Tim Meyer - The Switch House

“That’s great, honey.”

“Promise you’re not mad?”

“No, I’m actually proud you’re getting help.”

She laughed incredulously. “Proud? Okay, who are you and what did you do with my husband?”

Terry clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. That patented smirk-frown rested crookedly on his face. “Babe, I’m here to support you. Whatever you are going through, we’re in this together. I’m here to the bitter end.”

“Love will see us through?”

“Always.”

Angela smiled. “You know, Abbie wanted to bring you in for a couple’s session.”

Terry grinned. “Well, I don’t know about that. That’s kinda where I draw the line.”

“I told her you’d say something like that.”

They shared a chuckle. Then Terry dropped his smirk and frown act, and his face went rigid. “No, but in all seriousness, if you think it’d help…”

“That means a lot to me.”

He kissed her again. “Come. Follow me.” He grabbed her hand.

“Where are we going?”

“I have something to show you.”

In the candlelit room, they undressed each other. Terry kissed her neck gently and squeezed her breasts. She closed her eyes and grabbed him. He lifted her into his arms as she jumped up and wrapped her legs around him. He laid her down on the bed with more force than she had anticipated.

She opened her eyes. He stared down at her. She closed her eyes again and her body was instantly injected with a pleasure she’d long since forgotten.

“Terry,” she breathed into his ear as he started to maneuver around inside her, knocking his hips against her bottom. As their bodies rocked in perfect harmony, she bit her lip, so hard her tongue detected metallic flavors.

Love will get us through…

“I love you,” she whispered in a hot breath. “I love you so much.”

…to the bitter end.

She cried.

When it was over, she cried some more.

She awoke to an empty bed. Terry had already left for work, gone hours before. In place of his body was a plate of chocolate-chip waffles topped with a puddle of strawberry syrup and a heap of whipped cream, a folded note tucked neatly beneath it. She snatched the note first and unfolded the paper as if it contained the code to disarm a nuclear warhead. With giggly schoolgirl joy, she read her husband’s message:

Babe,

Last night was pure magic. I love you. I feel whole again.

I feel whole again.

Those words stuck. She felt something too, and though the past had broken her, battered her once high spirits, that morning she awoke reconnected with some semblance of her former self. The world seemed brighter, sharper. Her vision crisper. Senses fired on all cylinders, her energy restored. Angela opened the bedroom window and let in a breeze carrying earthly fragrances, oddly euphoric, scents that traveled up her nasal cavities, into her brain, coating her mind and soul with a comforting shiver, a message from the world saying everything would be okay and it’d all work out in the end. That the journey ahead would be long and hard, and sometimes uncomfortable and often grueling, but in the end, she’d survive and become almost whole again.

The moment lasted about thirty seconds, the time it took for her to notice the black Oldsmobile parked across the street. Her stomach lurched, the taste of sickness entering the back of her throat. The tantalizing aroma quickly faded as her nerves swam fiercely, throwing her body into a state of perpetual chaos. Panic stabbed her chest, causing her heart to pump like a locomotive piston. The attack was so strong her arms and legs tingled with numbness, and, for a second, she thought someone had cut open her veins. She checked herself to make sure her flesh was free from injury, and of course, she found her skin unmarked. Her eyes returned to the Oldsmobile and searched for the driver.

The front seat was empty. So was the back. There was no one on the sidewalk. No one at all.

Where is she?

She poked her head out the window and glanced around the property, down the street; the woman was nowhere in her line of sight. Her mind kicked into a frenzy of terrible thoughts, recalling the obscene images from the other night.

Oh God, she thought, does the woman still have the key?

She couldn’t remember giving Barry back the keys to the Vermont house, but realized she wouldn’t have because Terry handled those details. But still…

What if she still has the key?

Angela wondered if the woman had been in the house between the hours Terry left for work and the end of her long nap. She pictured the old witch standing over her while she slept, chanting and dancing, conjuring the spirits of another realm of existence ( the Everywhere) , a place where demons slept and waited, biding their time to cross over worlds. She imagined the woman dangling a chicken over her naked flesh, digging a blade beneath the bird’s skin, the savage removal of its head and the freshets of blood raining down on her. She envisioned the woman’s words having the power to open the walls and give birth to an ancient gateway, granting access to a fiery underworld harboring horned beasts and otherworldly creatures eagerly awaiting the flesh of God’s precious, chosen creations.

Her cell rang, pulling her out of the twisted reveries.

She dashed across the room, over to the nightstand and grabbed her phone.

“Terry!” she answered, breathless and sounding manic.

“Morning, love. Did you enjoy my surprise?” She knew he was grinning by the tone of his voice. “I wish I could have cuddled you all morning, but, you know, duty calls.”

“Terry, I need help.”

A slight pause. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s here.”

“Who’s there?”

“The woman.”

“What woman?”

“From the show, Terry. From the goddamn show.”

“Rosalyn Jeffries?”

“Yes!”

Another pause. “Well, is she nice?”

“Terry!”

“What?”

“I think… she… I think she’s here to kill me.”

Terry bellowed with laughter. “Baby, please. That’s ridiculous. Why on God’s-Green-Earth would she want to kill you?”

“Because…”

“Baby, you can’t be serious.” Another beat. Then: “Wait. Are you serious?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I have a bad feeling. Whatever’s been going on with me lately, I think it’s…”

Terry waited. “Yes?”

“I think it’s her fault. It’s like she’s done something to the house. Put a curse on us or something.”

“Put a curse on us? Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

She did, which was part of the problem. She hardly believed it herself but she couldn’t shake the feeling her intuition was correct, that the woman had jinxed the house and was now haunting her from afar.

“Yes, Terry. I absolutely know how fucking crazy that sounds. But I can’t… I can’t explain what’s happening to me any other way.” She gulped. “She infected this place.”

“What do you want me to do?” She could envision her husband pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes, his patented move when his patience was worn.

“I don’t know.”

“I can call the police. But they’ll be pissed if the woman came by to drop off a cake and a jar of cookies.”

The doorbell chimed.

“Shit, Terry. She’s at the door.”

“Okay, so what am I doing?”

“Call them. Call the police.”

“Fine.”

They hung up.

Angela, crouching, stalked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and stopped when she reached the top of the stairs. She stayed there, spying the front door, eyeing the shadow stationed behind the decorative full lite of obscured glass.