The Switch House: A Short Novel

by Tim Meyer

  She passed the book and magazine rack, noticing they stocked the same bestsellers as every other local pharmacy. She stopped and picked up the new Kim Harrison book, flipped through its pages, then set it back on the shelf figuring she could stop at the local library on the way home. She bypassed the row of colorful magazine covers and headed straight for the rear of the store, where the young lady behind the counter was bagging a few prescriptions for the only customer in line, a tall man with a fedora and circular-rimmed spectacles. After she finished, she wished the man a good day and asked Angela if there was anything she needed help with.

  “Yes, actually,” Angela said timidly, approaching the counter. “Dr. Wilson called in a prescription for me?”

  “Ah, yes.” Angela examined the girl's name tag, which read, “Kandi.” Kandi turned to a small box teeming with prescriptions and began rifling through. “Shepard, right?”

  “That's right.”

  “Very cool,” she said, and then read off the label to Angela. The name of the drug sounded like the technical name for a species of previously undiscovered sea creatures.

  Angela shrugged. “I guess that's right.”

  “Here you go,” Kandi said, handing over the bag.

  “How much do I owe?”

  The girl shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “All paid for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “I mean, it's already been taken care of. You owe nothing.”

  “How... who?”

  Kandi shrugged, her lips parting into an amiable smile. “I don't know. Doesn't say. But it's in our system. Maybe Dr. Wilson?”

  “Why would she?”

  Kandi sighed and lifted her shoulders. “I don't know, Mrs. Shepard. There are some good people out there in the world. What can I tell you? Never look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.”

  “Well,” she said, hesitant to take the bag from her. “Thanks.”

  “I watched the show, by the way.”

  “Oh?” Angela forced herself to smile. No one had recognized her in public yet and that first sip of celebrity tasted strange. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah...” she said, her mouth pulling taut, the skin around her eyes forming deep wrinkles. “I'm so sorry for your loss and everything you and your husband went through. My heart bleeds for you both.”

  Angela tried to keep the smile intact, but she felt it slip. “That's... that's very kind of you to say.”

  Kandi nodded, changing her demeanor back to its original salesperson facade. “He's still alive, you know,” she bubbled.

  Angela went rigid as her blood froze in her veins. Her skin hardened with gooseflesh and her heart rattled around her chest. She felt her eyes expand, nearly pop out of their sockets. Words died in the desert her mouth had become. She managed to squeak out, “What did you say?”, but she hardly sounded like herself.

  A smile broke across Kandi's face. “In here,” she said, pointing to the center of her chest. “In your hearts.”

  The girl's choice of words wasn't easy to shake. Angela forced herself to smile back, but she didn't need a mirror to tell she was grimacing with uneasiness. She closed her eyes and nodded as if to say, okay-you-scared-me-shitless-but-now-I-understand. “I see...”

  “I'm sorry,” Kandi said, losing the smile. “I didn't mean to overstep my boundaries.”

  “No, it's fine. It's just... my husband and I don't discuss it much. It's strange hearing other people talk about it.”

  “Yeah, I sorta gathered that from the show.”

  Something tugged at Angela's throat. “Yes. Well...”

  “Have a great day, Mrs. Shepard. I look forward to experiencing more of your journey.”

  She waved the girl goodbye, but before she turned and headed for the exit, she noticed Kandi kneading the crucifix dangling from her neck and whispering quietly.

  She swore the girl was praying.

  Or reciting some ancient verse.

  Whatever it was, it wasn't English.

  * * *

  The second she stepped outside, Angela opened the small bottle and tapped a pill into her palm. She popped it in her mouth, cocked her head back, and swallowed it dry. She pressed a hand to her head to feel if she was warm, if maybe she was coming down with a fever. She was achy and exhausted, but her forehead felt cool, normal. She took a deep breath and wondered if she was going plain crazy.

  Maybe that's it. I'm past the breaking point my mother always warned us about. Or maybe I'm just a fucking whacko.

  Angela crossed the parking lot and headed for her car. Her eyes were immediately drawn across the lot, focusing on a familiar vehicle.

  [The woman pulls her Oldsmobile into the Red River Mall parking lot, gets out, and heads to the food court where she buys a two-scoop ice cream sundae.]

  The woman. She was slumped in the driver's seat, her eyes scanning the downtown landscape. Watching. Waiting. Spying.

  Oh God.

  As their eyes met and locked onto each other, Angela felt the bottom of her stomach plummet. Her bladder filled and she did everything within her power to keep from wetting herself. She dropped her small shopping bag on the pavement and began walking toward the woman's vehicle, entranced by her sudden presence. Come to me, she almost heard the woman whisper in her ear. In the distance, the Oldsmobile cranked to life. Angela quickened her pace. Come to me. The smell of gasoline was heavy in the air. She almost choked on it.

  Come to me.

  Angela broke out into a run, speeding—

  Come to me.

  HONK! HONK!

  A blue sedan knocked into her, launching her a few inches off the ground. Angela immediately sprang to her feet, looking back at the young driver who had tapped her.

  “What's the hell's wrong with you, lady?” the kid asked, irritated as if he were the one sprawled on the concrete.

  Angela put her palms up to signify she was okay. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just...” She looked over to where Rosalyn Jeffries had been parked.

  The old woman was gone.

  “Shit,” Angela said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Are you okay, lady?” the kid asked with the same amount of frustration. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “No, I'm fine.” She scanned the streets for evidence of the Oldsmobile, but the woman had disappeared behind a steady flow of mid-morning traffic.

  “Well, watch where you're going next time,” the kid said as he cruised by her.

  “Thanks for the advice,” she replied, under her breath, while heading back for the dropped prescription.

  The entire way home she couldn't shake that I'm-being-followed feeling.

  V.

  LOVE WILL SEE US THROUGH TO THE BITTER END

  Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. Terry had prepared another one of his stellar home-cooked meals, and Angela spent most of the time peering down at her food, nudging the lemon-garnished chicken and buttered broccoli around her plate.

  “Not hungry?” Terry asked.

  Angela set down her fork. “Not really.”

  “What have you eaten today?”

  She rubbed her forehead, trying to remember. “I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich earlier.”

  “That's it?”

  Shutting her eyes, she breathed deeply through her nose. “Haven't had much of an appetite lately.”

  “Since the...”

  She nodded.

  “Maybe you should see someone.”

  She gulped. Does he already know? How could he? She had been so careful. The bills were sent electronically to an e-mail address she had secretly created behind her husband's back. She felt bad doing so, but it was necessary. Abbie had promised to keep their sessions private—patient confidentiality and all that—and Angela knew that was a promise she wouldn't break, despite her repeated recommendations for couple's therapy.

  “I already have,” she said, the wor
ds slipping out before she could fully think them through.

  “Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Yes. For a while now. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I thought you'd be angry.”

  He set down his fork, resting the utensil on the edge of his plate. “Why would I be angry?”

  She averted her eyes from her trembling fingers and stared at him. “I don't know. Thought maybe you'd see it as a sign of weakness. Like I couldn't cope with what's happening. That you'd think I'm crazy and not love me anymore.”

  “Honey...” He pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He meandered around the table and hugged his wife. “Baby, I would never think that of you.”

  She sobbed into his chest, soaking his shirt with tears. “You were so distant after those first few months.”

  “I know, babe. I know. It was my fault. I was... I didn't know how to cope with it, either.” He planted a kiss on her forehead and let his lips linger. “Tell me about this psychiatrist.”

  Pulling away from him, she collected herself. She dabbed idling tears with a napkin. “Her name is Abigail Wilson. She's very nice. Today she gave me a prescription to help with the... the... hallucinations.”

  “That's great, honey.”

  “Promise you're not mad?”

  “No, I'm actually proud you're getting help.”

  She laughed incredulously. “Proud? Okay, who are you and what did you do with my husband?”

  Terry clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. That patented smirk-frown rested crookedly on his face. “Babe, I'm here to support you. Whatever you are going through, we're in this together. I'm here to the bitter end.”

  “Love will see us through?”

  “Always.”

  Angela smiled. “You know, Abbie wanted to bring you in for a couple's session.”

  Terry grinned. “Well, I don't know about that. That's kinda where I draw the line.”

  “I told her you'd say something like that.”

  They shared a chuckle. Then Terry dropped his smirk and frown act, and his face went rigid. “No, but in all seriousness, if you think it'd help...”

  “That means a lot to me.”

  He kissed her again. “Come. Follow me.” He grabbed her hand.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have something to show you.”

  * * *

  In the candlelit room, they undressed each other. Terry kissed her neck gently and squeezed her breasts. She closed her eyes and grabbed him. He lifted her into his arms as she jumped up and wrapped her legs around him. He laid her down on the bed with more force than she had anticipated.

  She opened her eyes. He stared down at her. She closed her eyes again and her body was instantly injected with a pleasure she'd long since forgotten.

  “Terry,” she breathed into his ear as he started to maneuver around inside her, knocking his hips against her bottom. As their bodies rocked in perfect harmony, she bit her lip, so hard her tongue detected metallic flavors.

  Love will get us through...

  “I love you,” she whispered in a hot breath. “I love you so much.”

  ...to the bitter end.

  She cried.

  When it was over, she cried some more.

  VI.

  IF NOT HERE, WHERE ARE WE?

  She awoke to an empty bed. Terry had already left for work, gone hours before. In place of his body was a plate of chocolate-chip waffles topped with a puddle of strawberry syrup and a heap of whipped cream, a folded note tucked neatly beneath it. She snatched the note first and unfolded the paper as if it contained the code to disarm a nuclear warhead. With giggly schoolgirl joy, she read her husband's message:

  Babe,

  Last night was pure magic. I love you. I feel whole again.

  Terry

  I feel whole again.

  Those words stuck. She felt something too, and though the past had broken her, battered her once high spirits, that morning she awoke reconnected with some semblance of her former self. The world seemed brighter, sharper. Her vision crisper. Senses fired on all cylinders, her energy restored. Angela opened the bedroom window and let in a breeze carrying earthly fragrances, oddly euphoric, scents that traveled up her nasal cavities, into her brain, coating her mind and soul with a comforting shiver, a message from the world saying everything would be okay and it'd all work out in the end. That the journey ahead would be long and hard, and sometimes uncomfortable and often grueling, but in the end, she'd survive and become almost whole again.

  The moment lasted about thirty seconds, the time it took for her to notice the black Oldsmobile parked across the street. Her stomach lurched, the taste of sickness entering the back of her throat. The tantalizing aroma quickly faded as her nerves swam fiercely, throwing her body into a state of perpetual chaos. Panic stabbed her chest, causing her heart to pump like a locomotive piston. The attack was so strong her arms and legs tingled with numbness, and, for a second, she thought someone had cut open her veins. She checked herself to make sure her flesh was free from injury, and of course, she found her skin unmarked. Her eyes returned to the Oldsmobile and searched for the driver.

  The front seat was empty. So was the back. There was no one on the sidewalk. No one at all.

  Where is she?

  She poked her head out the window and glanced around the property, down the street; the woman was nowhere in her line of sight. Her mind kicked into a frenzy of terrible thoughts, recalling the obscene images from the other night.

  Oh God, she thought, does the woman still have the key?

  She couldn't remember giving Barry back the keys to the Vermont house, but realized she wouldn't have because Terry handled those details. But still...

  What if she still has the key?

  Angela wondered if the woman had been in the house between the hours Terry left for work and the end of her long nap. She pictured the old witch standing over her while she slept, chanting and dancing, conjuring the spirits of another realm of existence (the Everywhere), a place where demons slept and waited, biding their time to cross over worlds. She imagined the woman dangling a chicken over her naked flesh, digging a blade beneath the bird's skin, the savage removal of its head and the freshets of blood raining down on her. She envisioned the woman's words having the power to open the walls and give birth to an ancient gateway, granting access to a fiery underworld harboring horned beasts and otherworldly creatures eagerly awaiting the flesh of God's precious, chosen creations.

  Her cell rang, pulling her out of the twisted reveries.

  She dashed across the room, over to the nightstand and grabbed her phone.

  “Terry!” she answered, breathless and sounding manic.

  “Morning, love. Did you enjoy my surprise?” She knew he was grinning by the tone of his voice. “I wish I could have cuddled you all morning, but, you know, duty calls.”

  “Terry, I need help.”

  A slight pause. “What's the matter?”

  “She's here.”

  “Who's there?”

  “The woman.”

  “What woman?”

  “From the show, Terry. From the goddamn show.”

  “Rosalyn Jeffries?”

  “Yes!”

  Another pause. “Well, is she nice?”

  “Terry!”

  “What?”

  “I think... she... I think she's here to kill me.”

  Terry bellowed with laughter. “Baby, please. That's ridiculous. Why on God's-Green-Earth would she want to kill you?”

  “Because...”

  “Baby, you can't be serious.” Another beat. Then: “Wait. Are you serious?”

  “I don't know. Maybe. I have a bad feeling. Whatever's been going on with me lately, I think it's...”

  Terry waited. “Yes?”

  “I think it's her fault. It's like she's done something to the house. Put a curse on us or something.”

  “Put a curse on us? Do you know how crazy that so
unds?”

  She did, which was part of the problem. She hardly believed it herself but she couldn't shake the feeling her intuition was correct, that the woman had jinxed the house and was now haunting her from afar.

  “Yes, Terry. I absolutely know how fucking crazy that sounds. But I can't... I can't explain what's happening to me any other way.” She gulped. “She infected this place.”

  “What do you want me to do?” She could envision her husband pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes, his patented move when his patience was worn.

  “I don't know.”

  “I can call the police. But they'll be pissed if the woman came by to drop off a cake and a jar of cookies.”

  The doorbell chimed.

  “Shit, Terry. She's at the door.”

  “Okay, so what am I doing?”

  “Call them. Call the police.”

  “Fine.”

  They hung up.

  Angela, crouching, stalked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and stopped when she reached the top of the stairs. She stayed there, spying the front door, eyeing the shadow stationed behind the decorative full lite of obscured glass.

  God, what does she want from me?

  “Mrs. Shepard?” the woman called. Her voice matched the accent used on the show, and hearing the inflection live and in person sent a chill streaking down Angela's spine. “Mrs. Shepard, I know you're home. I understand we don't know each other, but I feel we need to talk.”

  Remaining silent, Angela sat down on the top step, clenched her eyes shut, and listened. She thought about replying, having an actual conversation with the woman, intending to keep her there long enough until the police arrived, but, in the end, she decided she didn't want any communication with her. Not with the woman who'd hexed her home.

  That witch.

  “I know my time is limited,” the woman said. “You've probably already phoned the police, but, if you think you need help, please seek me out. I think you understand my meaning.” The woman paused, giving Angela one last opportunity to respond. “Good day, Mrs. Shepard.”