Monster in My Closet

by R. L. Naquin

  I pondered this bit of sage advice.

  “Should I make popcorn?” I asked.

  “No, you must wear a tiara. And maybe you should be awake.”

  I looked over my shoulder at my open window.

  “Dammit,” I said. “I lost the thread.” This dream-journey thing was harder than I’d thought.

  I picked up the thread and followed it again. When I reached the tree Sebastian had been leaning against the last time, Bob Saget stepped out from behind it.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Zoey,” he said. “Getting your friends killed is not very responsible. I think you should go back to your room and think about it.”

  My stomach knotted up with shame. I was about to apologize and turn around when I realized Bob Saget was not, in fact, my father.

  I began to wonder how much was the work of my wandering mind, and how much was meant to intentionally distract me. If Sebastian knew I was coming and was placing barriers in my way, it meant he was afraid. I marched past Bob Saget without engaging.

  Of course, if this was my own mind throwing up roadblocks, it meant I was afraid. But I already knew that.

  I followed the thread down the road and onto Highway 1. It looked nothing like the real road I traveled every day, but I knew where it led. I was going to Sausalito. I could see the city lights in the distance and knew the journey wasn’t real. I was making good time on foot, whereas it was a good forty-five minutes by car. Dream math.

  My feet made a crunching sound on the gravel. I knew I was being watched. I squared my shoulders and followed the thread, which had thickened in my hands. The deeper I went into the dream, the more it grew. At this rate, it might get so big I’d have to climb my way over it before I was done.

  At the crossroad, I halted. There’s always a crossroad in dreams.

  Riley stood waiting for me, wearing a red and green striped sweater and Freddy Krueger’s hat.

  “Hurry up,” he said. “The coffee’s getting cold. Everybody’s waiting.”

  He motioned me to follow him down the left fork. I could hear people celebrating, glasses clinking. I took a step forward and dropped the rope.

  “Come on,” Sara said.

  “What happened to Riley?”

  “Who’s Riley?” She tugged at my hand.

  I looked at the road that forked to the right. Clouds had drifted in. They looked angry.

  “This is a horrible idea,” one said. Its face was puffy and soot-stained.

  “Which one?” I asked. “Your way or theirs?”

  He shrugged his billowy shoulders. “Doesn’t much matter, does it?”

  I turned to follow the left branch. The clouds had folded over and enveloped both roads. Which way?

  “Zoey, baby. You have to concentrate.”

  My mother stood in the road. She smiled and reached out her hand. I took it. “Concentrate,” she said again.

  The confusion cleared from my muddled head. “Thank you,” I said. I reached down and picked up the rope. It felt oily and frayed. I must’ve been getting close.

  The path through Sausalito was convoluted and wound in and out of shops and offices. Demonic rabbits, a rain of soap bubbles, and my ex-husband hanging upside down from a tree didn’t distract me as I made my way.

  I stepped out of an empty warehouse and blinked in the sunlight. I stood in the street, and the blackened rope hung limp in my hand. The end stretched out and hovered in the air, culminating in a dense, oily cloud that reached into the distance. It went everywhere and nowhere. I was both relieved and disappointed. Tracking down the incubus was impossible.

  But I could still destroy the connection.

  I closed my eyes and formed a sturdy, sharp pair of scissors in my hand. Light glinted off their surface. My grip on the rope was firm.

  Unfortunately, scissors are never sharp enough in real life, and this is equally true in the dream world. It was a bit of a moment-killer. I’d been hoping for a single, dramatic snip to do the job.

  I worked it down to a few last threads. I was torn between confident elation and the fear that Sebastian would pop up and stop me before I could finish.

  I focused. I cut. And before I was all the way through, my vision shifted.

  The rope didn’t change. It lay dead and frayed across my palm. The city didn’t change. It was still empty, a distorted version of the real Sausalito. The change came from me.

  I was glowing. All over my body were thin, wispy threads of silvery blue. They shot out in all directions, breathtaking and ethereal. I picked one out and followed it with my eyes. In the distance, I saw the other end connected to a tiny woman. I squinted to see better. Molly waved at me.

  I followed a second line, and it led to Moira from the bakery, and a third and fourth were for Gail and Alma Dickson. The threads were infinite in number and spread out across the town. Mrs. Talbot. The barista at my favorite coffee shop. The lady who delivered my mail.

  Sara.

  Every woman I’d come in contact with was connected to me.

  The rope in my hand throbbed and squirmed like a tentacle. Its inky blackness leached into every single line that was bound to me, infecting it. Every one of those women was in danger.

  I hacked at the final few threads of Sebastian’s rope until the last bit snapped loose, and I was free.

  It was too late. Incubus rot pulsed down the lines toward the women. I tried to cut those lines from myself, to amputate them before the sickness flowed all the way out, but these were connections of emotion, not so easily severed. Wherever my blades touched, the lines puffed into mist, then reformed.

  I slumped to the ground, devastated. He didn’t need me to track them anymore. I was too late. Every woman in Sausalito was a potential feast.

  I had accomplished nothing.

  The dark cloud at the other end of the rope condensed and took form.

  I imagined what Sebastian might look like as his true self. He could be some monstrous Cthulhu-like creature with tentacles and red, bleeding eyes. He might be ten feet tall, covered in open sores and have filthy, twelve-inch claws. He might be a two-foot-long slug with lightning reflexes and speed so fast I wouldn’t see him until he was oozing up my legs and gnashing at my flesh.

  I backed up faster.

  In dreams, that which we fear is the exact thing which will come for us in the dark. If we don’t think about it, it isn’t there. But I had thought about it.

  I did the worst thing a person can do in a dream. I panicked, turned my back and ran.

  I was no longer captain of my fate. I had nothing under control. I wasn’t aware anymore that I was dreaming. I only knew the squelching sounds behind me were getting closer and my feet were moving too slowly. Something brushed the back of my calf.

  I tried to scream. Nothing came out but a low, garbled sound like I was choking on a mouthful of hard-boiled eggs.

  I dove into my office and tried to climb under my desk to hide. I was too slow. It grabbed me by the shoulder and sunk its claws into my skin.

  I thrashed, refusing to turn and face it, terrified of what I would see.

  I tried again to scream. My throat closed up and the sound refused to travel up my windpipe.

  The unseen thing squeezed and shook.

  “Zoey,” it said.

  It knew my name.

  “No!” I thrashed harder.

  It shook me like a rag doll. “Zoey, stop it.”

  I batted at it with fists. “You can’t have me!”

  “Zoey, wake up!”

  I opened my eyes to find Maurice holding me down as I flailed my arms. Molly was standing on my nightstand with a worried expression, and beyond all reason in my sleep-fogged state, I saw a large furry face pressed against the window, fist braced to break th
e glass.

  “I’m awake! I’m awake!” I said, tearing loose. “Don’t let him break the window!”

  The skunk-ape opened his fingers and let his hand drop to his side. He grinned at me.

  “We were worried,” Molly said. “You would not wake up. We thought he had you.”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t see him. Just a regular bad dream. Maurice, would you open the window, please?”

  He squeezed my shoulder before releasing me, then patted my arm, as if to reassure himself I was whole. “You keep scaring the hell out of me, Zoey. How am I supposed to get anything done around here?” He crossed to the window and slid it open. “You take daredevil risks that make my hair fall out. Look at my hair!” He pointed to the top of his head. There didn’t seem to be any less than he’d had when he first got there, which hadn’t been much to begin with. It seemed prudent not to mention it—though the single bobbing tuft still winked at me. I never had offered him that hair gel.

  I dragged myself from under the comforter and moved to the window. The skunk-ape looked stricken, as if he might bolt.

  “Thank you for looking after me,” I said. “I don’t even know your name.”

  The hairy creature clicked his tongue and grunted.

  “He does not speak your language,” Molly said, having appeared on the windowsill when my attention was focused elsewhere. I really needed to find out how these people moved so fast. “His name is Iris.”

  I glanced at Molly, questioning whether I’d heard right. She nodded once and went still, giving me a warning look. I returned my attention to the skunk-ape.

  “Well, thank you, Iris.” I leaned out the window and offered my hand. He looked at it a moment before wrapping it in an enormous, gentle paw.

  His palm was rough, but bare, the rest of him covered in bristly gray and white fur. Parts of his face were naked as well—a long straight nose, saggy lips, the apples of his ruddy cheeks, and two very human blue eyes. I had expected a skunk-ape to smell to high heaven. To my surprise, he had a flowery scent, as if he’d soaked in aromatherapy bath salts. It was nice, not overwhelming.

  I placed my other hand over the back of his, giving him a warm, two-handed squeeze. “You don’t need to stay so far out of sight,” I said. “You’re welcome here.”

  He grunted twice.

  “He thanks you for your kindness,” Molly said, translating. “He prefers the cover of the woods, but will always be near if you need him.” Iris clicked his tongue and made a few guttural noises, then disappeared.

  “Iris?” I said after he was out of earshot.

  “He likes flowers. Skunk-apes usually live in the Southeast, but his aversion to the natural musk of his people caused them to shun him.”

  “Let me guess. He moved west until my mother took him in.”

  Maurice smiled. “You’re getting good at this.”

  “It seems to be the answer to most of my questions these days.” I dropped into the padded chair near the window. “Unfortunately, it’s not the answer to all of them.”

  “What happened in the dream, Zo?” Maurice asked. He took a seat on the edge of the bed.

  “I cut the cord, but I didn’t actually find him.”

  “But you were so frightened,” Molly said. “You did not see him?”

  “That was my own brain throwing up. I wasn’t exactly the picture of mental self-control in there.” I grabbed a black and green throw-pillow and buried my face in it. I groaned. Molly and Maurice were silent, letting me pull myself together. When I was done, I pushed the pillow away and looked at them both. My chest was tight with hopeless, unshed tears.

  “I was too late,” I said. “I cut him off, but he tagged every woman I’m connected to. He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s got a nearly endless supply without me.”

  “Oh, Zoey.” Maurice shook his head. “You can’t blame yourself. How could you know he would do that?”

  “There’s very little I do know, Maurice. I don’t know a damn thing that’s useful. He’s going to keep killing people I care about, and I can’t stop him.”

  There was one thing I could do, but I could barely think it to myself, let alone say anything to Maurice and Molly.

  If I were dead, he’d have to go back. It said so in the Demon Handbook.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I wasn’t suicidal. I sure as hell didn’t want to die. But I didn’t know what to do, either. I was distracted most of the day, twitching every time the phone rang, certain each call would be news of another death.

  Sara still looked run-down, but she tried not to show it. It was a battle between us to see who got to take care of the other one. She knew something was wrong with me, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could tell her.

  I considered talking to her about all of it. Aside from the unbelievable supernatural shenanigans, I had a relative stranger living in my house. Sara would not have approved. A predator on the loose? Sara would call the police. Small, uninvited creatures living in my linen closet? She’d have the number of a good exterminator.

  Add the supernatural to the mix, and my no-nonsense best friend would be rolling her eyes at me and offering to lighten my workload so I could “take a rest.” Sara did not approve of what she called woo-woo business. She wouldn’t even get her palm read on the boardwalk when we were on spring break back in college. Sara liked things neat and tidy, and that included her view of reality. I didn’t relish the idea of shaking that up. She put her palm on my forehead, the same as I’d done to her the day before. “Feels warm,” she said, lips pursed in disapproval. “You should go home.”

  “You can’t tell if someone has a fever if you have one yourself. I’m fine.”

  She dropped her hand. “Whatever this bug is, we both have to dump it before next week. Bad enough if one of us is sick for the Dickson Family Circus.”

  “I’m not sick, Mom. I’ll be fine. Maybe just need a little fresh air.”

  I walked out to the street and inhaled the smells of salt and fish and engine exhaust. My walls were solid and tight. I wanted no chance of making any more connections, possibly ever. So much damage had been done with this curse of mine. Since I’d cut the connection to Sebastian, any new contacts I made would probably be safe from him, but I wasn’t going to chance it.

  I walked with no destination in mind. I needed to think. I needed to breathe. I stopped at a light and looked around. I was sealed up so tight there was a surreal quality in being surrounded by cars and sidewalks full of people. I’d never experienced life the way other people apparently did. It was cold, empty and frankly, pretty lonely. The faces around me were a mystery, as if I were viewing them on a movie screen. I could guess at their stories, their feelings, but I couldn’t know.

  A woman stopped at the light had her phone to her ear. The other hand gripped her steering wheel with white knuckles. She appeared agitated, possibly yelling at whoever was on the other end of the call. A kid walked down the sidewalk, his hoodie pulled over his head, the obligatory wires dangling from his ears. His stride was slow and deliberate, his look thoughtful. Was he depressed? Thinking about some plan to take over the world? Simply keeping time to the music?

  How did people function this way?

  I continued up the street, watching the crowds. Two women strolled past, laughing and holding hands. They looked to be in love, but how could I know without feeling it for myself? A cop car flashed its lights at a green Toyota. The man being pulled over looked resigned, glancing several times at his watch.

  I supposed I could take all the physical cues and put them together to form the stories of the people around me. But they’d be guesses. I was accustomed to knowing. Maybe all these years I’d been an emotional Peeping Tom. That was an icky thought. I hadn’t considered the moral implications of emotional voyeurism. It was one thing to do it uncons
ciously, but now that I knew what I was doing—well, it didn’t make me feel so good about myself.

  It was a little cool in the Bay breeze and I pulled my sweater close. I walked past restaurants, the obligatory Sausalito houseboats, trendy shops and scores of strange, empty faces that carried no emotion to distract me, connect me or lighten my load.

  I grew tired of feeling alone in a sea of faces. I needed to think without distractions. Around a curve in the street, the buildings gave way to an incline of rocky, empty coast.

  I stepped off the sidewalk into the sand and trudged down toward the pylons beneath an abandoned dock. The spot looked perfect for some quiet meditation. My brain felt too heavy with dark thoughts. Listening to water lap against the shore would help me sort things out.

  As I neared the underside of the dock, the cool air dropped at least another ten degrees. Then my amulet kicked in. It was as if it had been in a deep sleep and was startled awake. The cold bit into my skin, and the chain vibrated with the chill.

  Fear made me nauseous, and a meteorite in my belly flipped over with a solid clunk. I’d walked right into Sebastian’s lair.

  My first instinct was to run, but my thoughts sped up before my feet could move.

  Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe the only way to fix this is to give up. I lifted my chin and tried not to show fear. Bring it.

  The area beneath the dock was not spacious. Sausalito wasn’t exactly a beach-boardwalk type of place. It was cramped under there. And dark. And cold.

  The sand crunched beneath my boots, and the sound of my own shaky breathing filled my ears. The tide lapped at the pillars several yards away, and I couldn’t remember if it was on its way in or out at this time of day. If I went in there, and the tide came in, I could be trapped.

  I stood at the edge, one foot under the dock, the other still out in the sun, deliberating. The amulet was like an ice cube beneath my shirt. I pulled it out and let it rest above the fabric. Warning duly noted.

  I gripped the wooden support with my right hand, took a deep breath and moved into the darkness.