Devin meets me with a tense smile and a nod.
“Ready?” He tries not to sound tense. He fails.
“No.”
“Good, neither am I. Let’s go.”
We cross the road separately, in case one of the adult Coopers decides to join their offspring by the window. The building’s glass door is ajar. I leave it this way for Devin as I enter a lobby almost entirely identical to ours.
Their potted palm tree is slightly smaller and the floor tiles are a darker shade of faux marble, but other than that I could have well just walked right back into my own building. Visually speaking, at least.
The emotional aura generated by the place, however, is something else altogether. By the time I get out of the elevator I’m so groggy I can barely stand. The air upstairs is thicker than Texas chili and about as pleasant to breathe.
I don’t even need to look up the apartment number. Its plain white door is practically screaming with virulence. The atmospheric pressure in its vicinity is fit to crush a sherman tank.
I regret having left Devin behind. Without him, everything rocklike seems lightyears away. Here it’s all vague, soupy and menacing.
And yet, all is not lost. The walls are grey. They are even somewhat granite-like in texture. It’s almost like a sign from some divine benefactor.
I tap into this greyness even as it swims before my eyes, holding my breath and squinting at the nearby wall. It grows increasingly solid. A small object materializes between the fingers of my right hand. Chill to the touch and roughly rounded, it is reassuring in its concreteness and, this time around, its familiarity.
Somewhere inside my head, I’m pretty sure I can hear the word “attagirl!”
If - when! - we make it out of here, I’m taking him out for a celebratory beer. After all, one needs to get to know one’s friends, as well as one's enemies. I give the rock a little squeeze. It holds. Grows bigger.
The elevator goes back down. I wait for it to rise again, making sure it stops on the floor above the Coopers’ place. Only then do I walk over to the door.
Grey rock.
I ring the doorbell, repeating the words with every echoing toll. Grey. Rock.
Raised voices drift from inside- somewhat agitated, if not outrightly quarrelling. A TV set is on somewhere in the apartment, failing to drown out the argument with obnoxious cartoon music and eerie high-pitched laughter.
By the time I hear approaching footsteps, the rock feels lighter. Pores are forming under my fingertips. I force them away. Thinking of towering basalt columns, I flatten the surface back into inconspicuous homogeneity.
Grey. Hard. Cold. I chant inside my head. Smooth.
The peephole goes dark for a brief moment as a female voice utters a careful “yes?”
For a second I wonder whether Mrs. Cooper is even aware of her own plans for the evening. The two strike me as the type that does a lot of talking at each other with little communication in between.
“Um.. Hi. I’m the babysitter. I spoke to…”
“Edmund! The babysitter is here!” She yells, unlocking the door. I’d think her rude if I weren’t more inclined to write it down to frayed nerves. And if my own nerves were not too taunt to care about manners.
To my relief, Mrs. Cooper is dressed, made-up and perfumed for an outing. Her hair is gathered in a sophisticated high bun and the modest décolleté of her simple black dress is accentuated by a delicate flower-shaped pendant on a thin silver chain.
She welcomes me with a smile so nervous you’d think she was the one facing a potentially fatal ritual. Then again, living with a soul-sucking Wurdulak can hardly prove beneficial to one’s psyche.
Well, one way or another, her problem is about to be solved. I try to tell her so with my smile, but I doubt she’s in a state to notice. The rock in my hand starts pulsating and I squeeze it again, making an effort to conceal it. Acknowledging its invisibility would damage its realness.
I start building a second rock in my mind, imbibing it with wary indifference, as Edmund enters the living room. His nondescript bottom down and old fashioned side part help me depersonalize the rock. I wonder if there is a word for the opposite of inspiration. At any rate, I’m grateful for the newly found source of whatever it’s called.
He’s wearing creased slacks the shade of soot, matching the patent leather shoes showing from beneath them. Accordingly, my mind paints his shirt- originally striped white and navy- a dark mousy hue. Even his smile seems grey in its tense melancholy air.
“Amber!” He offers his right hand for a shake. I put my bag down and awkwardly answer the shake with my rockless left. “What a pleasure to put a face to the voice. I believe you’ve already met Irma- Joy’s mother?”
Not ‘my wife.’
Irma forces her own smile a little wider and considerately offers her own left hand. Merely chill at first touch, her long fingers grow numbingly cold within seconds. Her pallor deepens to near irridicience. I don’t need to turn my head to notice the little figure creeping into the living room.
Instead, I return my gaze to Edmund, or rather to the chunk of granite that has formed around him. Finally, having drawn enough uninspiration from her father, I’m ready to face little Joy.
Or so I thought, before I saw the rage on her little face. She can sense that something is wrong. And she doesn’t like it.
“So, I brought some stuff… to keep little Joy busy,” I turn back to the non-vampires in the room.
They both look too eager to leave to concern themselves with the contents of my bag. For all they care, I could have filled it with porn and razorblades. A part of me wishes I did- at least about the latter.
At first I chalk it up to paranoia, but soon enough I can tell that neither my ears nor my imagination are at fault. The girl hisses. It’s nothing like Snickerdoodle’s agitated “leave me alone” hiss. This one sounds more like someone is pouring liquid nitrogen into Satan’s butthole. Except I’m the one to end up with a gutful of ice.
Irma half-kneels by her child, cooing gently like one would to a much younger infant. The little brat will have none of it. When her mother tries to stroke her hair- a mane as wild and unyielding as its owner- Joy throws off her hand with such force Irma almost loses her balance.
Irma, in turn, refuses Edmunds helping hand just as obstinately, if not as violently. A family dynamic fit to fill whole volumes on behavioral psycho-pathology.
Joy throws a final series of kicks in the general direction of the rock- now occupying over a quarter of the living room’s space. She probably can’t see it, but she sure as hell can feel its presence. Then she runs off into the hallway and disappears into one of the rooms. The pink and baby blue accents visible through the open door indicate a nursery.
Irma picks a fitted trench coat from a chair and slips her feet into high heeled pumps the same shade of dark indigo as the coat. She looks determined to leave before I change my mind.
Edmund isn’t any less eager to leave, but he’s not quite as comfortable with the notion. In fact, he looks guilt-ridden near to the point of self flagellation. As if he knew a lot more than he should.
“As I said, she is a bit peculiar, is she,” he giggles uncomfortably. “But she’s a good kid, she really is. Just a bit nervous, you see? We don’t go out a lot, so she’s not used to being away from both of us at the same time. Give her some time… She’ll open up to you…”
“Hey, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine,” I sneak a look at the rock, to make sure it’s still there. Still solid. “You guys have fun. We sure will, I promise. She’s a precious little girl, I can tell right away.”
I’m grateful for every bit of emotional blocking I can manage. I don’t think I could handle any more self loathing.
Edmund tends to an imaginary piece of lint on his jacket sleeve as he mutters his gratitude. His parting smile brings to mind thoughts of toothache and killer clowns.
Irma nods and promises that they’ll be home by midnight.
“There’s a list of emergency numbers on the refrigerator. Both our numbers are there. Oh, and help yourself to any snacks you find in the cupboard over the sink,” she adds as an afterthought as she opens the door. I’d be happy to take her on her offer if I weren’t so queasy.
Now it’s Edmund’s turn to nod, finishing off with an awkward wave as he shuts the door behind them.
I don’t follow Joy into her room. I neither want to, nor need to. The familiar sensation of being watched returns before long. I can feel it picking away at the boundaries created by the rock- gnawing away on the mortar, clawing at the bottom in an attempt to tunnel through.
I fix my eyes on the monolith. Adding another layer of gritstone, mixing in some quartz and granite for extra hardness. Basalt veins appear where little cracks have formed. I feel the approaching presence as I even out the surface. Blend in the colors into a single hue of old playdough.
Her frustration is palpable. She circles me like a hungry beast that won’t quite dare approach a lone traveler’s fire. I get a glimpse of her face. Along with perplexed rage, there is something there not unlike curiosity. The way a fox is curious about the contents of a chicken coop.
She looks like she’s about to hiss again. Instead, for the first time since she’s entered my life, the girl speaks.
“You’re different,” her voice is far too hoarse for a girl her age. She obviously doesn’t use it much.
“Yes. yes I am.”
I break out of the tightening circle being charted around me and walk to the door.
“Are you going?” She wheezes at me as I unlock the door. I don’t need to check the peephole to know that Devin is there.
“On the contrary,” the monolith grows a shade more solid as he enters the room. “I brought a friend. And we have a surprise for y…”
If her previous hiss was scary, this one is outright bloodcurdling. The rock shivers as the whole room reverberates with the scream of a thousand pressure cooker valves being yanked open.
My initial instinct begs me to jump into Devin’s arms, Scooby Doo style. Luckily, I hesitate long enough for the voice of reason to hop in. It orders me to focus on protecting the rock at all costs.
I re-shape it, mending all cracks and faults until it resembles a huge pebble. The next hiss leaves it untouched. Devin squeezes my shoulder in approving encouragement.
“Come on,” I turn back to Joy, having fished the sticker sheet out of my bag. “Who doesn’t like a surprise?”
I half expect her to fly at me, fists swinging. But her hissing quiets down and her curiosity loses some of its predatory ferocity.
I make sure to let her get a peek of the glittery side. Possession or not, the little girl is still somewhere in there. And she’s intrigued.
Devin already has a crayon drawn out at the ready. Within seconds there is a perfect circle adorning the parquet next to my feet. Little Joy is still too fascinated with the stickers to notice either his vandalism or the quick sign he gives me with his free hand as he steps back towards her.
I make the rock melt away at the very second Devin grabs the girl. This time the hiss does not come out of her mouth. Rather, it emanates from a spot about ten inches above her head.
The air in that spot shimmers, momentarily taking on a semi-anthropomorphic shape.
Joy’s scream is lost behind a shattering howl- something between a wuther of Yorkshire wind and a steppe wolf’s dying wail.
I watch Devin push Joy away with as much force as he dares use without causing her any serious damage. Then he takes two giant steps toward the circle, just as I step into it. A second later I step out on the other side, as the air inside it quakes with menacing energy.
This time I actually yell the words “grey rock,” like some fucking Pokemon master. The monolith snaps into existence so quickly, I can almost hear a woosh of imaginary air leave the space it does not quite occupy.
The air inside the circle shimmers again, forming a roaring vortex as the entity changes the course of its progression. Too late, motherfucker.
It almost seems too easy. Everything happens so fast, the entire incident is a blur. The spirit rages as its surroundings reverberate with the dull pop of the sealing circle. One final gush of wind- like a translucent tentacle lashing out- and then the roar grows muffled.
I suppress a little yelp of premature glee, even as I realize that something isn’t quite right. At first it looks like Devin has merely stepped back to avoid the air gush. This changes when I realize that he doesn’t bother to stop. The motion carries him all the way to the nearby wall. He hits it with a loud thud and ends up sprawled at its base in a pile of awkwardly spread limbs.
The spirit in the circle roars again, invisible walls shivering under the blows of equally solid invisible limbs. It becomes obvious that the improvised cage will not hold for long.
“Devin!”
For all the response I get, I could be talking to my rock.
Joy, on the other hand, momentarily comes to and starts crying.
I rush towards the wall, making sure to stay as far away from the circle as the room’s size allows.
“Devin!” Whatever magic has knocked him unconscious, it won’t be lifted by sheer vocal force. I grab him by the shoulder, hardly resisting the urge to shake him into consciousness. If it’s a concussion, shaking him could exacerbate the damage. “Wake up, goddammit!” I slap him instead. To no avail.
As I turn away, I find myself staring into a pair of eyes as terrified, as utterly helpless, as I myself feel in my current state.
Without the spirit inside her, Joy is just another child. A child scared near to death. So scared she reaches towards me across the floor, willing to grab the hand of a complete stranger. She clings to me with her tiny fingers like a drowning man clinging to his very life. I am torn between an impulse to shake her away and an equally powerful infantile urge to cling back to her.
However, having seen my helplessness mirrored in her eyes, another instinct springs into being. The familiar rage at the prospect of being helpless drives me into action. My need to destroy the threat is stronger than fear and self-preservation combined.
Joy lets go of my hand with a little yelp as I jump to my feet. The monolith starts quaking once again- this time tremoring with pent up energy. Before I know it, my hands are raised, pulling it toward me like a huge magnet.
At first it only keeps shaking in one place, without any significant movement in space. Gradually, though, it starts rolling through the air. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if it were being pushed uphill. Then it moves a whole inch. Five inches. Ten. With every inch it gains speed, without losing any of its solid weight.
All of a sudden, it crushes into the cage formed over the circle. It bounces back but immediately returns to its original course.
At this point it’s a matter of intuition. I push the rock back to the far end of the room and then pull with a single motion, making it rush towards me once again. This time, the crush coincides with another blow from the spirit inside. The cage shatters as I make the rock drop down.
The words. Devin said they don’t matter. It’s all about purpose. About will. About what inspires you…
“Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!” I yell, crashing the rock to the floor. A final roar shakes the apartment. And then it’s all quiet.
Now all that’s left to do is get Joy to let go of my legs so I can finally wake up Devin. The bastard is starting to get me worried all over again and it gets in the way of my triumphant festivities. Plus, I can’t wait to see his face when he learns that I performed the whole thing on my own, while he was passed out in the corner like some wimpy-assed Lovecraft protagonist.
“Come on, sleepyhead! It’s over. We won,” I manage to shuffle all the way towards him with the sobbing child still draped around both my legs. “Devin, please… Wake the fuck up!”
Except he doesn’t wake up.
Not when I slap him again, not when I fill up his wrist. His neck. The pulse must be too weak. But it’s there. I know it is. It must be…
I curse him silently as I dial 911. The room is blurry again. This time it has nothing to do with ghosts.
The paramedics arrive shortly before the Coopers. The latter are utterly distraught. The former- utterly useless.
Two of them hover over Devin’s motionsell form looking for that goddamned pulse, while a third one holds me back lest I run over to them and find it myself. No matter how many times I tell them that he’s alive, they just need to wake the fucker up, they won’t listen. Even their defibrillator is useless. They must be newbies. Why the fuck did they send a bunch of newbie idiots?!
I don’t remember when, but eventually I realize I’ve stopped screaming. Devin is still out.
I haven’t even bothered to think up a proper excuse for Devin’s presence there. I think I’ve managed to stammer out something about a friend coming over to bring me a wallet I left at his place.
A friend. My only friend, now being carefully placed on a stretcher, as if it would make any difference. They even cover him with a blanket.
They’re no longer looking for a pulse. The time has been proclaimed and noted down.
No, I don’t know anything about next-of-kin. Yes, I will answer a couple of questions.
I feel like I should insist on joining Devin in the ambulance. A part of me is still expecting him to wake up. He shouldn’t be left alone. I shouldn’t be left alone.
The ride is short and uneventful. So is the stay in the ER. There’s nothing left to do other than confirm the obvious. Sudden stroke. Our condolences.
I’m almost grateful to the cops for not letting me leave the hospital without giving my testimony. I’d rather face my own lies than acknowledge the simple and irreversible truth.
It doesn’t look like any of the cops I talk to suspect foul play, not to mention otherworldly culprits. All evidence points to natural, with not a hint at super.
I’m not sure whether it’s something I’m emanating or some form of new suggestion power I have somehow contracted from Devin, but they don’t seem all too eager to talk to me in the first place. Like my very presence makes them feel all types of uneasy.
The same goes for the Coopers, though Edmund does call me the next day to offer his condolences. He doesn’t mention the circle in the living room. I don’t know what Joy has told her parents, but no further investigation ensues.
I am, however, questioned at length by a tall, stately gentleman in a dark suit who presented himself as Reginald Chesterfield. Devin’s supervisor.
He pens down a detailed account of the evening’s events and complimented me on having performed the ritual in spite of Devin’s unfortunate demise. Fortunately for both of us, his speech is as brief and to the point as his handshake is lengthy. Both prevent me from punching him.
Before he leaves, Chesterfield tells me not to worry about either the legal side of things or funeral arrangements.
I ask about the funeral. There is none. He was cremated.
I know I have no right to be this mad for being left out of it. I am, after all, practically a stranger.
Was. I was a stranger. There are no strangers in an exorcism, damn it. So fuck having no right. Fuck not worrying about it and fuck Chesterfield. Fuck The Brotherhood. Fuck Joy and fuck vampire spirits. But most of all, fuck you, Devin. Fuck you for not making it. For turning into a pile of ashes without ever bothering to ask me. Where is your “when” now, you stupid piece of shit?!
“One last thing,” Chesterfield hands me an envelope, not unlike the one Devin used for his letter. “For your troubles.”
The sum inside doesn’t begin to cover my troubles, even if it covers three months worth of rent.
“My visit card is inside, in case you’re considering a career change…”
“Hell to the no!”
“Well, in case you change your mind, The Brotherhood is always happy…”
I shut the door on the rest of the sentence.
Not that it matters much at this point. I wouldn’t have heard him over the ruckus the cats have suddenly risen in the kitchen.
Ear-busting and spine-chilling doesn’t even begin to describe whatever is going on there. One minute everything was quiet, and the next all hell broke loose.
As I rush to the kitchen I half expect to find yesterday’s spirit possessing both my cats at the same time. At first I even think this is what has happened.
Both Hamster and Snickerdoodle are squatting, ready to bounce, hissing and yelling their lungs out at each other from across the kitchen floor. The entire area between them is covered with spilled coffee grounds.
I was about to make me a cup when Chesterfield interrupted me and left the bag on the counter in my hurry to open the door. One of the assholes must have gotten to it on their way to or away from the other.
Having taken most of my frustration on the wall - luckily, my punch is nowhere near strong enough to break through the plaster - I give my raw knuckles a rest and walk off to fetch the broom.
“... good for nothing pieces of shit,” I keep muttering under my breath, letting out an occasional yell of “fuck!”
The fuckers are still hissing when I’m back, tailes raised so high and ears held so low they themselves can be mistaken for a pair of angry broomsticks.
“What the fuck has gotten into you, anyway?!”
I’ve already started sweeping, exercising tremendous willpower not to start with the furry monsters, when I detect an unusual gap in the grains. And another one. And a third.
I take a step back, squinting at the gaps. Gradually I realize it’s not just a random pattern. The spaces in the grains begin to form words.
SORRY IT TURNED OUT THIS WAY
My heart makes a little leap, but I can’t quite pinpoint the emotion.
This time I can actually see the grains progress across the floor in a disturbingly insectile crawling fashion. They remind me of old poorly made stop-motion films. I can almost hear eerie calliope music in the background.
TURNS OUT FOR ME IT WAS AN IF
“You don’t fucking say…”
YOU DID GREAT THOUGH
“Fuck you!”
YOU’RE WELCOME
I won’t say I’m crying, but my eyes are far from dry.
I’M REALLY PROUD OF YOU
“I hate you.”
NO YOU DON’T
Then,
SHOULD I LEAVE?
“The hell you will!”
And the hell he does.
I was this close to making a friend. I wish I did. For once, I’m not even scared of the word “wish”. But life only listens to wishes when you want it the least. So no friend for me.
It did, however, give me a roommate.
