Tim Meyer - The Switch House

She takes the kitchen knife she’s been lugging around all day, the same weapon that would later be wielded by her husband, the same one that nearly ends her life.

“Keep your eyes closed, baby.” She’s crying now. In her mind, music plays. A sad song. Like the end of a sad movie when the credits are rolling. “Keep your eyes closed for mommy.”

Like the good boy he is, William does as he’s told.

“Ma-me,” he says.

And she brings down the knife.]

“The cops found this knife,” Terry whispered into her ear. “They found the weapon.”

“No DNA,” she said, her voice projecting into the darkness coating the shed’s interior. An endless voice responded with still silence. “No DNA, and no body.”

“Where did you put him?” Terry asked, putting the knife back to her throat. She felt the chalky dust of the sheetrock on her skin. “Please tell me, Angela,” Terry cried. “For the love of God and all that is holy, please tell me what you did with our son, William. Did you give it to them? Did you give it those monsters?”

“He’s safe,” she whispered. “He’s in a safe, safe place.”

[The knife comes down, the metal blade sinking inches into the wooden floorboards. She backs the knife out of the uncovered subfloor and screams with frustration. The noise is loud and bestial, unsettling to human ears. She barely recognizes the sound as her own and she briefly wonders if it was, or if there was something else in the shed with her besides her damaged son.

William only stares blankly at his mother and asks, “Ma-me?”]

“He’s in the Everywhere,” Angela said, turning to her husband, no longer concerned with the knife at her throat. “This whole time we worried that our William is dead. But he’s not. He’s safe. He’s alive, Terry, and he’s safe!”

She recalled the pharmacist and her infinite words of wisdom: “He’s still alive,” she had said, and wondered if the dream goblin had touched the woman from beyond, briefly hijacked her subconscious. In any case, the girl was right.

William was alive.

Somewhere.

[A crowded mall during peak shopping hours. A galley of benches. Angela sits down next to a couple who seems around the same age as she. She stations William between them.

“Thank you for showing up,” the woman says, speaking in a low tone and refusing to glance in her direction. Both strangers sport dark sunglasses. The man has a baseball cap pulled down, the brim shielding the upper half of his face.

The mall is alive with shoppers and their passing conversations are enough to drown out their own.

“No problem,” Angela says, her voice unsteady. She tries to keep her cool. She tries not to lose her shit. Terry has already grown suspicious, she’s certain of it. He’s noticed her odd behavior over the last week. He’s been busy with work, so they haven’t had time to “talk”, but she knows he’ll ask. The what’s-wrong-with-you-nothing-honey conversation is inevitable. “Can we make this quick?”

“Ma-me,” William says.

“He looks precious,” the woman says.

“He’s perfect,” the man concurs.

Angela feels her stomach flip, her insides liquefying. Everything feels like jelly.]

“He’s alive,” Angela said, almost as if she were pleading. “Terry, he’s alive and safe.”

“No, Angela,” her husband said, dropping the knife to his side. “No, he’s gone. And you killed him. You killed him when you lost him. When you gave up on him.”

Angela’s face contorted. “I did not kill my son. I did not. Do you hear me? I DID NOT KILL HIM.”

[Angela kisses her good boy on the top of his head.

With no discernible expression, he looks up at her and says, “Ma-me.”

“May we ask what happened?” the man asks, pointing to his head. “Mentally, I mean.”

Angela keeps her lips pressed against his scalp. She looks at the man, shooting him a sharp glance. “Just born that way. That’s what they told me.”

The woman doesn’t act concerned. “He’s perfect. Our client will be happy.”

“Client. William won’t be… in any danger, will he?”

The strangers shake their heads. The man speaks up first.“No, nothing like that. Our client is a very wealthy woman who enjoys helping those less fortunate. Those with certain mental abilities… they interest her.”

“Abilities?” Angela asks, almost laughing. “You mean deficiencies?”

Neither stranger answers.

Angela lets the comment go, hoping the conversation will swing in another direction, toward the end. She doesn’t enjoy the intense panic building in her chest, the numbness in her entire body. She’ll consider herself lucky if she walks away from this thing without having a heart attack.

“I have to ask,” Angela says, changing the subject. “How will you do it? Legally, I mean.”

The woman answers promptly: “We have birth certificates, social security cards—we even have pictures of your son with our client, from birth on. Photoshopped. Very professional. Very credible. No one will question it. Trust me.”

“This isn’t our first rodeo,” the man says, and there is something about his confidence that causes Angela’s bones to shake.

“Are you ready to do this?” the woman asks.

“I think so,” Angela answers, and she can’t believe those words fly from her mouth so quickly.

“Did you destroy your hard drive?”

Angela nods. “Local computer nerd assured me our conversations will never see the light of day. I had to tell him I was cheating on my husband. I paid him in cash.”

“Good.” The man rubs the top of William’s head. “Such a good boy.”

“Don’t seek us out,” the woman adds. “If you try to find us or locate William, they will kill you.”

Kill me?

“Excuse me?” Angela asks.

The man cracks a nervous smile. “That won’t be necessary, Sharon,” he says, then turns to Angela. “Right?”

“Right,” she squeaks in response.

Who are these people?

“I have to ask… you know… for my own knowledge… but why? Why William? There are plenty of kids in the system? Why did you seek out my boy?”

The strangers look at each other, then shrug as if to say, no-harm-in-telling-you.

“Our client has her reasons,” the woman says. “She’s kept an eye on William for quite some time now.”

“He’s a very special boy.”

But how? she wanted to ask but couldn’t locate the courage to further the odd, unsettling conversation.

“I’m afraid we can’t elaborate beyond that,” the woman adds.

“I was just curious.”

“Well, don’t be,” she says, her attitude changing, her voice cold and harsh. “You know about curiosity—it kills cats.”]

“I DID NOT KILL HIM.”

There was a terrible look in her eyes. Terry glared at her with an equally murderous gaze.

She breathed hard. Her chest heaved in rapid succession.

Terry gritted his teeth, the muscles in his neck becoming visible cords. The knife fell from his hand and landed on the ground. “What did you do with him? Who took him from you? No one disappears, Angela. Fuck this dream goblin bullshit! You did something with him! I know it!”

[She begins to sob]

“I put him in a safe place,” she said, her face glistening in the moonlight.