Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“Like, say… since 1968?” The question came out sharp, with more venom than Angela desired.

The woman didn’t seem fazed, her expression hardly changing. “I assume Barry told you about his discovery. Yes, it’s true. All of it.”

“You killed a woman.”

There was a pause. Rosalyn Jeffries sat completely still.

“Oh my God,” Angela said, covering her mouth with her hand.

“She didn’t die by my hand, but by another. I was there. The woman’s death hangs over me every day I open my eyes.”

“Did your husband know?”

“I told my husband everything. Much like I assume you do. Or did. Before…”

“How did he take the news?”

Rosalyn’s eyes darted across the room, as if something had flashed in her periphery, then settled her vision back on her guest. Angela followed the old woman’s gaze to the corner of the kitchen, but saw nothing.

“My husband has forgiven me for my past, the decisions I made when I was a young, stupid girl.” She reached her hands across the table, palms up, asking Angela for hers. “I’m asking you to do the same, Angela Shepard. You and your husband’s lives depend on it.”

Slowly, Angela planted herself back in the chair. She didn’t offer her hands to the old woman.

Rosalyn cleared her throat. “Mrs. Shepard, please. Do not make the same mistakes I have.”

“Same mistakes?” Angela laughed incredulously. “I have no intentions of killing any—”

“Forget that. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Do not let yourself ignore the signs before you.” Her eyes filled with water, glistening in the dim light the overhead bulbs provided. Those surging tears were the only thing keeping Angela seated, preventing her from fleeing the house, screaming for the entire neighborhood to hear. The woman’s story, impossible as it sounded, felt authentic. Angela was surprised to find herself buying into Rosalyn’s tale.

Sort of.

Not quite.

It can’t be real.

But something in the back of her mind said differently.

It’s all real. All of it. The dream goblins. They’ve marked you. They’re coming to get you. First your dreams. Then your reality.

“My husband, Carl,” Rosalyn began, blotting her eyes with a napkin. “He was… he was in terrible danger. Much like yourself. He had something chasing him, following him night after night. I sensed it somewhere in the distance, somewhere hidden in the darkest regions of the netherworld. Even though I haven’t practiced in years, I’m still connected to the darkness, the places where light doesn’t dare go. Something was following him, all right; I sensed the foul spirit the way a rabbit senses a sneaking wolf. The creature was good and clever, always kept dodging my eye. The blasted thing covered its tracks well, leaving no traces of its existence behind. I couldn’t find it. I searched the darkest places, points on the celestial map I haven’t trespassed in years, and I came up empty. Carl told me he was fine and not to worry, whatever it was would pass, but I knew better. I knew the thing was persistent and desperate to have him. But, like a good, obedient wife, I listened to him.” She sniffled as more tears streamed down her face. “But I shouldn’t have. I should have persisted. I shouldn’t have ignored the signs. The evidence. I… I let that thing kill my husband, Mrs. Shepard. All because I was too complacent.”

Angela shook her head. “You said on television he died of a heart attack.”

“Yes, well, who would believe me if I said he had been stalked and killed by some unspeakable evil?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the same amount of people who believed you when you said he visits you nightly. Maybe about that many?”

“People believe in communication with the other side, Mrs. Shepard. A recent national poll showed that last year forty-two percent of Americans believed in supernatural entities. In Europe, it’s well over fifty.”

Angela closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. “That doesn’t make it true.”

“No, but as someone who has tampered with the darkness, who has harnessed certain energies invisible to the naked eye, I can assure you, Mrs. Shepard—it’s all true.”

“Well, I haven’t seen a shred of evidence other than what’s been going on in my house. And that’s just me losing my fucking mind.” The woman’s eyes bulged. “Pardon my French.”

She ignored the foul language. “You need to believe me.”

“Whatever is happening, Rosalyn, it isn’t supernatural. It’s just a product of what happened over eight months ago. It’s me.”

“In a way, you are correct, Mrs. Shepard. It is about what happened to [we do not speak his name] . The tragedy. These monsters thrive on it. Feed on those negative emotions like vampires to an open wound.”

Angela snarled at the old woman. “How dare you,” she barked.

Rosalyn recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “How dare I what?”

“Speak his name. You have no right.”

Rosalyn twirled her hands in the air. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I only want to help you.”

Angela’s eyes traveled up the stairs. She pointed to the area of the house where she thought the master bedroom was, where the pile of dead chickens rested on the bureau. “By sacrificing chickens? Cutting off their fucking heads? I’m starting to see who the crazy one is here, and I’m starting to think it’s not me.”

The old woman shook her head. “It was an old ritual to keep the dream goblins out. I thought it would help.”

“Enough with the dream goblin shit!”

“Mrs. Shepard, you and your husband are in grave danger.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said.”

“I’ve been trying to warn you. Reach you. You need to stay away from that house. You need to stay away from Red River altogether. Your son…”

Angela’s eyes grew with rage. “Watch your tongue, woman…” she said venomously.

“Your son. He isn’t dead.”

Angela’s heart stopped. The air in the room instantly died. For a second, the world around her did not exist. She recalled the pharmacist’s assistant and what Angela thought she’d heard her say: He’s still alive… in your heart. She got the sense that that wasn’t what she’d meant, that the second half of her uninvited opinion was only a cover-up for the first.

“How dare you say that to me.”

“Mrs. Shepard, please. It’s holding him. The dream goblin has him in the Everywhere and it won’t let go until he has you… and the life inside your belly.”

Angela felt her heart skip, stop, and take a full five seconds to start pumping again. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

“You don’t know?”

Her mouth went dry. She could barely speak the word, “No.”

“You’re pregnant. Only a few weeks. Haven’t you been feeling unwell?”

She recalled the three barf sessions on the way up here. “I thought…” Her eyes fluttered. The room began to slide like a carnival funhouse trick. She thought she might be sick again. “I thought that was…”

“You’re pregnant, Mrs. Shepard. It’s the other thing the dream goblin wants. Your unborn child.”

“But how?” She swallowed what felt like a pebble. “I’m on the pill.”

“Hardly a miracle, I’m guessing. Something tells me someone has been messing with your medication.”

Angela shook her head. Medication. The pharmacist’s assistant.

She immediately went for her purse and rummaged around for the prescription bottle. Once she located it, she removed it and quickly scanned the label for its litany of warnings. “May render birth control pills ineffective,” she read, and with the words, her heart plummeted. “Son of a bitch.”