I made a promise not to tell what happened. I have my living to earn, for my daughter Zoe above all. And I don't know what anyone could do. It's not a case for the police or even doctors. Maybe an exorcist or some sort of demon hunter would have a solution, but none of them have come forward. Anyhow, all has been quiet, so far. The nights are long, with the questions and the doubts, and I imagine that something somewhere is enjoying our uneasiness. Or maybe it is long gone. Maybe it has moved on. If so, I hope it meets with people who can deal with it. People better prepared than me.  

 

I was just doing my job, and my employer isn't about to say anything. She's promised me a bonus if I keep quiet, so we agree on that.

 

But I feel this urge, almost a compulsion to write it down, for the sake of my own sanity, even if I end up burning this when I'm done. If I get these thoughts out of my head, I can move forward, which is all I want.

 

I was only hired to clean.

 

Some communities have maid services. You can go online and sign up for someone to show up at your house, specifying if you want light or deep clean, how often a week or a month. I've seen the sites, looked them up on the internet at the town library.

 

We're a bit too isolated for that in Beaver Creek. Not enough people to sustain a business. So I just put up notes on the bulletin boards of our two churches and the hardware store.

 

Two clients contacted me. I expected the first one, Mrs. Glenna Miller, because this was her idea, and she'd promised to give me work. She's known me forever from church and has always been kind. Even when I got pregnant at seventeen, she never said a negative word. I'm almost nineteen now. I have my high school diploma, but with no jobs for miles around, I do housework.

 

My grandmother, who was basically the only other person on my side when I found out about the baby, gave me $50 to buy cleaning supplies. She said, "You work hard, and you can have a life as good as anyone." She lets me drive her old car with my supplies in the trunk, as long as I keep it neat and full of gas.

 

I don't have a special mop where you push a button and cleaning fluid squirts out. No wands with soft rubber or feathery bits to capture the dust. I clean like I learned from my mom. Rags, bucket. My fanciest mop has a metal strip that I press down to squeeze water out of the sponge. But at least I don't have to twist a sopping wet ropey string mop in my hands. And my hands aren't bare. I wear good-fitting rubber gloves. For Beaver Creek, I am state of the art.

 

And here I am writing about this like it matters how I clean. I guess I'm hiding in thoughts of simple reality the way some people hide in dreams or fantasies, because right now how I mop Mrs. Miller's floor is a comfort to me.

 

I need the real, the ordinary. The world I've always known.

 

My second job is different. Was different.

 

I didn't know the family. They didn't know me. They lived at the far end of the valley, where it narrows. It was a skinny frame house partway up the hill, that looked like it was holding onto the earth for dear life. Sighing with relief at the end of each day when it didn't slide down into the street and collapse in a heap. The front faced Grove Road, and along the side, closest to the valley's mouth, a narrow lane called Garrison's Run snaked up the hill, disappearing into a mass of scraggly, sickly looking trees. A precipitous drive you would not choose to explore for pleasure.

 

It felt odd that I'd never really noticed the house before. Beaver Creek is a small town, and it doesn't take long to be depressingly familiar with all of it. But this place had escaped my notice, as if its grayish brown façade had merged into the surrounding hill of mud, rock and moldering leaves.

 

You would have thought that, as a kid, I'd have heard ghost stories about it and been dared to run up and knock on the door. But maybe it just seemed decently poor and sad, like so many other places here, and somehow it had been respected or ignored. Or maybe it was feared so much that there was no talk, no jokes about it. You don't speak of the devil.

 

None of that mattered to me when I got a call offering work. I took down the address and drove right over. When I saw the state of the driveway and the condition of the porch, I knew I'd be mopping cracked linoleum or cleaning old, stained toilets, but I could handle that.

 

My employer, Ms. Selma Garrison, met me at the door.

 

The front door opened into a big room that served as dining space and living room. What struck me first was that heavy curtains shrouded the three windows, two facing the street and one in the side wall. Ms. Garrison had to click on a switch beside the door to turn on a light above the table. It gave the room the feeling of a winter evening, when it was actually an April morning.

 

“We keep curtains closed, to protect the furniture from fading.”

 

I might have said that the shadows made everything look faded already, but I was raised to be polite. And maybe the wallpaper, the thin rug at my feet or the furniture were antiques. What did I know?

 

The dining table was long and bare, with a few scratches in the dark wood. Eight chairs stood around it with elbow room between them. An old sofa and a couple of cushioned chairs backed up against the walls showed where the family must sit at night.

 

What I noticed, as a cleaner, was how empty the room was. Not much furniture, and no knickknacks or clutter on any of the surfaces. Nothing to get in the way of a mop or broom or cleaning rag. And there was no smell of must or cooking or bad plumbing.

 

"We don't live here." Selma Garrison barely looked around the main room. Then she leveled her eyes on me. "But we come by a lot." As if to say, "we'll be checking on your work."

 

I nodded. I'm not afraid to work or scared that I can't meet expectations. Not Beaver Creek or Garrison Run expectations, at any rate.

 

"You’ll come by once a week. Two to three hours should do it for the whole house."

 

The kitchen looked like what I’d find in any house in town, except that there were no food canisters on the counters or the table, no small appliances or even a pot holding a selection of spoons and utensils.

 

We went up narrow wooden stairs to the second floor. No carpet to drag a vacuum up. Just bare boards. A dust mop would do fine. Considering how easy this house appeared to be, from a cleaner's perspective, I wished I was feeling better about it.

 

At the top of the stairs was a door to my right, then to my left a hall with four rooms, two on each side. Those doors were open, and we peered in each as we passed. Two were completely empty. Two had a bed frame, without a mattress, and heavy old chests of drawers, probably too unwieldy to move to wherever Ms. Garrison actually lived. Faded places on walls showed where pictures had been. All the windows had those old spring blinds you pull down from a tab in the middle. Weak April light slipped in along the edges.

 

This level was maybe a couple of degrees warmer than the first floor, but overall the house was unusually cool. I supposed that the family was not wasting money on heating an empty house, and I couldn’t object. Who wants to be extra warm when you're bending and scrubbing?

 

But why did they bother to have the place cleaned weekly? Even if they were planning to sell, one good deep clean would be enough for any buyer crazy or desperate enough to look at this as their dream home.

 

We turned back. Ms. Garrison looked to be heading straight for the stairs.

 

I stopped for a minute. Behind me each open doorway sent faint gray light from its blocked windows onto the wooden floor. But the corner in front of me with the closed door was dark like the entrance to a cave. I was about to say something when I thought I heard a sound. It was faint, like a groan.

 

Ms. Garrison had stopped too at the top of the steps and looked back at me impatiently. Like, "Come on, keep moving."

 

I pointed a finger at the door. "Ma'am, is there somebody here?"

 

Selma Garrison's face closed in a frown. "My aunt. Mrs. Vera Garrison. But she stays in that room, and you won't need to clean it."

 

That was when I knew I didn't like this job. "You think maybe I should meet her, so she'll know who she's letting into the house?"

 

"I'll give you a set of keys. You'll let yourself into the house and lock up behind you when you leave."

 

"You don't want me to go in and dust for her or anything?" I wasn't going to volunteer to be some sort of nurse, but…

 

"We see to her. She's fine."

 

I stood rooted in front of the door, and she stared at me, like she was taking my measurements for something.

 

"You don't need to worry. One of us comes by daily. We prepare her meals, do her laundry, everything needed. She wants to stay in the house. She's always lived here. Old people get that way."

 

I didn’t have any excuse to keep standing there. But I felt like I needed to hear another sound from that closed room. I almost wanted to hush Selma Garrison and listen more closely. Maybe the old lady should have a radio or TV or something?

 

But Ms. Garrison led me back down the stairs and into the front room. "So, you understand?" she was saying. "You clean every room but my aunt's, and you lock up behind you." She pulled a set of keys from a drawer by the sink. "There are cleaning supplies in the bottom of the pantry here, and when you need more, you can leave me a note and I'll have them here for your next visit. We don't want anything too harsh. My aunt prefers the smell of the products we've used for years."

 

"So she comes down to the rest of the house…?"

 

"You won't see her. But we have standards to maintain in this home. Cleanliness is next to godliness. And we have a duty to battle disorder and disarray."

 

I had never heard my tidying described in such a way. But I was raised to let people be and talk the way they chose. I shouldn't have been judging Ms. Selma, because I don't welcome comments on my own life choices. But the woman made my skin crawl.

 

~ * ~

 

My first day at the house was okay. I did something I would never do anywhere else. I looked under the surfaces I was supposed to clean.

 

First, I opened the fridge. There wasn't a lot of food there, but it was healthy enough. I smelled the milk and the orange juice and checked their use-by dates. They were fresh. There was the usual margarine tub, mayo, cheese and some thin-sliced ham. A couple oranges and a tomato. A partially used tub of ice cream in the little freezer on top and some frozen vegetables.

 

The cupboards held canned goods, pastas and rice, a loaf of bread and cereals neatly closed. No sign of mice or even ants.

 

There was dish detergent by the sink and a drying rack for the dishes. The dish towel was lightly damp but clean, with no mildew. Somebody was coming and making a little food and then cleaning up.

 

The trash had a new liner and was empty. I did not bother to go out and see if there was a garbage bin in the garage. I had no right to open the garage, and it might have been locked.

 

Laundry detergent and fabric softener stood on a shelf over the washer and dryer in a little room off the kitchen.

 

From what I saw that morning, maybe Selma Garrison had told the truth. Maybe someone was coming in frequently to feed Vera Garrison, clean her clothes, and maybe keep her company.

 

I had to consider, at that moment, that possibly this was a quiet but safe, relatively ordinary house. I might not be encountering anyone else because no one wanted to hang around while the cleaner came in.

 

I had no reason to look any further, and I told myself I should not have poked around in someone else's business. But even then, I did not feel guilty. And I did not feel reassured.

 

As I started on the second floor, I considered making some extra noise. Maybe knocking on the door to let the old lady know I was there, and that I was not a threat. But it was possible that I would interrupt her sleep, which old people sometimes struggle to obtain. And her family had probably told her I would be coming by.

 

So I worked quietly, dusting and sweeping the empty rooms and cleaning the bathroom. As I headed toward the stairs, I thought I heard a noise from the corner room.

 

"Mrs. Garrison? Mrs. Vera Garrison? Are you all right, ma'am? It's just me, Morene Kendall, the cleaner. You need anything?"

 

No sound. I assumed it was my imagination, but I felt like someone was on the other side, listening as hard as I was. Yet that was her right, I told myself.

 

~ * ~

 

As I repeated my visits, I tried to think of the Garrison home as normal. Still, I felt edgy, being in a house with someone there and yet not there. At my other place, Mrs. Miller's, she also leaves me to do the work, so she won't be "in the way." But she lets me in, goes out to do some errands, and comes back before I leave. She pays me in person and sometimes brings me back cookies or a small picture book for Zoe. Even with her absent, I feel comfortable putting on the TV or radio and singing along as I clean. I feel legitimate being there.

 

I didn't like having the keys to the Garrison house. I didn't put them in my purse or a pocket, as if something would rub off of them. I kept them in my cleaning caddy or stashed them in an empty can in my grandma's locked garage when I wasn’t coming to Garrison Run.

 

Each week when I was done with my cleaning, I went to the dining table and took the envelope with my pay. I headed straight to the bank to deposit the cash, feeling sorry for the clerk as I handed it over. If I needed money, I asked for it in new bills. I got a couple odd looks for that, but I didn't care. I was ashamed of myself for becoming superstitious, but I was not buying my child food with tainted money.

 

I did not know what the taint might be, but it was there despite the smell of soap and furniture polish.

 

~ * ~

 

At home I acted comfortable with Zoe and my grandma, but Mrs. Miller noticed something, I guess. The week after I started at the Garrisons, she came home early, while I was still cleaning her place. She put a bag with a package of cupcakes on the table for me. "They were buy one, get one free. And we can't eat all that ourselves."

 

I thanked her and kept wiping the kitchen counter.

 

"So how is work going?"

 

I gave her a forced smile. "I have one other house to clean."

 

"That's great! Who's the family?"

 

"The Garrisons."

 

She paused. "On Garrison’s Run?"

 

"Yeah. I guess they've been around here a while, though I never met them before."

 

She started putting her own groceries in the fridge. "They keep to themselves. I'm surprised…"

 

I stopped and squeezed out the sponge, setting it on the sink corner. "What?"

 

"I'm surprised they even hired a cleaner. I mean, someone from the outside to come in."

 

"Ms. Garrison said she was getting too old. Cleaning hurts her back."

 

"Which Garrison was that?"

 

"Ms. Selma Garrison. At least that’s what she said when she called to answer my advertisement. She didn't talk about herself once I got there."

 

"Selma. Yes. She's probably ten years older than me. And she'd be the youngest of the family."

 

I braced my back against the sink. "Well, there's an older one still there."

 

Mrs. Miller studied me. "Would her name be Vera?"

 

I kept my voice neutral. "Yes. Ms. Selma said it was her aunt."

 

"Vera." Mrs. Miller stopped with a package of eggs in her hands. "You’ve seen her?"

 

"No." I took my pause, too. "She stays in her room. But I think I've heard her."

 

"Talking? Have you talked to her?"

 

"No. She just sort of makes sounds."

 

The next week Mrs. Miller had a pile of stuff for me and Zoe waiting on the dinner table when I arrived. She smiled when I thanked her and said it was too much, but the smile dropped away fast. She had other things on her mind.

 

"I'm surprised the aunt is still there. In the Garrison house. It's been so long since I saw her. I thought she was dead."

 

I pulled out my cleaning rag and stuck my right hand into its rubber glove. I felt a coldness in my stomach, but I tried to smile. "Well, I always thought the lead guy in Long Shadows was dead. But it turns out he's playing the grandpa in a family sitcom."

 

Mrs. Miller's lips twitched up a bit. "That's true. I guess if I don't see somebody every week, I think they're gone beyond redemption."

 

I nodded.  The choice of words was odd, but Mrs. Miller had her own way of viewing life.

 

"It's just…." Mrs. Miller gestured toward a chair. Usually she left me alone to work. "The Garrison family has always seemed odd. They've been on that land for generations."

 

I sat down, one glove on and one off. "The house doesn't look that old. It's not new, but…"

 

"Oh, that's the third house on that property."

 

I pulled the glove off. I hate the feel of the rubber on my hand when it's not necessary.

 

She settled herself in a chair opposite me. "My grandmother told me stories from her grandmother. So, my great-great grandmother knew of a house at the top of the ridge, where the land leveled off enough that you could actually farm it a bit. She, my great-great, saw that house burn. Everyone got out safely, but they stood together and watched, not saying a word, till it was completely consumed."

 

"They must have been in shock."

 

"A few of them took the opportunity to leave Beaver Creek, but most of them stayed and built another house further along the ridge. Grandma herself watched that one, the second one, burn."

 

I decided to be casual. "I'm glad they don't build them like they used to." And that we pay enough taxes to have the share of a couple fire trucks in the next town over.

 

Mrs. Miller looked at me intently, like I was missing the point. "That's when they built the house that's standing there now. Not many people were happy to see them moving so much closer to town. People said the land was…well, say unlucky. And that they'd be better off moving away completely. But they are persistent, dogged, those Garrisons. They stay put despite the rumors."

 

I did not know what to say. I needed that job. Zoe's father left for the army and has sent four checks of $200 each for her. I do not intend to stand between her and her daddy, but I want my life separate from him and so far, I have made that work. I put his money in the bank in her name, and we live with my grandma and rely on the cash I earn. I was no fan of the Garrisons, but I had responsibilities, and I wasn't going to let weird feelings or rumors deter me.

 

Mrs. Miller looked embarrassed. "I don't mean to gossip. But there are events that stick with you."

 

I thought I knew about that. I know even better now. But I'll deal with my "events" on my own. Zoe and her children won't be hearing tales from me.

 

~ * ~

 

The next week I was about halfway done with the downstairs when I heard something above me. A cry, then something like a table tipping over.

 

I ran up the stairs and knocked at the door to the corner room. "Mrs. Garrison, it's me. Morene Kendall. The cleaner. Do you need anything?"

 

Nothing. Not a sound.

 

I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. The door was locked.

 

I phoned Selma Garrison. "I heard a noise. A thump. Something falling over in Mrs. Vera's room."

 

No answer for a second or two, then a calm voice. "It's nothing. She likes to read and gets dozy. She probably just dropped a book."

 

"Well, she wouldn't answer when I asked."

 

"There you go, then. She was sleeping."

 

"I think I knocked loud enough to wake someone."

 

"She sleeps heavily. Don't worry about it."

 

"But, ma'am, the door is locked. Is that safe, in case something happened?"

"You tried the door? I told you to respect her privacy."

"I'm thinking of her safety, ma'am."

 

"Aunt Vera can take care of herself. Or I will take care of her. If you cannot respect my instructions, I may have to ask you to leave the position. I can find someone else."

 

I doubted that. I seriously doubted there were many people, even in Beaver Creek, who would work in that house.

 

But if I left, then the old lady really would be alone. And I have a grandmother. I didn't like walking out on somebody who might need help.

​

"Yes, ma'am. I just thought you should know."

 

"Thank you. I'll see her later today. After you've gone."

 

I didn't do my best cleaning that day, because I was trying to make no noise. I wanted to catch any possible sound. But it was deadly quiet the rest of my time there.

 

As I left, I saw a neighbor woman watching from across the street. I knew her face from the grocery store and the library. She stared at the house and then at me, frowning.

 

Maybe she knew something. She had to be at least the same age as Selma Garrison. Maybe older. She had to know something of the family, if she'd always lived over there.

 

But when I took a step toward her, she turned away. I almost thought she shook her head as she went.

 

Yet I could be imagining things, I supposed.

 

~ * ~

 

Three days ago, there was a huge spring storm overnight. We lost a couple of branches from trees in our back yard. I didn't think much of it, because it was my day to go to the Garrison house, and that is always enough of a cloud over me.

 

But as I got to that part of the valley, I started wondering. The street marking the far border of the Garrison land is called Garrison's Run. A run comes down a hill, and in a storm, it can fill with debris and get clogged up. When I got to the property, I had to take a deep breath and park on the street.

 

A pile of broken branches, leaves and mud had jammed up, forming a kind of dam where the run met the cross street. Rain water was backed up in a gray pool, spilling across the narrow gravel drive. Somebody would have to clear that before anyone could drive onto the property. That was a problem with an elderly person in the house.  

 

I'd have to walk across the small lawn, because I wasn't stepping blindly into a sizeable pool.

 

First, I peered about the house. The electric line still ran to the pole in front of the house. I shouldn't be getting electrocuted, at least.

 

Luckily, I have rubber boots in the trunk of the car. If I was careful, I could probably get to the house without getting my jeans wet.

 

But it was not a pleasant thing, stepping onto that sodden yard. People can get particular about others walking on their grass, not keeping to the drives or walkways. But since the old lady in the back room had never stepped out to speak to me yet, I didn't think she'd leap into action to fight some boot prints sinking a few inches into her neglected front lawn.

 

I climbed up and across the grass, circling around the temporary pond and getting just about to the front steps before I could move over to the driveway. Someone would need to clear the debris from the end of the run so the water could drain out into the street and further downhill. I had a feeling I might be that someone, but I wasn't going to do it just yet. My job was inside. Maybe a kindly neighbor or Ms. Selma herself would stop by.

 

But first I decided I'd better look in the back yard. Make sure there wasn't any other storm damage.

 

When I turned the corner of the house, I knew we were in trouble. A tree was down, the mass of its roots still pointing up the hill from the gaping wet hole where the ground had given way under it. Its branches reached toward the back of the house, and the highest limb looked like it went through the wall. Near the old woman's bedroom. I couldn't see if glass was broken.

 

Surely, she wouldn't be there in a room with a smashed window. Surely, she would have called for help.

 

But my heart pounded as I turned back down the drive and up the steps onto the old, sagging porch.

 

I couldn't make any assumptions about this house or these people.

 

I let myself in. I almost pulled off my boots but thought better of it. Thick and heavy, they might leave some footmarks, but I'd clean them up later. For now, they made me feel safer. For the same reason I kept on my rain slicker and pulled on my rubber cleaning gloves. It was all I had in terms of body armor.

 

I could hear crying from upstairs. I nearly tripped up the steps with my boots and pounded on the door.

 

"Mrs. Garrison. You know me. I'm Morene, the cleaner. Can you let me in? I want to see about the storm. Are your windows okay?"

 

My ear against the door, I heard faint, quick breaths. Was this fear or injury or sorrow?

 

"Mrs. Garrison, just come to the door and let me in, okay?"

 

Silence, then a moan or a creak.

 

I twisted the doorknob. I couldn't break in. It wasn't legal and would cost me my job, and I wasn't strong enough, anyhow.

 

There had to be a key.

 

I nearly fell getting to the kitchen. I rifled through the cabinet drawers.

 

Back behind a flashlight, some old batteries, and a pair of scissors I found a packet of paper, folded and sealed with yellowing, cracking adhesive tape.

 

I pulled it apart. A small key.

 

Back up the stairs I went, sweating in my rain slicker.

 

"Mrs. Garrison, this is Morene. I need to know you are all right. I have a key, and I am going to try it. Don't be scared. I just want to check on you."

 

Something inside the room was thumping.

 

My hand shook so that I could barely fit the key in the hole. As I started to turn it, something landed against the inside wall at the right side of the door. Then the left side. Like a body flinging itself against the wood. Then the door shook as a weight crashed into it. The key jittered out of the hole and fell onto the floor.

 

I snatched it as it slid under the door. That key moved on its own, I swear.

 

Cold ran up and down my arms, and my throat closed. The pounding hammered on the door, along the wall, up against the ceiling.

 

I was calling to Mrs. Garrison, but I couldn't even hear my own voice in the banging and then some sort of wailing. But my throat seemed to tear with the sounds I was making.

 

Then all was silent. An aching cold swept over me, and I saw my breath. This wasn't from the storm.

 

I got the key into hole and turned.

 

I didn't even get the key pulled out before the door swung open, and I was in the room.

 

Staring at two old women, in chairs facing each other, with a tree limb reaching half way into the room between them.

 

One had white hair, tied back in a braid, but with loose hairs blown around her face like she'd been in a wind tunnel. Bundled in a thick robe and with a knit afghan fallen from her knees to her feet, she was reared back in a plain wooden chair, hands clutching its arms.

 

Opposite her sat another figure. A woman, too, but all in black, and with a veil so I couldn't see the face at all. But I saw a thick leather strap around her chest, and cloth bands tying her wrists to the chair arms. A prisoner.

 

"Mrs. Garrison?"

 

"That's me. Get out. Call Selma. She'll fix the room. Get out." It was the old one with the afghan talking.

 

The other one just drooped her head and moaned.

 

There was nothing in the room that could have pounded the walls and the door. Nothing. But the wind blew in a spit of cold rain that I could feel on my face.

 

"You…you can't stay here. Mrs. Garrison, can you walk downstairs?"

 

"I'm not leaving. Get out. Call Selma."

 

"Don't leave me." The one in the veil lifted her head, speaking with a soft voice like a kid's. "Help me. Let me loose."

 

"Don't touch her." Mrs. Garrison kicked the afghan away from her feet. Her cheeks were blotched with red, and her watery eyes stared cold, hard.

 

"Ma'am, you neither of you should be here. That wall might be damaged, you know. The window might give way. We need to move you downstairs. And I'll call whoever you want."

 

"Get out. Lock the door and get out of the house."

 

"Please." The soft voice whined. "Untie me. It hurts."

 

I took a step toward her, the veiled one. The belt looked odd, like it had images stamped on it, and across the cloth bindings swirled words and symbols in some rusty red ink.

 

I reached a hand toward the back of the chair, where the strap must be attached somehow.

 

"Don't touch her. I'm the Guardian." Mrs. Garrison's voice was raw. "In God's name."

 

The one in black moaned and hunched herself against the chair. Her clothes were thin, no protection against the cold of this house and the open window. I reached out to tug at the cloth on her nearest wrist, and Mrs. Garrison screamed.

 

In the next moment I was slammed against the wall. A chair hit the floor as the veiled one rose. A foul smell filled the room, and my eyes burned as I looked at her.

 

Her shape was changing, rising up, broadening, rippling. Something like hair streaming down over the head, the shoulders. As her veil fell away, she turned her face toward me. Fiery eyes, an open, gaping mouth. Human, but not.

 

For an instant the face almost looked like a woman. I spun from it to Vera and saw the same face.

 

Two…

 

"I keep her here. So no one else…She won't get anyone…"

 

I wanted to swear. Ugly, foul words I've never used poured over my mind and I wanted to shout them.

 

But I knew that blasphemy was that creature's language.

 

"Vera, get out."

 

"I can't. I have to…"

 

The air whirled around us. Frigid, then burning. The creature was forming some kind of whirlwind.

 

It bore Vera's face. Then a man's face. Another woman's A child's. A horrible child's.

 

For a second I swear I thought it looked like me.

 

Then it was on me. Cold slimy hands clutching my neck.

 

All I thought of was Zoe and what would happen to her if this thing took me. And that made me fight.

 

I grabbed it. Icy cold that yielded and slid around my fingers. As my hands passed through, almost meeting, they clutched onto something like bone. And I shrieked, then clamped my mouth shut as black vapors poured over my face.

 

We hurtled around the room, crashing into walls, toward the window, and through the window. Glass shattered and rotted wood jabbed at me as I plunged into the branches of the fallen tree, sliding against the limb, plunging down and hitting the ground.

 

Cold wet leaves pressed on my face, then I gasped clear air.

 

One whole side of me cried out in pain, but I got to my feet. The air around me was still, and I saw nothing move. Just the remains of a storm scattered across a patch of grass and up into the woods.

 

I made it back into the house and up to Vera. I dragged her out of the room, onto the floor of the hallway. With her face white, her lips blue, I couldn't tell if she was still alive.

 

I called Glenna Miller. I couldn't talk. I just whispered. "Vera might be dead. Help me."

 

Glenna used to be a nurse. She got her husband Dulton, and we drove the ten miles to the nearest hospital. Glenna sat in the back seat, talking to Vera all the way and holding her motionless hand that curved like a bony claw. Vera never spoke or opened her eyes. I sat next to Dulton, staring out the side window. As we turned the corner I saw the old woman from the house across the street, clutching at a man beside her. They were both staring up the hillside, their faces scared.

 

I couldn't answer anything the doctors asked. I called Selma Garrison, who strode in, stared daggers at me, nodded vaguely to Glenna and talked to the doctors like this happened sometimes, Vera being old. "Old" seemed to explain a lot to the doctors, also.

 

Eventually Glenna and Dulton were ready to leave. But I had to at least say something to Mrs. Garrison. I grabbed her as she headed to a seat in the far corner of the waiting room.

 

"There was another one there. In the room. With Vera. It went through the wall."

 

Selma stared at me for a long minute. "You expect to repeat that story to anyone?"

 

The hospital was small, but the walls were bright. There were potted plants and even a coffee machine in the corner. People walked around, maybe worried or tired, but normal. Professional, some of them. Of this world. I tried to find words.

 

"Someone might have seen something. It went through the wall."

 

"Toward the back of the property."

 

This still strikes me as odd. I have no idea if supernatural creatures respect property lines.

 

Selma almost looked like she sympathized. "Our neighbors have not engaged with us for some time."

 

"So…?"

 

"I don't think you need to worry about witnesses. No one will understand what they have seen, anyhow."

 

"But…"

 

"So I thank you for your help with my aunt. The doctors expect her to recover from this episode."

 

I could not, cannot imagine what form normal health would take for old Mrs. Garrison.

 

"But I do not think we will need further cleaning. We may not keep the house in the family any longer."

 

I could not come up with an answer. I felt around in the pocket of my jacket. Empty, like my brain.

 

"I left the keys at the house. I think the house door is unlocked." And there was a hole in the back upstairs bedroom wall.

 

"I will mail you your pay. I'll put in a little extra for your help here. And your discretion."

 

She turned to go toward the waiting area. Then whirled and stepped up, her face almost touching mine, her eyes large and glittering. She whispered the words, but they were absolutely clear. "Maybe my family did help create that thing, once, a long time ago. But ever since, we have done our duty and contained it. For generations. I would have taken over when Aunt Vera passed. I would have kept things under control. You ended all of that. Not us. We're not responsible anymore."

 

I put a hand up to my mouth. My fingers smelled of the inside of a rubber glove. And something that made bile rise in my throat.

 

I wasn't going to talk about any of this.

 

I was going back to being Zoe's mom, and Morene, part-time cleaner. Looking for other work.

​