I didn’t always expect this. I know this sounds insane, but I need to get this off of my chest.
This entire thing started off as an imaginary friend. She would talk to her “friends” at night, her shrill, innocent voice would ring out in the empty halls. My husband and I just laughed at her when she would tell stories about what she talked about with her “friends” the previous night. Stories of playing house, flying around the room, soaring through the air. We humored her, laughing and giving exasperated answers to the more “weird” stories, like when she described them leading her out of her window and onto the roof.
It wasn’t until she started describing things in graphic detail, that she wouldn’t know about without somebody telling her.
“Mommy,” My daughter spoke from the dining room table, grabbing my attention from the kitchen, “can I tell you a story Rory told me?”
“Yeah, honey,” I responded, “of course.”
It was then after I spoke those three words that a loud bang resounded around the room. I jumped, nearly dropping the knife I was holding. After a second of silence, my daughter spoke.
“I’m sorry, mommy, I can’t tell you. Rory doesn’t want me.”
I just brushed this off as the house settling, something in the attic dropping, or something outside crashing, but I could shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Over the next few weeks, more strange things started happening. The cabinets would open, t.v. would turn on and off, radio stations would change by themselves, the garage door would open then drop closed. I just brushed this off, myself and my husband, and would make excuse and excuse as to why this would be happening. The electrical was misfiring, the connection was iffy, et cetera. I tried everything I could to excuse why these things were happening, but then nightmares started happening.
Dark, short figures standing in the corner of my room. They contrasted with the gray walls, their clothes ratted, stance relaxed. They were children with black eyes.
I’d be frozen in fear, trying to will myself to get up and bolt, to wake my husband sleeping next to me, to move, do something. I was never able to. After what would feel like ages, I’d wake with a jolt, the time always early in the morning.
Five a.m.
Four a.m.
Three a.m.
I told my husband about these nightmares, but he said that it was fine. I’m just stressing myself, he said. I just needed to take more time off, and take care of myself. He even insinuated that they weren’t even happening.
One morning, after a full night of nightmares, I was making coffee in the kitchen. Making breakfast was a rhythmic action, something done every day as a ritual of goodbye, a ritual of the start of the day.
I was mixing batter for pancakes when I saw a wisp out of the corner of my eyes. The sunlight was coming in through the windows behind me, and I was the only one up. Or at least, I was supposed to be the only one up.
On instinct, I turned. I expected there to be nothing, but my heart still raced in fear.
I wasn’t the only one up.
My breath fell short as I caught sight of a boy no more than ten years old standing near the dining room table, medium-length brown hair falling over his ears, pale skin like porcelain against the grey of the walls. His most distinguishable feature, though, was his black eyes.
He spoke no words, only stared at me. I wanted to cry, to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth. It was like he was taking my ability to speak.
Then, out of thin air, my daughter appeared next to him.
“It’s okay, mommy,” My daughter spoke in a deep, raspy voice. It wasn’t hers. That wasn’t her voice. My eyes landed on her as she continued on. “Rory is just shy.”
I tried to call out to my husband, but no sound came out of my mouth. I tried again, and again, fruitlessly straining.
Then, as they crept closer, my vision went black, slowly fading in and out until the only thing I could feel was the clothes against my skin and cold hands pulling at my skin, draining my body of all blood so my skin would become as pale as theirs. I felt my eyes being pulled out of my skull, veins, and blood bursting as sickly fingers stuck themselves into my eye sockets and emptied everything they could.
By the end of everything, I knew what I needed to do. As I felt my husband trek down the stairs, I turned towards the stairwell and waited, Rory and my daughter at my side.
“Honey?” My husband spoke, “Where’s Delilah?”
“In here, dear.” I smiled, as I heard his steps come closer, and closer, and closer.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Crash.