by A. R. Braun
I chuckled, trying to hide my anxiety. She whipped her head my way with menacing speed, which sent my heart fluttering, a frightening one, this girl.
“Lost your way from where?”
She turned towards the fire again. You’d think she was watching Sex in the City on my huge widescreen television.
“From you, you malicious son of a bitch!” she spat as she turned toward me while her hands slapped her knees. “Slave of the devil, you’ll eat my pussy in hell!”
Not being able to take any more, I jumped up, moving toward the landline on the redwood stand by my easy chair. “I won’t have such disrespect in my household! I’m calling the police!” I dialed nine-one-one and slowly turned towards the couch to see how proud she looked now.
The woman was gone.
I’d grabbed a fleece blanket and draped it over me. Now I paced impatiently in the foyer while waiting for the police to search the estate.
There’s no way I’m letting that crazy bitch hide in my home!
Shivers took me. I crept into the living room, closer to the fire. My eyes fell upon the grand painting of Tia, worth a fortune, not one I’d ever sell. Her full lips smiled down on me, her eyes filled with love, a lady with so much to give, robbed of her life—and my hope—at a mere twenty-five. God, even Jesus Christ had outlived her. I moved forward to stoke the fire, directly under the work of art, and her eyes followed me the way painted eyeballs sometimes do. How I longed to touch her milky-white skin, to squeeze her supple breasts, the tops of which stuck out pert and full from the front of her gown.
“No sign of her anywhere, Mr. Carmichael,” the cop with the crew-cut said as he advanced down the spiral staircase. His booming voice made me jump. Hot chocolate splattered on me and my clean rug.
“That’s a negative here too,” the policeman with short curly hair called while making his way from the kitchen. He’d been searching in the basement.
I nodded—all I could do—struggling not to cry into my beverage. How could a young, petite lady make such a fool out of me in my own home? Am I becoming soft?
“If she comes back, give us a call,” the crew-cut added.
“I’m prepared to offer a reward for her capture.”
He crossed his arms. “Are you offering me a bribe?”
I sighed. “Never mind.”
“All right, then. Have a good night.”
I saw the officers to the door and shut it behind them, taking especial care to turn the bolt locks. Damned if she’d make a fool of me again. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting five Rottweilers and five pit bulls that will eat anything that dares to come onto my property.
The grandfather clock chimed as soon as I walked into the living room. I jumped, and then watched with disgust as a black widow spider crawled along the wainscoting. Arachnids. Infernal things! My exterminator couldn’t even get rid of them. At least the clock had recovered. I noticed the second hand moved on my watch, also.
The heater came on with a whoosh I would’ve sworn was a catcall. You know how your house can talk to you, as if the mansion had howled at the prospect of having a lady present. When I scanned my expensive paintings in the living room, all eyes were upon me. The dogs and the foxes in the hunting painting gawked. Lady Godiva stared me down. Did her breasts point my way also? Even the dog-faced god on my cane by the fireplace had turned to glare at me.
I’m a little young to be going senile. I needed sleep in the worst way, but how could I rest after what had just happened?
A loud bang of thunder shook the buttresses, scaring me so badly I tripped and fell onto the carpet, my hands flailing out in front of me to break the fall. The black widow spider now charged at me on the carpet, absurd as it was, as if it could take me. I jumped up and stomped the arachnid into oblivion.
The wind howled, another bolt of lightning struck and the lights winked out; time for bed, whether I liked it or not.
It eased my nerves knowing that the police had searched the house and came up empty. The home creaked under the force of the storm, which subsided as my drowsiness grew stronger.
Sleep took me.
It seemed only a second went by before I was awakened again by a disturbance on the roof. I wondered if the storm had turned into a tornado.
Then it hit me.
Someone was crawling around up there. I lay in my bedroom on the highest floor, the third, but I could hear the laboring scrapes of dragging feet and hands pawing for purchase. It can’t be a person. It’s got to be an animal, but what creature would be on the roof during a storm? The animal headed for the turret, my study, containing a library of tomes and my new computer.
When I thought about it, however, it didn’t sound like an animal. Oh my God, it’s a human being, the woman that was here earlier! I wondered if the year alone in the house had made me mad as a hatter.
A sharp bang thudded from the room down the hall. I envisioned the study window flying open and the woman creeping in from outside. The next thump led me to believe she was now inside the house, coming for me. Fear strangled me and I sat bolt upright, waiting. Beads of sweat broke out all over my body, and my heart raced as I checked the corners of the room. Though I wanted to rise and charge into the study, I was frozen to the spot.
Be a man and confront her!
The pistol in my oakwood bed-stand boosted my courage as I grabbed it and crept down the long hallway. How much could a middle-aged man take in one night? My legs and arms shook; the gun wavered and I almost dropped it. I turned the cold knob and jerked my hand back at the sting. Thinking I’d drop the weapon, I forced myself to open the door, and it creaked like the gates of Hades. When I flicked on the light, I discovered the power was still out. Expletives poured from my mouth because I hadn’t grabbed my flashlight.
Lightning illuminated where the rain had poured in and soaked the armoire and the mauve couch next to it. Someone had pulled apart the lavender curtains my dearly-departed wife had made. I circled the room with my gun pointed before me as I inched towards the aperture, every shadow a demon laughing in my face. I slammed the window down and locked it, but before I could draw the drapes back together, the storm resumed. Lightning struck, revealing the woman in black standing right next to me, her hair parted just enough for me to see one of her wide, green eyes peering at me with more malice than the devil’s, her skin white as a bed sheet, her hands clenched into claws as she reached for me.
I cried out and fell. The gun escaped my hand and went off as it hit the floor. Thank God the bullet didn’t hit me. I hyperventilated when the lights came on and revealed no one in the room.
That’s when I passed out.
My first thought when I came to was I need to call the police again, but this time I wouldn’t wait for them to find the bitch. I’d seek her out myself and do away with her. It would be self-defense, after all.
I found myself in bed, not knowing how I’d come to be there, and I turned my head to look at my alarm clock, which had revived. It flashed twelve o’clock. I flicked on the light and checked the dresser for the gun but came up empty. I heard scurrying under my bed. Had rats found their way up from the cellar?
My breath was visible as though the temperature had dropped several degrees, yet the heater continued to pour out hot air.
Two hands crept from under the bed and onto my silk sheets, the albino hands with black nails I’d seen on the woman that invaded my home! My heart leapt in my chest. The top of her black hair became visible, then the rest, still covering her face. I trembled and screamed bloody murder.
She stood nude at the side of my bed. I didn’t think it possible, but arousal stirred in me as she pulled back the black wool coverlet, as well as the silver silk sheets, and climbed underneath.
A sex-starved stalker I could deal with, even though she’d given me quite a start. Against my better judgment, I didn’t struggle. She straddled me, her kisses on my neck cold and delicious. Her hair reeked of the earth, and sparks of delight charged through m
y manhood from the touch of her soft skin, though cold. Dying for a look at her face, I pushed her up gingerly while I groaned with ecstasy, so glad I hadn’t shot her or handed her over to the police. I could see full lips smiling beneath the drying bangs as she parted them.
I sucked in a breath volubly the way one does when in shock. The face of my wife grinned down upon me, the lady who’d died a year ago! A light twinkled in her eyes when she cocked her head sideways. Then her skin peeled off and turned to ash, leaving a skeleton astride my quivering body, her hair full of maggots, my erect penis sticking through the hole in her pelvis while she continued to grind. I screamed.
The memory that had been repressed asserted itself, Tia angry because I never took her out anymore. I’d gotten behind in my business and took to crunching the numbers late at night, and as the world flushed itself down the toilet of gangster hell, my desire to go about town had diminished. Her screams came back to me, along with her dissatisfaction. She’d pushed me—the nerve!—and Lord help me, I’d pushed back. The frail thing hit her head on the fireplace and her light winked out forever.
You mustn’t push a woman at any cost. I wasn’t even that angry!
Flashes of me burying her in my grand backyard while rain poured relentlessly and my missing person’s report to the police. I’d offered a reward.
I’m a murderer.
As I came out of my trance-like state, Tia no longer straddled me, or her skeleton. Again, she was gone.
My mind had snapped, that was the only rational explanation. Surely I hadn’t experienced a haunting. So I’d checked myself into Springfield, Illinois’s mental asylum where I had my own room, at least until they admitted another patient. Overmedicated and a bit spoiled, I didn’t miss all the hard work of crunching the numbers, and I didn’t yearn for the house after the haunting, though I regretted what I’d done to Tia as I retired to bed.
I thought of how I’d been working with the doctor. Did a breakthrough lurk around the corner? I could get my life back, maybe get—
Water drip, drip, dripped from the vent, and its cover moved. Tia’s glowing green eyes glared at me. She changed again. Her skeleton crawled from the too-small hole, her soaking hair infested with worms, and I knew I’d never be alone, condemned to die with whom I’d killed.
Forever.
NREM Sleep
“Is the real nightmare sleeping or waking?”
—Bong Otto, a burned-out philosopher.
Wednesday.
Adriana lay in bed, afraid of falling asleep, of having that dream again, where she’s in the nursery at church, about to . . .
She draped her long brown hair over the pillow. Her eyelids became heavy, and the world turned to black. She couldn’t help but give in—so tired.
She sat in the nursery, a couple of little girls sitting on her big-boned lap. It was the evening service and the stars and the full moon shined in the small, rectangular window. The smell of baby powder and piss consumed her nostrils. The children screamed, Waverly, the chunky, red-haired girl on her lap, crying while gulping down tears; Willow, a wisp of a girl with black hair bobbing as she bounded up and struggled to waddle away; and a blonde, slim boy named Huey throwing toys to-and-fro.
Overwhelming responsibility took her. She hefted Waverly up and walked over to check on Joey, the sleeping baby in the crib.
He lay on his chest, face in the covers.
Oh God, turn him over! Don’t let him die of crib death!
She tried to set Waverly down so she could turn Joey over, but the former shrieked and thrashed like never before.
Sentient fury mixed with fear came upon her as she turned Baby Joey around, blue-faced, chest not heaving, dead . . . of SIDS.
“No!” Adriana shrieked. “Oh God, it’s my fault, please, no!”
Waverly bit down on her leg hard enough to break the skin. A stinging pain encompassed her calf.
As if possessed by a beast, Adriana bent down and snatched Waverly by the hair, yanking her up and grabbing her neck.
No, I can’t hurt that little girl! Somebody stop me and help her!
No one stopped her. Only upon being awake for hours would she wonder why she hadn’t tried dream control.
She shoved Waverly towards the wall . . .
Adriana woke thrashing and screaming.
A strange man gaped at her and then grabbed her shoulders. “Honey, it was just a dream!”
“No!” She kicked at him, hitting him a few times in the chest.
He fell off the bed with an “Ugh.” Wide-eyed, he lay on the floor, his short brown hair mussed, his glasses hanging on his face sideways. He rose and straightened his spectacles. “You’re awake. Everything’s all right.”
Confused, Adriana rubbed her eyes and looked at the strange man in the room. Her eyelids felt heavy. If she could just get some more sleep. She lay on the pillow and closed her eyes.
Darkness covered her like a shroud.
Thursday.
The sun shined too brightly through the garden window, and the white glow blinded her as she shielded her eyes with her hand. She rose and drew the curtains. Spring has its drawbacks. Sitting back down, Adriana drained her fourth cup of coffee while white strings of smoke rose and curled from the cigarette in her shaky hand. Her husband sat placated behind his plate of sausage, eggs and pancakes. She envied his devil-may-care attitude, willing to bet he’d never suffered from night terrors in his whole life.
As if in answer to her thought, he met her eyes. His brow furrowed slightly while he took a sip of coffee. “Hon, are you all right?”
She broke down and cried. It was too much, the memory of that dream. Should I be running in the nursery?
Kerry rose, slipped his arms around her from behind and shushed her. A twinge of arousal asserted itself when his hard muscles intertwined with her flesh, but it wasn’t time for that now.
“Baby,” he said, “What’s the matter? Another dream?”
She nodded.
“What was it about?”
Her tears ran into the brown stains at the bottom of the white coffee cup. “I hurt, oh God, I hurt those . . .”
“Oh, sweetie.” He kissed her cheek. “Hurt whom?”
I can’t tell him. He’ll put me away. “Honey, I think I need to see a doctor. These night terrors are driving me insane.”
Kerry nodded and kissed her. “I’ll make the appointment. We need to get you better.”
He headed for the phone.
Fortunately, the sleep clinic had a cancellation but, unfortunately, it wasn’t until tomorrow. She’d have to face another night of—
No.
Adriana sat on the black leather couch with Kerry, one of her hands in a bowl of popcorn, the other wrapped around a stinging bottle of diet soda. Caffeine was her best friend now.
Kerry stretched his arms out and yawned. “Well, I’ve got a hard day ahead of me tomorrow. I’m fixing a school’s A/C unit.” He faced her. “Coming to bed?”
She shook her head and focused on the television. She’d insisted they watch shows as innocent as possible, programs that wouldn’t give her nightmares. They’d started with a movie about babysitters and had ended up on a children’s channel, watching pretty boys and girls fret over a musical audition.
He rubbed her back. “Come on, babe. Even though you can’t see the doc until tomorrow, you need your rest.”
She laughed. “Oh, screw that to hell and back. I’m staying up as late as I can.”
He sighed, let go of her and rose. “All right—goodnight.” He bent, kissed her, and then made his way to the bedroom.
Adriana had the fan on. It was hot, but too early for the air conditioner in April. She chugged the sweet-tasting soda, working on draining the bottle. The episode playing on the widescreen bored her, but boring was just fine . . . just fine . . .
Her eyelids got heavy. She shook her head and slapped her cheeks.
The room’s walls changed from white to sky-blue, accompanied by flu
ffy, white clouds. No. The TV morphed into a crib—Joey’s crib. Oh God, please don’t let this happen. She felt the couch move, looked to her right, and sitting on her knee, Waverly reached into the popcorn bowl. They sat in a wooden chair with bars at the back. Willow sat on the floor trading slaps with Huey, snot hanging from their noses.
Baby Joey lay on his chest and face again. Waverly wailed, and Adriana turned to look at her. Tears ran down her face.
“You gonna hurt me! You not my mommy!”
She rose and put Waverly down. The latter keened. Adriana darted around Huey and Willow to get to Baby Joey. This time, without fail, she turned him over. The infant gulped breaths and then started crying. Thank God.
Something hard endeavored to go up her rectum. Adriana wheeled around and saw Waverly with a small toy truck in her hands. The child laughed. Her tears had stopped blurring her red face.
The fury again, oh God, the turmoil. Make it stop, oh God, make it stop!
Adriana’s hand went into the air as if possessed, then balled into a fist.
No! Don’t hurt the kid!
The red-haired stepchild’s eyes grew wide. Adriana couldn’t stop it, as much as she tried. Huey and Willow rolled on the floor in the corner of her eye, yanking out each other’s hair.
Brats!
The haymaker swung Waverly’s way . . .
Adriana woke up thrashing on the couch. A loud whistle—a teakettle?—ranged in the background until she recognized her own high-pitched scream. She beat at the pillows and spilled the popcorn and diet soda all over the rug, where the pop fizzed.
A stranger ran into the room in his blue bathrobe, tightening the string over his waist and looking over Adriana. His eyes had grown wide. The man walked toward her.
The rage again, how dare this strange man try to comfort me, where am I, I’ll kick his ass!
She bounded up off the couch, ran at him and buried her head in his stomach, knocking him over the TV. The set crashed, crackled, and set off sparks. The strange man rolled over and held onto the back of his head.
