Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“Yes, you can. I’ve seen it. In my dreams.”

“Terry, we had sex three nights ago. It’s too early to tell.”

“It came to me in a dream,” he spoke, his jaw clenched. “I saw it. You’re pregnant.”

She recalled what Rosalyn had said and the warning label on the prescription. In truth, she felt pregnant, very pregnant , and, if she stayed still long enough, she swore she felt something swimming inside her, an unnatural flutter of some ungodly new life growing exponentially.

“Okay, Terry. Suppose I am. What then?”

“You carry it to term. You hand it over to Ester Moore. She retrieves our precious child from the Everywhere and gives him back. It’s a switch. Straight up.” His eyes leaked, slowly emitting tears. “This is the switch we need, baby. This is the switch we need.”

Her lips trembled. “I’m not pregnant, Terry. Please get that through your head. Right fucking now.”

He offered a phony smile; the one Terry usually displayed when he was pissed and not doing a great job of hiding it. “You’re right. Maybe I’m getting a little carried away.” He stood up and reached under the sink, grabbing the small box of home pregnancy tests. Turning to her, he held out the box, offering her the pick of the lot as if they were something desirable like lollipops. “Pee on one of these bad boys. Prove me right.”

“Terry, it’s too early, it won’t—”

He dropped the box on the floor, marched over to the tub, and gripped her by her hair. With one tug, he lifted her from her seat. Mindful that he could rip out a huge patch of her hair with little effort, she went with the momentum and hurled herself over the side, landing with her back on the tile. He yanked her to her knees, and, on all fours, she faced the scattered box of tests.

“You will piss on one of these,” he said, spittle spraying from his lips. His shadow sprawled over her and his breath brushed against her ear. “Or I swear to God, I will carve his name into your chest, setting a daily reminder of all that pain, all that guilt you can so easily throw away. Got it?”

“You’re insane,” she said in a tone barely above a breath.

“Say his name,” he demanded. “You vowed to never speak it again, but I want to hear you say it.”

“No.” Teardrops puddled on the tile before her, three at a time. “No, I will not.”

Her head suddenly jerked back. She felt hot pain on her neck, above her larynx. Scarlet droplets materialized before her, mixing with the fallen tears.

“You will say his name or I will open your throat right here and now.” Terry growled in her ear. She couldn’t believe how unhinged he’d become. Was he always like this? Capable of such psychotic actions? Or was this a slow-building end? Had Terry been slowly falling apart? Did she miss the warning signs because she was too wrapped up in her own shit? No, she didn’t think so. The man she married, the man she’d spent the last few days trying to help right the ship steering their marriage was very different from the man standing over her, threatening to end her life.

These creatures usually enjoy influencing someone close to you, the old woman had said.

“You’re not my husband,” she said, pinching her eyes shut. “You’re not Terry.”

“No?” He bit her ear, hard enough to leave behind deep, toothy pockets, but lacking the power to break the skin. “Who am I?”

“You’re the dream goblin.”

With this, Terry reared his head back and laughed. “You are something else, Angie. That woman got you all mixed up, didn’t she? Rosalyn. She turned us against each other, baby. She’s convinced you I’m evil. Well, I’m not evil. She was. I’m glad I killed her. Ester told me I had to, had to get her out of our way so we can proceed with the plan. The switch.” A soft, demonic giggle rose in Terry’s throat. “Rosalyn tried to interfere and she got what she deserved. Lesson learned. DO NOT INTERFERE.”

“You’re fucking nuts!”

A sharp pain shot through her neck, and, in that moment, she thought he’d begun sawing his way through her esophagus, working the blade deep into her vertebrae. She expected to see geysers of blood spurt forth, slicking the tile floor with scarlet, but no such image came forth. The pain was either a product of faulty nerves or her imagination conspiring against her. Seconds later, the pain ebbed and eventually faded. The red droplets had slowed to a stop.

“Dream goblins,” Terry said, chuckling. “We’ll teach ’em. Ester will show us the way.”

“Who… is… Ester?”

Terry squealed with delight. In a whisper, he told her, “Do not ask questions to which you already know the answer.”

Too tired to hold her position, Angela felt her arms give. She lowered herself onto the floor, laying flat, pressing her cheek against the cool tile. “Terry… don’t hurt me.”

“I am your husband. Your dearest, forgiving husband who has been patient with you, who has waited a long time for you to right all the wrong you caused our family. Who has been patiently waiting for you to snap out of it. God… you don’t know how hard it’s been on me. Every day I think about leaving you, Angela. Every goddamn day.” She was surprised to hear him sounding like her husband again, nothing manic about his voice whatsoever. Surprised… and terrified of what was coming out of his mouth. The truth, she thought. “I always thought that would be an easy way out. Just leave and I’ll never have to see him in your stupid fucking face again. My little [we do not speak his name] , here and present, living through the image of his psychotic fucking mother.”

She said something, but the words barely made it past her lips.

“What was that?” He relieved some of the pressure his knee applied to her back.

“I said…” She coughed, a deep honking noise, goose-like. She lifted her head a few inches from the floor. “I said… we promised to never speak his name. The both of us.”

She felt something pound her in the back of the head. Her face smashed against the tile. It took her several seconds to realize he had driven his fist into the back of her skull. A second after, her head launched backward, her neck stretching to its peak flexibility. Cold metal pressed against her neck again, and she wondered if her bones would break before he seized the opportunity to split open her jugular.

“I want you to say it for me, baby,” he rasped in her ear, the demonic version of her husband returning. “I want you to speak his goddamn name. It’s been so long since you’ve said it. It’ll feel good, I promise. Like a weight lifting off your shoulders. Or, in this case, a knife leaving the most vulnerable part of your body.”

“No,” she croaked.

“Yes.” He snarled in her ear, a cruel noise that sent shivers slithering down her spine. “Yes, you goddamn will.”

“NO.”

“YES.” He pulled her head back farther, cracking something in her throat.

“NO!” she screamed as loud as her strained voice permitted.

He slammed her head forward, crunching her nose against the tiled floor. A Rorschach pattern of blood appeared under her face. He pulled back her head again, slowly, allowing her to take in the scarlet sights before her. Crimson flowed down her face, steadily as a mountain brook.

“Say it, you bitch, or I swear to God I’m slitting your shit open right here and now!”

She opened her mouth, fully expecting to comply with her husband’s demands, but the only thing that came out was an inarticulate fragment of a word followed by a bout of heaving sobs. She tried again but ended up howling for help, screaming the neighbor’s name. This earned her another meet-and-greet with the floor, and she heard the violence of her nose shattering over the impact.