Monday came quicker than Monica would have liked, and when Jacob’s alarm went off at 4:30 that morning, she was already standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee from the same pot she’d brewed for her husband. When he thanked her for thinking of him, but insisted she didn’t have to do that, she couldn’t admit to him that she hadn’t slept all night, that she had only lay staring at the ceiling in a crippling panic as she listened to the disembodied breathing from the corner of the room. She couldn’t tell him that she’d practically run down the hallway and into the kitchen, afraid something might grab her at any moment. That she’d spent the past few hours talking to Princess Jasmine, who sat in the chair next to her at the dining table, cleaning herself.
“You nervous?” she asked.
“Little bit. What about you?”
“I’m not starting a fancy new job today,” she laughed. Jacob didn’t notice her hands tremble as she grasped her coffee mug tight.
“Yeah, well, I just worry about you is all. I know we have the animals, and I know Zach will be here this whole week, but—”
“I’m fine, Jacob. I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”
Jacob bent over and gave her a kiss. “I’ll call you when I get a chance. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
He poured his coffee into an insulated thermos and grabbed his keys. “I’ll be back before dinner,” he said. And then he was gone.
But Monica didn’t feel alone. It wasn’t the cat’s presence she felt in the still room, either. It was something sinister, something that hadn’t stopped watching her all night.
But you didn’t tell him, did you? No, too afraid of judgement. Too afraid of asking for help. Well look where that got you.
She could feel the skin on the back of her arms turning to gooseflesh then, as a cold draft swept through the room. Jasmine jumped on top of the table and slowly arched her back, staring ahead where Monica had been facing. Monica reached under the table and removed the large kitchen knife she had taped there hours before. A single tear streaked down her face as she whispered, “Come on, then.”
The floorboards creaked from the hallway just outside the kitchen door, and Jasmine let out a small hiss in warning.
It’s in my head. It’s all in my head. Jesus, he only just left and you’re already starting this shit.
Monica pushed her chair back and walked around the table holding the knife in front of her, ready to strike. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest she could hear it thumping in the silence.
More creaking from outside in the hall.
“Show yourself, you motherfucker!” she exclaimed, finally.
From around the corner came her son, his arms raised high.
“Zach, what are you doing? You scared the hell out of me!”
“Um,” he said, his voice shaking. “I heard the door close and it woke me up. What are you doing with that knife, mom?”
Monica walked hastily to the counter, placing the knife back in the block. “Nothing,” she said. “I just didn’t know you were up. I heard noises in the hall. . .”
“I’m sorry,” Zach said.
“It’s okay, honey. But it’s really early. You need to get back to bed.”
“You’re up.”
“I was just telling your father goodbye,” she said. “I’m about to head back to bed myself.”
Zach eyed the nearly empty coffee pot on the counter. “Yeah. . . okay. Night, mom.”
“Goodnight.”
Zach made his way back upstairs with Jasmine trailing close behind, and Monica was finally, truly alone.
She hoped.
—
At dawn, Monica stood in the yard shoveling shit and glad to be doing it, glad to be doing anything that got her out of the oppressive quiet of that house. Also, she could talk out loud without waking her son, without any judgement.
“Good morning, babies,” she said to the chickens as she spread feed on the ground. Their happy clucks brought a smile to her face. She moved on to the goats, freshening their water and their hay, petting the female, who she’d named Billie Jean. Zach had taken to naming the two males, the kid he’d named Chipper, and the father—who was a rather large goat with impressive curling horns—he’d named Asmodeus. It was a name he’d heard somewhere at school and he’d said it sounded very fitting for such a stout and formidable animal.
Monica could see what Bud had meant about Chipper’s parents being protective of him, any time any of them got near him the two adult goats kept their eyes firmly planted on them until they got out of his immediate vicinity. She’d never seen anything like it before, but she did her best to approach him slowly if she needed to at all, and that seemed to work just fine for Billie Jean and Asmodeus.
Tending to these animals was a small thing, but it did seem to ground Monica, it made her feel like she was doing something important, contributing in some way. She had already decided that she would continue to work on her manuscript today, but she’d be lying to herself if she said that made her feel like she’d done anything at all, really.
Jacob married you fully aware of your baggage, you need to let it go. That’s the whole reason we moved here, he makes enough money for all of us now.
Good, now I don’t feel the constant urge to kill myself.
She shook her head, as if hoping those horrible thoughts would work their way out of her head through her ears so she could crush them under her heel.
—
When Monica came back into the kitchen she immediately heard a dull THUD sound from upstairs. She set her gloves on the counter and wiped her hands on her pants—a bad habit she’d not shaken from when she was a kid.
It’s just in your head, you didn’t hear a—
THUD.
Immediately, thoughts of something happening to Zach filled her head and she took to the stairs as the loud thudding sound grew louder still, and more frequent.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
“Zachary?”
No answer.
She climbed the stairs two at a time. She was outside his room now.
THUD.
She knocked on the door. “What is going on in there?”
THUD.
Finally she braced herself and turned the handle, pushing the door open. There was her son, lying on his bed, headphones on his ears, throwing a rubber baseball against the wall.
THUD.
“Zachary!”
Startled, he dropped the baseball and pulled his headphones off.
“Jesus, mom, you scared me.”
“What are you doing up at this hour?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep. I woke up when dad left, and haven’t been able to sleep since.” He saw her eyeing the baseball on the floor. “Don’t worry, it’s really soft, it doesn’t leave a mark or anything.”
“You’re definitely not the only one who couldn’t sleep,” Monica said with a sympathetic smile. “But please stop with the baseball for now, I’m going to work in my study for a while.”
“Yes ma’am,” Zach said.
“Thank you.” She retreated back into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
—
The coffee was hot, her head was mostly clear, and she had on her special pair of socks, it was time to get to work. Writing longhand was something Monica had done as a teenager, but now she preferred to use an old typewriter her mother had given her for as a wedding present; it was a clunky thing, the R key frequently got stuck, but she loved it anyway. She had written many works of short fiction on that thing, it had become a part of her, and her ritual would not be changed now, Microsoft be damned.
She stared at the title page of her novel.
It seemed to mock her.
You’ll never finish writing me. You never finish anything.
It only made her more determined.
She took a sip of coffee, set down her mug, and began typing, each keystroke another letter permanently etched into the wonderful book that no one would read.
Stop it.
She pushed those thoughts far into the back of her mind and continued typing:
The water on melancholy hill flowed down in torrents, pooling at the base like the trapped souls of those who dare drink from its basin pooled in Hell.
Monica stared at the page in bewilderment. “What in the—”
THUD.
She jumped, cursing under her breath. “Damnit, Zachary, I swear to God.” She sighed and pushed her chair back as she stood and headed for the door.
THUD. THUD.
“Zach! The ball! What did I tell you?”
She heard the crack of the bat from outside, the sound she’d heard so many times as Zach practiced his hitting form. She scampered to the window and glanced down into the yard, her blood running cold as she saw her son running to pick up his baseball. She saw The Tall Man wave at her from the treeline, only a couple dozen yards away from her son, and she heard the—
THUD.
Monica could feel her breathing speed up as she watched the keys on the typewriter begin to click-clack on their own.
Aren’t you going to stop him, Monica?
Make that little fucker mind.
Before it’s too late.
“Mom?” The voice was loud, too loud to be from outside. The voice had come from—
THUD.
— Zach’s room. But that wasn’t possible. She stepped back from the typewriter and tried to look out the window again, but the blinds fell in loud sheets and the curtains slammed shut. Monica screamed, and as the keys began to click-clack louder and faster than before, she backed into the hallway where she heard—
THUD. THUD. THUD.
—the droning of the baseball against her son’s infernal bedroom wall. If it didn’t stop she’d have to—
Make that little fucker mind.
Well, yes. That’s what she’d do. That’s what she’d have to do.
She heard it again as she jiggled the handle.
“Goddamnit, Zachary, I’m going to kill you!” Monica shouted as she kicked in the door to his room. But he wasn’t there, unless—
He’s hiding from you.
“Where are you, you little shit? I know you’ve been in here, bouncing that fucking ball.” She heard the sound again, a wet, dull thud. It was coming from under his bed.
THUD.
Monica knelt on all fours and peered under the bed. She could hear faint scratching against the wood floor, a short pause, and then she caught movement under the bed, tiny legs scuttling into view—tiny crab legs carrying a disembodied head against the wall in a sick, squashing—
THUD.
Wiping blood from her face, she shook in terror as she saw the raw brain matter pulsating through the cracked-open skull under her son’s bed. It turned to her then, and smiled, broken teeth falling apart and onto the floor to be crushed under the strange legs. Still, she’d recognize that face anywhere. It was her son’s.
The room grew cold as the thing spoke to Monica in a whisper: “They want him.”
“Shut up!” Monica shrieked. “Shut up, shut up!” She clawed at her ears.
The thing chuckled, spraying more bits of broken teeth and blood. “And do you know what else?” it continued. “You’re going to help them.”