Scary Out There

by Jonathan Maberry

  Rooted to the rug. Move!

  I move. Stumble. Fight

  to reach the door. Breathe.

  Can’t. No oxygen. Vacuum.

  Door. Almost there. Reach.

  Something. Pulling. Tugging

  me backward. Scream! Can’t.

  No air. Need air. Hands. Clawing.

  Hands? Can’t be. There’s no one here

  but me. Knob. Reach. Turn the knob . . .

  The Hands

  Let go suddenly, and when the door

  jerks open, I almost fall, face forward

  against the far wall. “Goddamn it!”

  A brew of emotions

  simmers inside.

  Fear.

  Anger.

  Curiosity.

  Hands? (Claws.) No

  way. My room is empty,

  right? The words on my computer,

  written by a dream. Right?

  Spooked or not, I turn around,

  suck in breath.

  Two steps, I’m at my door.

  I switch on the overhead

  light. It floods

  the room with stark

  white and nothing

  is amiss. No hands.

  No red glow. No

  words. Just a blank

  black screen. I reach

  for the power button, erupt

  a cold sweat beneath the hair,

  lifting on the back

  of my neck.

  The computer

  is already off.

  Mom Screams

  From the kitchen,

  Chloe! Damn it! Dinner!

  “I’m coming!” I insist

  loudly, but have to take

  several deep breaths and

  dig my fingers painfully

  into the opposite biceps

  so I can try to quit shaking.

  Mom would want to know

  what’s wrong, and what could

  I tell her? That my Mac seems

  to have a mind of its own?

  Okay, none of that crap

  happened. It all rolled straight

  out of my burial-fueled

  nightmares. I stuff it inside,

  go to share Mom’s table

  and make her happy,

  though I’m not sure why.

  She should feel as miserable

  as I do. But no. She’s humming.

  Singing some old eighties

  crap under her breath.

  When she hears my footsteps

  scratching the floor,

  she turns, grinning

  like some demonic clown.

  Hope you’re hungry.

  I bought too much Chinese.

  The sweet and sour is gag me

  sweet, and the chow mein

  noodles remind me of worms,

  but I stuff them into my mouth,

  try not to choke when they squiggle

  down, and hope Mom’s post

  bowling, carb craving appetite

  keeps her swallowing

  instead of talking. Right.

  Like that’s going to happen.

  Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah,

  blah. What did you do today?

  I could give her my usual,

  “Nothing much,” but then

  she’d feel the need to pry

  information from me. I

  shove another forkful

  into my mouth, chew slowly

  while I consider a lie.

  Screw that. Too much

  work. I shrug. “Went to

  a funeral. Burial, actually.”

  She cocks her head, curious.

  You don’t say. Like, whose?

  “Just this boy I know—knew.

  And to save you the trouble

  of asking, he committed

  suicide. Hung himself

  until dead.” Shock value.

  All she says is, Oh. Then, after

  some thought, Are you okay?

  My shoulders jerk up and down

  again. “Sure. I didn’t know him

  all that well. Just weird. One

  second he’s here. The next,

  poof. Wonder where he went.”

  If he took his own life, he went

  to Hell. You should know that.

  I’m sure that’s what her pastor

  would say, but Cam pretty much

  convinced me there’s no such

  place as Hell, or Heaven, either.

  “You really believe that, huh?”

  Well, of course. Don’t you?

  She stares like I’m a stranger.

  “I don’t know. I just wish

  I could be sure that there really

  is something more.” I think

  for a minute. “Hey, if I died,

  where do you think I’d go?”

  Zero hesitation. You’re a good

  girl. Good girls go to Heaven.

  Am I good? I suppose for

  the most part I am. I don’t

  cause a whole lot of trouble.

  Treat my mom okay, go to

  church with her on Sunday.

  But sometimes I think dark

  thoughts, and that was especially

  true when I connected with Cam.

  Does simply discussing suicide

  lock you out of the Pearly Gates?

  I wish the definitive afterworld

  manual wasn’t written thousands

  of years ago. Surely the rules

  have changed by now. Or maybe,

  like Cam said, all that garbage

  was made up by men thirsty

  for power. Mom offers two

  fortune cookies, allows me to

  choose first. As I unwrap mine,

  she opens hers and reads,

  You will receive good news

  from a long distance.

  “Hope it’s money,” I joke,

  then immediately turn serious

  when I crack open my cookie.

  A broken promise leads

  to an unexpected encounter.

  Goose Bumps Erupt

  “I’ve got a headache,”

  I claim, and it’s the truth.

  “I’d better go lie down.”

  Take an ibuprofen right away.

  You don’t want that to turn

  into one of your nasty migraines.

  I get them sometimes, usually

  induced by stress. “Will do.”

  But there’s something better

  than ibuprofen stashed

  in my underwear drawer.

  I return to my room, where

  Valium, Percocet, and Wild

  Turkey lay in wait. I saved

  them up for over a month,

  sneaking Mom’s painkillers

  here and there to augment

  my personal collection—

  some bought at school, some

  traded for, some prescribed

  by my personal therapist, Paula.

  Okay, I have a few issues,

  including anxiety and panic

  attacks, as well as intermittent

  insomnia. I do want to sleep

  tonight, so I pop a single Valium,

  plus a Percocet, wash them down

  with a small glass of whiskey.

  I don’t want to get sick, just

  messed up enough to tumble

  straight down into a darkness

  dreams dare not invade.

  It doesn’t take long. I’m sinking . . .

  I Hear

  The door knob turn, lift my eyelids

  as far as they’ll go, try to discern

  who has crossed the threshold and

  owns the footsteps creaking the floor.

  I see nothing. I try to sit up, but have sunk

  so low into my bed that it holds me

  in place. “Who’s there?” It’s a lame

  attempt to exhale words. They lodg
e

  in my throat, a huge wad of fear-flavored

  gum. Closer. Whoever it is has almost

  reached my side. Still, I can’t see him.

  I’ve no clue how I know the intruder

  is male, but I sense he has something

  unsavory in mind as he moves into place,

  and now the mattress depresses beside

  me. He wants me. Wants to touch

  my nakedness, sleep-warm beneath

  the covers. “N-n-no.” It’s a soundless

  stutter, and the invisible he is weighting

  me, pushing down on my body. I know

  what he wants and try to scream, “Help,”

  but all that escapes is a breathy hiss.

  He buzzes in my ear, Don’t fight.

  It won’t hurt. Imagine the rush

  when our energies collide. You broke

  your promise, but I’m patient, and

  since you wouldn’t come with me,

  I decided to visit you. Just relax.

  Cam. No, impossible. But the sheet

  lifts, the pressure shifts, an icy hot

  wave splashes against my skin, and

  still I’m deep-mired in quicksand.

  Our joining has no single entry

  point. It’s like every pore opens

  up, inviting the tiny electric pricks

  that sizzle, close to pain, and tingle,

  arousing the private places no one

  but I have touched. Though it only

  lasts a moment or two (who could

  take more?), the apex is spectacular.

  And with it, the weight disappears.

  I’m alone in my bed, the force field

  has disintegrated, and I can move

  again. Breathe again. Talk again.

  “Cam? Was that you? Where are you?

  Please tell me where you’ve gone.”

  I lie still for a moment, hoping to hear

  his voice, but the answer does not

  come as a whisper. It’s a single word,

  lettered red, on the screen of my computer.

  Correction. My powered-down computer:

  Paradise.

  I Slap Myself

  Into the present.

  Sit up to watch Paradise

  fade into the ether.

  Letter by letter.

  I take deep breaths

  to counter the anxious

  tremors. It was a dream.

  Not.

  It was a hallucination

  care of last night’s

  self-indulgence.

  Not.

  It was a product

  of my overactive

  subconscious brain.

  Maybe.

  As my heart rate slows

  from wind sprint to crawl,

  a phrase surfaces.

  Sleep paralysis.

  According to Paula,

  it’s when you wake up

  while your brain’s caught.

  Mid-REM sleep.

  Mid-dream. So you’re half

  here, half wherever, and

  your nightmare visitor

  isn’t real at all.

  The Experience

  Isn’t completely foreign.

  Something similar happened

  not very long after Daddy drowned,

  trying to save a toddler from a car

  overturned in a swollen stream.

  When I heard the door open,

  I thought it was he, come to say

  goodbye. That time, though,

  I viewed the scene as if looking

  up through water, and there was

  no voiced communication,

  nor low voltage electricity.

  Still, some unidentified weight

  did land heavily on top of me,

  crushing every emotion but terror.

  When I confessed this to Paula,

  she gave me the lowdown on

  sleep paralysis. “But it seemed

  so real,” I argued, half disbelieving

  her and half relieved it probably

  wasn’t Daddy’s ghost after all.

  Of course it seemed real. Many

  people think they’re being attacked

  by an evil spirit. But surely your dad

  wouldn’t want to scare you like that?

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “Sometimes he was really mean.

  Sometimes I thought he liked

  to be mean, like it helped him

  forget the bad stuff at work.”

  Paula nodded. A cop sees a lot

  of terrible things. Makes sense

  he might take it out on his family.

  But I’m betting he was a good man

  at heart and that he loved you a lot.

  She Convinced Me

  It was all in my head—

  a byproduct of my twelve-

  year-old psyche trying

  to process my father’s death.

  I haven’t had another episode

  since. Not until this morning,

  that is. Yes, they were akin.

  But the differences were notable.

  I pull myself out from under

  the covers, into morning cool.

  Mom will come knocking

  soon, insisting I go to services.

  Funny, because she was not

  a believer until after Daddy died.

  It didn’t take sleep paralysis

  to send her looking for answers.

  Too bad she found them where

  she did, because her so-called

  church seems more like a den

  of thieves to me. It’s cultish—

  all about hellfire, brimstone,

  and speaking in tongues, as if

  anyone could actually decipher

  exactly what such babble means.

  But it brings Mom comfort,

  so who am I to tell her I think

  Pastor Smyth is full of crap

  and living large off the generous

  gifts of his faithful followers?

  Regardless, I exit my bed,

  reach into my closet for a skirt

  (women in this congregation

  do not wear pants), head

  for the shower. I pause at

  the mirror, startled by what’s

  reflected there. Head to toe,

  my skin is red, as if sunburned.

  It wasn’t that way last night.

  I remember the electric sizzling

  and know they must be related.

  Now, as I stand here staring,

  a series of small bruises

  shaped like fingerprints

  appear all over my body,

  most concentrated on

  my inner thighs, breasts,

  and circling my neck.

  I blink disbelief. Once.

  Twice. They’ve disappeared.

  I hear Mom in the hallway,

  lock the door, hide behind

  the shower curtain, adjust

  the water temp to cool.

  By the time I finish and

  towel dry, my skin has

  faded from red to pink.

  I cover it all anyway, with

  a demure baby blue blouse

  and floral patterned skirt

  that stretches to my ankles.

  Plus I keep my makeup

  barely there, nothing

  dramatic to disturb Pastor

  Smyth or draw his attention.

  Nope. Please, just let me

  sit in the back, tuning out,

  trying not to think about

  what yesterday might mean.

  Somehow I Manage

  To mostly do exactly that.

  Good thing. Pastor Smyth

  is wordy today. A few key

  phrases do not escape

  my attention, however:

  darkness wrestles light<
br />
  key to the kingdom

  doorway to everlasting life.

  My own thoughts turn

  to Cam, of course, but also

  to Erica and Daddy, all three

  moldering in the ground.

  Did any of them discover

  the doorway, let alone the key

  to some Disneyland in the sky?

  The question has barely coalesced

  inside my head when I notice

  the vibration of my cell, which

  is sleeping in my bag. I reach

  for it with a trembling hand,

  extract it stealthily so no one—

  especially not Mom—notices.

  I move it carefully into my lap

  and words swim out of the dark

  screen. Paradise is better

  than Disneyland. No tickets

  required, and no key, either.

  Your friend’s here. Your daddy, too.

  I close my eyes. (Why did I

  look, anyway?) When I reopen

  them, the text has faded away,

  away and the screen is black

  again. Black, because I turned

  off my phone before services,

  like I always do. “Please leave

  me alone,” I beg silently,

  just as Pastor Smyth winds up

  the benediction and everyone

  rises for the coffee hour. My heart

  races, but Mom doesn’t notice

  that either as she goes to talk

  to Daddy’s old patrol car partner,

  Mark. She stands very close—

  maybe too close for church—and

  as always when I see them

  together, a hot shot of anger zaps

  my nerves. Yes, it’s been five

  years since Daddy died. Plenty

  of time for Mom to hook up

  with another guy. But why Mark?

  That feels totally wrong, and it’s

  becoming ever more obvious

  that they’ve bonded, both here

  and well beyond church, which

  is probably where it started.

  Mark, in fact, was the one who

  convinced Mom that this peculiar

  brand of born-again believing

  is her entry code to the Pearly

  Gates. Arm in arm, they approach

  Pastor Smyth, who grins broadly

  at their news. Now all three turn to

  stare at me. Whatever they’re selling,

  I damn sure don’t want any.

  As If I Have a Choice

  Mom kisses Mark softly

  on the cheek and as she starts

  in my direction, my phone

  vibrates. Like an idiot moth,

  drawn to a smoking lantern,

  I peek at the text. Snake oil.

  My ghost has a sense of humor.

  Wait. My. Ghost. I just thought

  that. Does that make him real?

  I suspect my cell holds an answer

  to the unvoiced question, but I

  don’t try to look because Mom

  is standing in front of me. Mark

  is coming over to watch the game,

  and he’s bringing pizza for dinner.

  Hope you don’t mind. We’ve got