Tim Meyer - The Switch House

After dawdling around downstairs, Angela made her way to the second floor, heading directly for the bedroom. When she reached the bedroom door, she felt different. Scared. Like she wasn’t supposed to be here, like she didn’t belong. Much like she had in her own house lately, that harrowing sensation of being lost in familiar places. A sense of dread pulled at the hairs on her neck. Her stomach swirled like a renegade tornado. A dull throb kicked around her eardrums.

In the entire two months she’d spent there, she had never felt that way.

An unrecognizable odor reached her nostrils, the unpleasantness causing her stomach to swell with nausea. Pressure built up in her sinuses, forcing her to squint. She fought through it and pushed open the door, revealing the madness inside.

The smell nearly caused her to faint. The pungency bowled into her like some palpable thing, pushing her back, pressing her spine against the wall in the hallway. The room reeked of rotten meats and sun-spoiled dairy. She turned her head and retched. Slipping the collar of her shirt over her nose (not that it helped block the odor), she headed into the bedroom. The putrid stench was so fierce her eyes began to water. Surveying the corners of the room, she quickly detected what was causing the horrendous odor.

Dead chickens.

Three of them. On the dresser, the headless sacks of feathers lay casually as if they were a stack of mail or some other ordinary household clutter. A collection of flies hovered over the carcasses, buzzing with delight. She avoided eye contact with the savage display, hoping the less she saw, the less she would smell. But that wasn’t the case. As she focused her attention on something other than the raw flyblown meat, the smell remained just as bold.

The condition of the walls seized her vision next; they were once painted almond, but now held dark tones, and engraved in the sheetrock were symbols, the same exact insignias she’d seen during the season premiere of Switch! Circles over triangles, fused with ellipses and hexagons. Various combinations of symbols holding no distinguishable meaning, at least not to her.

Droplets of blood speckled the carpet.

Dreamcatchers hung from the ceiling like party streamers at some five-year-old’s birthday party.

A bloody blade lay in the center of the bed. Crimson soaked the comforter.

Whose blood is that? she began to wonder, and her eyes drifted back across the room, over to the dresser where the headless chickens continued to serve as snack food for a horde of busy insects.

Before she moved into the master bathroom, her eyes ran over the walls, taking in every elegant detail of the scrawled shapes.

“I’ve been praying day and night,” a voice said from behind her.

Angela spun so fast she nearly lost her footing. Clutching onto the bedposts, she sucked in her scream. She tried to yell, but her voice died, fear killing the words as they entered her throat.

“Hush, child,” the old woman said, placing her free hand on her chin, extending one finger and resting it on her lips. “Don’t be frightened. You have no need to be scared.”

Angela begged to differ. The chill currently crawling over her flesh, trespassing to various parts of her anatomy, sang a different song.

“At least,” Rosalyn Jeffries started to say, looking down at the bag full of dead chickens in her other hand, “at least, not of me.”

For the moment, the chickens still had their heads.

Rosalyn set a mug full of something dark down in front of her, the broth murky like a bold-roast coffee. Angela breathed in the steam, inhaling the herbal scent wafting up from the unknown liquid.

“It’s tea,” Rosalyn said reassuringly. “A very special blend.”

She lost most of her thirst at “special blend” but Angela decided to drink it anyway. If the woman’s plan was to kill her, surely there were more direct approaches. She sipped slowly as Rosalyn set herself down on the chair across from her.

“It’s good,” Angela said, licking her lips, savoring the nutty aftertaste.

“Thank you.” Rosalyn looked at her, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Why am I here, Rosalyn?” Angela didn’t return the smile. She stared into the woman’s eyes, unblinking.

“You’re not one to beat around the bush, are you?” She nodded. “All right, all right. Let’s get down to it.”

Angela couldn’t place the woman’s accent, not exactly. Definitely European. German or Austrian, if she had to guess. “Where are you from, Rosalyn?”

“Me? America, sweetheart. My parents were from Germany. I grew up speaking their language. If you’re wondering about my accent, it’s because—yes, English is my second tongue.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.”

The old woman raised her palms. “No offense taken! I’m proud of my heritage.” She must have noticed the uninterested look in her guest’s eyes because her expression faded. “But you didn’t come here to talk about my roots, did you?”

“No, Rosalyn. I did not.”

“Well, then. I guess I should ask—how much do you know about what’s happening on 44 Trenton Road in Red River, New Jersey?”

Angela shrugged. “Not much. Other than I’m seeing a whole lot of freaky shit that isn’t really there.”

Rosalyn nodded as if she shared a common problem. “Tell me, sweetheart,” she said, glancing down at the table where she traced circles with her finger. “Have you ever heard of something called a Mare?”

“A Mare?”

The woman nodded.

Angela shook her head. “No, I can’t say I have. Unless you mean an old horse?”

Rosalyn didn’t speak.

“Or a night- mare.”

The old woman looked up from the table, her expression dead still. “That’s precisely where they got their names from.” The corner of her mouth pulled slightly, the faintest evidence of a smirk. “Or rather, nightmares got their name from them.”

“Them?”

“Mares. They have many other names. Alps. Sleep demons. I prefer to call them what they truly are— dream goblins.”

Angela stared at the woman, her eyebrows stretching as high as they would go. “Oh-kay then.” She stood up from the kitchen table, sliding the chair across the linoleum floor, making a loud scraping noise that caused both women to cringe.

“Where are you going?” Rosalyn asked, squinting at her guest.

“Far, far away from here.”

Rosalyn pushed herself to her feet. “Nonsense, child. You are in terrible danger.”

“Because of dream goblins?” She scoffed. “Do you know how goddamn ridiculous that sounds?”

“Ridiculous or not, that is what I believe has marked your home. A Mare is an ancient creature, a demon of sorts, that latches onto a certain individual and tortures them by infiltrating their dreams, manipulating them until their mind can no longer bear the horrific images, until there’s nothing left of the victim’s sanity. Then… it takes what it wants. In this case, Mrs. Shepard, I believe what it wants is your home. And something else…” The old woman’s face became long, drawn with worry. “It chooses victims who have experienced some sort of tragedy.”

[we do not speak his name]

Raising her chin, the old woman gulped. “Those who have gone through terrible ordeals make it easier for the goblins to access their dreams. They’re more susceptible to this kind of, what I’d like to call, possession.”

“This is crazy.”

“Hard to believe, yes.” Rosalyn offered what looked like a comforting smile. “But not crazy. I knew something was amiss the second I stepped foot in your house. I felt it wash over me, an incredible wave of perpetual evil. I haven’t felt intense power like that since… well, since a very long time ago.”