the distance, no distance. Just endless grey, and the snow, and the monkey, and her.

  “Is this better?” The politeness, the concern, they had to be a show.

  “What is this place?” She looked around herself, trying to get her bearings, but there was nothing. There was snow on the ground, but she didn’t even know if there was really ground under it. The snow was falling, but it didn’t seem like there was any sky for it to fall from.

  “This?” The monkey gestured around. He was as tall as she was now, but he seemed to have stopped growing. “What, you don’t like it?” His every word seemed to have the edge of a taunt, of a joke at her expense.