Ruins of the Mind

by Jason Stadtlander

  “Vermúdez,” he corrected.

  “Can you pass a drug test?” she asked again, her stone face glaring at him.

  “Yes ma’am, I certainly can.” And thankfully, he was done with her.

  DOMINIC HAD NO problem passing either the background check or the drug test and was hired immediately for the opening at Lake Mont Elementary. He was taken aback some by his reaction to acquiring the job as a custodian; to his surprise, he was actually elated. He had a steady job again with the added bonus of being at his daughters’ school.

  Over the next few weeks, Dominic met regularly with two counselors: one who helped with his physiological battle and how he coped with stress as well as a career counselor who ensured everything went smoothly with Principal Shelton.

  Each move toward recovery from the past year’s onslaught was only a baby step, but it was a step in a positive direction. He continued working his janitorial job at the girls’ school, and after some talks with Susan, she agreed to let him walk Allison and Cassie to school each morning. He arrived at the apartment during the school day at 7:30 a.m., and the three walked hand in hand for several blocks to Lake Mont. Then in the afternoon, he would accompany the girls home. Sometimes, he even ate dinner with his family prior to heading back to the school for his nightly duties. It was hard work—waxing floors, cleaning dirty bathrooms and dealing with the massive amount of trash the student population produced—but he was grateful for the job, happy to be productive once again and to be bringing in some money.

  ALONG THE WAY, Dominic became friends with Traggen, the officer who had picked him up in the park months ago and dropped him off at the shelter. In time, Dominic landed a job as a civil engineer for an engineering firm handling roadwork for the city. For the first time in more than a year, he felt like a man again and was able to assume shared custody of the children. Having his girls back in his life on a consistent basis provided the positive energy he had been missing for so long.

  ONE SUNNY AFTERNOON, Dominic sat once again on a bench in his favorite park with the glass fountain in the center—a bench only three down from the one on which he’d spent that fateful night months ago. In front of him, his daughters laughed in delight as they fed the frenzy of ducks fighting over the bits of bread the girls flung in their direction. His ex-wife, now a friend, sat beside him. Their hands never touched, as their relationship had not returned to its former closeness; even so, they sat together comfortably, sharing a different kind of bond now. They had each found a happiness of sorts, content in the knowledge that they had done one thing together very well—parent their girls.

  Chris lay under the covers in his king-size bed. He was staring at the Thomas Kinkade painting on the wall that was illuminated by a streetlight outside his window. He’d been lying there, unable to sleep, since carrying his daughter Ashley back to her own room around nine o’clock. His five-year-old now lay sleeping peacefully in her own bed, while he found himself wide awake, wishing he’d kept her there beside him.

  Chris had been lonely since his wife had died three months ago, and at times he allowed Ashley to sleep next to him in an attempt to ease the emptiness. His little girl would snuggle up next to him, wrapping one arm over his chest, and the warmth of her forced him to realize that life goes on. It was always comforting to know that part of his deceased wife lived on in his daughter lying peacefully beside him.

  The painting was of a small cottage with warm, welcoming lights in the windows and soft, pristine snow on the ground. There was a time when he had found the painting appealing, even peaceful. Now, however, it was unsettling. Its serenity mocked him, reminding him of something that would never be. Without the intimacy with his wife, there would be no real happiness for him.

  His wife Angie had been what he’d hoped for but had never believed he’d find. Nine years ago, she and Chris had connected in ways he had never thought possible, marrying not long after they started dating. Then some irresponsible bitch had gotten behind the wheel of a car while drunk—the miserable woman had been traveling sixty miles per hour when she plowed full force into Angie’s Honda Accord. The crash killed his wife instantly, making the drunkard’s miseries his own by cruelly removing a loving mother from her daughter’s life forever.

  Detestable painting. He fought the urge to get up out of bed and toss the thing into the closet. It had been a treasured gift to his wife. He recalled how excited Angie had been when she received the painting last March on her birthday; that memory—the look of surprise on her face and the sound of her voice—earned the painting permanent residence on his bedroom wall. He would always remember how much it had meant to her, and so it remained.

  Chris glanced over at the clock on his dresser. It read 1:39 a.m. As always, his gaze habitually returned to the painting. Still staring, his eyes finally closed and sleep overtook him. Just as every other night, however, sleep proved to be a dark blanket wrapping his mind in a veil of disturbing dreams; it had been this way every night since Angie’s passing.

  One hour later, he awoke to Ashley screaming from the other room. He bolted upright out of bed and ran across the hall to his daughter. There she stood, her back rigid against the headboard, staring through the black of her room at the corner opposite the night-light.

  Even in the dark, Chris could see his daughter was terrified. “Daddy—it’s the dewts. Please—keep them away!” Her voice was thick with fear, and she was crying.

  Chris turned on the ceiling light, looking quickly about the room in the direction her eyes were fixed. Nothing. He ran over to her and, wrapping his arms around her trembling body, hugged her in an attempt to make her feel protected. “Sweetheart, there isn’t anything there,” he said softly.

  But his daughter wasn’t buying it. “The dewts!” she cried, near hysteria.

  Ashley had begun talking about the dewts shortly after turning three, but she had always referenced them lovingly, as her playful friends. For Chris, her descriptions had conjured up images of fanciful fairies—diminutive magical creatures that little girls loved. To date, the imaginary creatures had never sounded malevolent or harmed her in any way. So why was she suddenly so frightened of their presence in her life?

  He tried again to console her. “Ash, the dewts are your friends—remember? They won’t hurt you.”

  “No—they’re angry…and they want to hurt me!” she stated, the panic in her little voice rising.

  “Angry? Honey—what are you talking about?”

  That’s when he looked down and saw Ashley cradling her tiny hand in her flannel nightgown. He was concerned when he saw a small amount of blood near her index finger. Chris reached over and gently pulled her hand away for a closer look, but she didn’t acknowledge him. Ashley’s eyes remained locked on the corner of her room. Upon closer examination, he saw a small scratch, not very deep but enough to draw blood. He looked around the room in an attempt to ascertain what might have caused such a thing, but he saw nothing.

  Chris turned back to his daughter, kneeling down to look her directly in the eyes. “Ashley, tell me how you scratched yourself?”

  She looked up into his face, blinking back tears. “The dewts.” The tone of her voice sounded less desperate now.

  Her father continued. “Sweetie, imaginary friends don’t scratch you.”

  The fear in her round ice-blue eyes was palpable, and she spoke as earnestly as any child could. “Daddy—they are real. The dewts are real and they’re here.”

  Chris couldn’t take looking into the fear-filled eyes of his daughter for one more second. He picked her up and held her in his arms, wanting desperately to make her troubles disappear. He hugged her hard, but Ashley didn’t reciprocate. Chris carried her back to his room. Not speaking a word, they lay on the bed together, daughter wrapped in the arms of her father, until both drifted off to sleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Chris prepared breakfast for Ashley. While pouring a bowl of Fruit Loops, he heard her walk up behind him and say in a near whisper, “Da
ddy, the dewts said they are sorry for scaring me.”

  Chris turned around and looked down to see his little girl standing there in her nightgown all sleepy-eyed, rubbing one of her eyes with a tiny fist.

  “Tell me, what happened last night?” Chris asked, thinking this calm in the storm might be a good time for clarification.

  Ashley looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You were very upset but wouldn’t talk to me about what happened—you just cried a bit and drifted off to sleep.”

  A corner of her lip curled up in concentration. “I woke up and saw three dewts sitting on my pillow. They scared me. I jumped. Then one of them told me that I had not done my job. I asked him what he meant, and he got angry. That’s when he scratched me on the hand, Daddy.”

  “Had not done your job—what does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly, lowering her eyes.

  Chris didn’t know what to make of this. “Come over here and eat your breakfast,” he said lovingly. He carried the bowl of cereal to the table and handed her a spoon as she sat down. He then walked back to the stove and began frying chopped onions and mushrooms in olive oil to add to his omelet.

  “Do you see any dewts here?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to look at his daughter, gauging her reaction.

  Ashley looked around the kitchen, taking her time to check things out. In all seriousness, she answered, “No.” Then she continued crunching her cereal nonchalantly.

  So the coast was clear, at least for now. “Ash, if you see any more dewts who are being mean to you, come and talk to me—okay?”

  Chris was quite certain that Ashley had somehow scratched her hand on the rail of her bed but nonetheless wanted to ensure that she felt safe and out of harm’s way. How strange though that the imaginary dewts had suddenly turned on her. From what he’d heard from her about these fictitious childhood friends, they had always been amiable companions.

  How he missed Angie’s motherly presence in this moment. She would know exactly how to handle the imaginary friend problem. Angie had been adept at handling Ashley, instinctively knowing just how to react to every thought and fear. It seemed to Chris that he was stumbling his way through everything he did as a father. His young life had been filled with the usual boyhood props—dinosaurs, transformers and baseball. Dolls, fairies and dewts were just not part of his growing-up paradigm. None of this was remotely familiar, and he found himself radically unprepared for the single-parent role. How he wished now that he had spent more time watching and listening to his wife as she responded to Ashley’s fears, needs and desires.

  Chris snapped out of his nostalgia back to the present moment and poured the egg mixture into the now-sizzling aromatic vegetables. Ashley’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Daddy, what’s a treamatoad?” He looked over from his omelet to his chewing daughter and smiled at the sight of her mouth, packed full of cereal when she thrust this question upon him.

  “A what?” he asked. He was certain he had never heard the word “treamatoad” until now.

  “A treamatoad,” she confirmed.

  “I have no idea. Use it in a sentence.”

  Ashley bit her lip in concentration. “Last night the angry dewt told me that if I didn’t do my job, he would be forced to use the treamatoads.” Still stirring the eggs, Chris looked back toward his daughter. She sat looking at him, waiting expectantly for an answer.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” he said, laughing. Chris was puzzled by this conversation. Ashley was so utterly convinced her bad dream had been a reality that he was beginning to wonder himself if the dewts were more than fiction. No…not likely. He retrieved the two sausage patties he’d put in the microwave earlier, placing them on his plate along with the eggs.

  Chris sat down at the table and drank his coffee, studying the face of his daughter. She was still waiting for his answer. “What do you think they are?” he asked.

  His daughter concentrated hard. “I don’t know.” She was looking down, focusing on the bowl of cereal sitting in front of her. Suddenly, her head jerked back up. “A weapon maybe? The mean dewt said he’d have to use them, and he seemed angry.”

  Chris glanced at the clock on the wall. He knew one thing for sure. He didn’t have time right now to extend this discussion. “Ashley, finish your breakfast and get dressed.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  Dewts and treamatoads. What’s next on the parental agenda—the boogie man?

  Ashley stood up and headed toward the stairs but stopped abruptly in mid step, her leg frozen in the air, not even her nightgown moving. Chris jerked to attention, looking over at his daughter’s frozen form. “Ashley—Ashley? What’s wrong?”

  Something wasn’t right. He stood up and moved toward his daughter. At that exact moment, he happened to glance up at the clock on the shelf above the table. The second hand had stopped. He looked over at the sink and saw a drop of water frozen in midair between the faucet and the sink.

  A tiny creature vaulted out of the wall next to the table as if it were made of nothing but air. The thing landed and stood defiantly on the table, grunting. It was about five inches tall and had golden, shimmering wings and the face of a wrinkled old man. Long, flowing blond hair cascaded to its shoulders, and there was a hard cap—or possibly some kind of shell—atop its head. Its body looked like a cricket but wasn’t black, and it had the same peach-colored skin on its face that covered its thorax. The thorax curled down and back up again to a stinger-like appendage, resembling a scorpion tail. It stood on four legs and had four arms that ended in sharp claws. A black leathery breastplate covered its front—a shield of some kind? This thing was a grotesque, fairy-like creature that looked like it was prepared to do battle at any moment. Chris had a vision of hundreds of these things flying out of a wall and consuming any living creature they came in contact with. This particular one was alone, however, and it moved with great speed across the table.

  As soon as the creature had traveled halfway across the table toward Ashley, its alert little eyes spotted Chris, and maneuvering an impressive on-a-dime detour, it shot straight at him instead. As Chris jumped backward to avoid the coming assault, he knocked over a chair behind him. The creature came within six inches of his side of the table and stopped abruptly, glaring at him. Never breaking its hateful gaze at Chris, it then slammed its two clawed right arms down hard on the plate full of eggs, sending it flying to the floor with a loud crash.

  The creature spoke. “Tell the child to prepare the gate, or the treamatoads will be sent!” Its voice possessed an unusual, raspy quality—no warm and friendly countenance there. It then screamed an unsettling, piercing shriek at Chris and made its exit back through the wall.

  Instantly, everything around Chris returned to a normal motion: Ashley walked and the water dripped. He was acutely aware of how void the room had been of the normal sounds of life just seconds before.

  “Ashley!” Chris yelled.

  Ashley turned around and ran quickly over to her father, surprised to see the chair knocked over behind him on the floor. “Daddy—what’s wrong?” She appeared apprehensive.

  Chris was trying to make sense of what had just happened. “You just stopped moving, frozen completely…and then the wall—some angry little thing just came out of the wall and started screaming at me. What the hell is going on here?”

  Chris searched his daughter’s young face for an answer. Her demeanor was suddenly more relaxed. She scrunched up her nose and lowered her chin, looking up at her father. “You saw a dewt?”

  “I…I don’t know,” he said, forcing himself to match the now-calm demeanor of his daughter.

  Ashley seemed matter-of-fact. “What did it look like?” she asked.

  “It had an insect-looking body with a sharp tail and an old man’s face on it—ugly little thing.”

  Ashley grew anxious. “And yellow wings?” she asked, eyes widening.

  “Well…golden and sort of shiny—ye
s.”

  Her mouth opened in surprise. “That was the one that was angry with me and scratched my hand.”

  Chris’s mind was racing to connect the dots. He could imagine how something with those nasty-looking clawed arms could have scratched his daughter, just as she said. Was it possible?

  He composed himself and changed the subject. “Ashley, get dressed. You’re not going to school today, and I’m not going to work. I think we need to spend some Daddy and Ashley time. Why don’t the two of us head for the park?”

  His daughter’s eyes brightened, and a smile spread across her face; she was ecstatic. “The park? Really? Just you and me?” She was clearly delighted with this turn of events and needed no convincing to buy into the sudden change of plans.

  “Yes. An early weekend for you and me…with no dewts.”

  Ashley darted upstairs to get dressed. Chris stood by the table and reached for the overturned chair, standing it upright, and then he looked down at the egg mess on the floor. He was no longer hungry, so he picked it up and set his plate on the counter, stopping to consider what had just taken place.

  Standing there looking at the wall next to the table, the hair on his arms prickled. What was that thing? Could I have imagined all of this? I’ll be damned if I’m going to let whatever the fuck that was torment my daughter. He made the decision that he would allow Ashley to sleep in his room under his constant watch until this freaky scare—whatever it was—subsided. Fantasy or not, this was unnerving, and there was more than enough room for the two of them in the king-sized bed, even with Ashley’s horizontal sleeping habit.