Page 35 of Cackle

“Okay,” I say.

“I’m only joking,” she says, laughing. “It was a joke, darling. Anyway, sleep well!”

She leaves, closing the door behind her.

I feel the floor teetering beneath me. I stumble into bed, silently pleading with the room for it to hold still. A single voice cuts through the wine slush in my head.

Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep.

—

My eyes are open. I’m on my back. The room is dark. I don’t remember turning the lights off, but I must have. My mouth is dry, my tongue limp. My limbs are incapable of movement. Up! I tell them. Let’s go. I need water. I need to pee. But my body refuses to move.

I stare at the bed canopy. I try to identify the flowers in the pattern, a challenge in the dark. I see a rose. A peony. My eyes go cross and I blink twice. There’s something unusual about the canopy, about the fabric, the way it’s draping. There are some places where it sags. I count four. I wonder if it’s from the chandelier hanging too low or if maybe there are some rips.

I blink again, and in that brief moment, in the darkness of my own head appears the face I saw in the mirror.

I’ve never been the type to scare easily. It’s one of the few ways in my life I’ve always been practical. I’ve never been fazed by slasher movies or ghost stories or urban legends. I was the one at sleepovers rolling her eyes, putting her hands on the planchette. I’m not scared of poltergeists or vampires or Freddy Krueger. I’m scared of real things, like economic recessions and dying alone.

So this kind of fear is unfamiliar to me, and I’m more disturbed by the fear than by the face, or the fact that the impressions in the canopy are now moving, like there’s something up there crawling across it.

The fear sends an electric jolt through my body. I catapult out of bed and stare up at the space between the top of the canopy and the ceiling.

I don’t see anything unusual, but I keep my eyes locked there. I take a few steps back to get a better view. Another few steps. My back hits the wall.

There’s nothing on the canopy. I breathe a long sigh of relief. I turn to walk toward the bathroom, and the wall seems to jump back away from me. My eyes slowly shift to the side, and in my peripheral vision, the distance between where I stand and where the wall is seems significant. A few feet.

So what was I up against? What was at my back?

The relief is sucked from my body with such force that my knees buckle. I listen for something, some noise that would confirm the presence of someone other than myself. The give of the floor. Breathing.

In listening, I discover there’s something else at my ear. Not a sound. Well, not really. It’s more a sensation. I realize I’ve been feeling it for a few seconds but have been too flustered to acknowledge it.

It’s hot air.

Humidity.

My hand reaches up instinctively.

ShhhhhhSssssss!

Someone is hissing in my ear.

I run.

I run to the bathroom, slam the door shut, lock it. I flip the light switch and look around. I slowly approach the tub and crane my neck to see inside. Empty.

I go back to the door. I wait for the knob to spin or for a set of fingers to appear in the narrow space between the door and the bathroom floor.

I think of what Sophie said earlier. A creaky, drafty old house.

I wonder what Sam would say if he were here. He’d probably still be asleep. He’s a heavy sleeper.

If Sam were here, I wouldn’t be afraid.

It’s just because I’m alone.

The realization is sobering. I go pee, wash my hands and splash some cold water on my face. I drink from the tap. I open the door out to the bedroom without any fear or hesitation, just bleak, boring logic. I get back in bed and pull the covers up high over my shoulder.