Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“The dream goblin’s reach extends beyond the dream world, I’m afraid.” The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “It may exist in the Everywhere, but it has agents. Right now, it’s trapped there. But it’s chosen you, marked you, to be its carrier.”

“Carrier?”

“It wants to become you, Mrs. Shepard. That’s all these creatures ever want—a way out of their world and into ours.”

Angela closed her eyes. “Why me?”

“Maybe because you lost him.”

Seething, Angela shot her a warning glance.

“Maybe because you lost yourself,” Rosalyn added. “I know what I say angers you. And it should. But know this—I am not filling your head with falsehoods. What I say is the truth. All of it. And deep down, I know you believe what I am telling you.”

The old woman’s confidence in her story made a compelling argument. As she stood there, Angela couldn’t help but buy into at least a small portion of what she was claiming.

You’re pregnant. It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t crossed her mind while puking roadside. Impossible as the two words sounded to her ears, she knew they held some truth. She felt it. Inside her, grew life. New life. A child. [we do not speak his name] ’s brother or sister.

The thought of having a baby, a new responsibility to look after, filled her chest with a familiar sense of comfort.

“I know this is all a lot to take in,” Rosalyn said. “And I want to tell you more. I want you to know everything.” She scooted her chair closer to Angela. At first, she seemed hesitant to reach out and place a calming hand on Angela’s shoulder, but once it was there, she squeezed, a gentle way of letting her know she wouldn’t have to face the maleficent spirit alone. “Let me run up to my room. I have books there. With incantations inscribed in them. They will help us. Together, we can battle this incubus. Send the daemon back to the Everywhere, for good this time. Where it belongs.”

“And…”

“Your boy?”

Angela nodded.

“We will see. The Everywhere is a dark, nasty place. It’s a place that exists between the living and the dead, a place that is and isn’t. When a lost soul travels into the Everywhere, it’s very hard to find its way back. The longer a soul resides in that dismal environment, the less chance it has of returning the same way it left. Once we locate the dream goblin—”

“Locate it?”

“Yes. We have to find it.”

“And how do we do that?”

The old woman shrugged. “It could be anybody. We’ll have to draw it out of hiding.”

Angela shook her head. “Hold up. What do you mean it could be anybody? What are you saying? It’s a person?”

“It very well could be. Someone you know or have met.”

He’s still alive, you know? The pharmacist’s assistant. Not only had the pills she had given her messed with her birth control, but she had said those words with such… knowledge. Like she knew he was alive, and not figuratively. Angela recalled her wry smile as the words had left the girl’s mouth.

“The girl in the pharmacy. She knew. She said exactly what you did. That he’s alive. And my prescription. She gave me the wrong one. Abbie—Dr. Wilson—knew I was on birth control and how important not being pregnant was to me. She wouldn’t have given me something to tamper with that.”

“It could be, Mrs. Shepard. It could be the girl. These creatures usually enjoy influencing someone close to you. It could literally be anyone. But don’t lose sight of who it wants.” Keeping her eyes trained on Angela, Rosalyn tilted her head down. “That person is you.”

Again, she found herself doubting the words falling from the woman’s lips, but she couldn’t find the strength to argue. She needed more from her. She needed to see this thing through, however bat-shit-crazy her ideas sounded. “Okay, what do we do next?”

“Wait here a second. I’ll go get my favorite grimoire.”

Angela sat on the couch and waited for Rosalyn to return. For what seemed like a lifetime, she stared out the bay window, down the cul-de-sac, at her car. She found herself trapped in a daydream of nothing in particular, transfixed by the white cloud of blank thoughts before her. In that moment, she felt weightless. Untethered from gravity. Free from whatever fate that kept her grounded.

About thirty minutes later, she snapped out of her divine reverie. Her vision zoomed out, back into the dim lighting of Rosalyn Jeffries’s living room. She checked her watch and realized how much time had passed. Didn’t she say she’d only be gone a minute? Glancing up the stairs, she listened for movement, rustling from the old woman who seemed to still be digging through her massive collection of spells and books on the occult. Thirty minutes was a long time, massive collection or not.

“Rosalyn?” she called up the stairs.

Angela rose from the couch and padded over to the foot of the stairs. She peered up, staring into the still shadows above. “Rosalyn?” she asked the dark of the hallway, and for a second time she received no answer.

Oh Christ, she thought as she began her ascent. She wondered if she had been so trapped in her empty reveries that she had missed the woman walking back down the stairs. Maybe she had left to retrieve the necessary ingredients to ward off these supposed dream goblins. She hadn’t remembered seeing the Oldsmobile in the driveway, and she debated whether to go back and check that first before going any farther. Screw it, she thought, making her way to the top of the stairs and staring down the hall.

“Rosalyn?” Reluctantly putting one foot forward, she eventually journeyed forth on weak, wobbly knees. “Rosalyn, can you hear me?”

The bedroom’s French doors were already open, inviting her in.

As she stepped into the doorway, her stomach mixed what little contents remained, threatening another revolt. The smell hit her before she turned the corner, but by then it was too late; the decision to intrude had been made. At first, she thought it was only the chickens, but her sixth sense kicked in and told her differently, that the rancid odor was compounded by another, new stench.

Rosalyn’s head had been set on the right side of the headboard, on the farthest golden-knobbed spike, hanging there like a baseball cap. Stripes of scarlet twisted and crisscrossed their way down to the bottom of the brass pole. Her grayish-brunette hair, which was now tainted with dark orange tones, had been mussed with hot wet blood. The rest of her body lay crumpled in the corner like some lazy teenager’s soiled laundry. The murder weapon was staged on the bed, a fine-toothed saw taken from the garage, one of Rosalyn’s husband’s reliable tools she had never had the heart to toss out. The saw blade was covered in crimson, as was the comforter on which it rested. Little shredded scraps of flesh were wedged between the saw teeth. Angela backed into the hallway, her eyes jumping from the saw back to the woman’s severed head, landing first on the ragged red outline of her dangling flesh. Then she lifted her gaze, stopping at Rosalyn’s eyes; they weren’t wide with bewilderment or abject horror as one might expect when looking malice in the face, knowing the grisly end was near—instead, her final expression was calm, almost peaceful, as if she knew exactly how she’d be handed her fate, accepting it honorably. Her mouth wasn’t agape or shaped to indicate that she had cried out for help in her final seconds, but closed and tightlipped, as if she were keeping something inside from crawling out.

What secrets you had, my little Rosalyn, an unknown voice spoke deep from within Angela’s subconscious.