Experiment in Terror 05 On Demon Wings (10 page)

her pil ows in my arms.

“I don’t know. I…my TV…it came on…”

“So did the TV downstairs.”

I sat up straight as she came over to me. She was

wearing her striped designer pajamas, her hair sticking out

at crazy angles, mad scientist style.

“What?” I asked, rubbing my temples and trying to make

sense of everything that just happened.

“I woke up because I heard the TV turn on from

downstairs. I don’t know if it was always on or what. You

turned it off when you and mom were done, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I remember. But my TV just turned on

now too.”

She calmed down as we rehashed our stories. I wish I

could say the same about me. I was fixated on the fact that I

had, very clearly,
not
been holding onto her pil ows a few

moments ago.

“Maybe there’s a weird power surge in the house,” she

said, lowering her voice so she wouldn’t wake my parents.

“Wel how does that explain the TV staying on after I

unplugged it?” I pointed out fearful y.

“I don’t know. I’m sure it’s possible.”

“Come on,” I said, getting out of her bed and tugging at

her sleeve. “I’l show you.”

We went to my room but lo and behold, though the TV

was unplugged as I had left it, there was no power flowing

through it.

“It said my name,” I implored, looking at her, trying to get

her to believe me.

“You were probably asleep,” she said.

“But I wasn’t.”

“But maybe you were. Look, I don’t know, Perry. You’ve

been through a lot. You just watched a whole bunch of Tyra

Banks. Combined, those things can create nightmares.”

And with that, she left me in my room. A hugely selfish

part of me wanted to beg her to stay with me and keep

awake until I fel asleep, but I knew that she had school in

the morning and I could afford to sleep in. I was just going to

have to suck it up and try and get some shut-eye.

Luckily there was stil some NyQuil left behind in my

bedside table and before I had time to dwel on the evil

television I was swept under by a merciful, drug-induced

sleep.

~~~

The next day, I pried myself out of my NyQuil coma and

forced myself to partake in some exercise. It had been

days since I left the house and my body was cooperating a

lot better. I wasn’t wel enough to run, as my innards felt

achy at times, but I was good enough to take a brisk walk

down by the river.

It was a beautiful day, too. The sun was weak and

obscured by a thin layer of mist that rested over the river

and treetops like a strip of gauze, but the light danced

beautiful y and there was a hint of spring in the air. It was

nice to walk the route for a change, instead of running past

in a blur. I took the time to enjoy the pockets of nature, to

pay attention to the crisp, clear pools of the river where

shadows of spry fish swam underneath, and the spindly

trees whose branches bore the slightest hint of green buds.

It reminded me of being young and pretending I was in fairy

land.

By the time I returned back home, I was in better spirits

and feeling more optimistic about everything. One thing that

had real y bothered me the past few days was how bad it

looked for me to take off so much time from work. I know it

wasn’t like I asked to end up in the hospital but it was one

of those situations where my absence would have been felt.

I know Ash and the others would have covered for me (in

fact, I had spoken to Ash the other day and he assured me

everything was fine) but it didn’t real y help me in my quest

to get ful -time employment. Having finicky health didn’t

make you look like the most reliable employee.

But I had a plan. I was going to go into work and work

extra hard. I’d take a mil ion painkil ers if I had to; I just

wanted to prove that I was someone you could depend on,

someone who would go the extra mile. Yes, it was just a

stupid barista job, but it was stil the only way out of my

parents’ house and down a path al my own, where I didn’t

have to put up with my parents worrying that their child was

going to end up a spinster in her early twenties.

I was almost at my parents’ driveway when I saw my

neighbor walking down the street with her lab, Cheerio,

again. I waved at her, and I waved at the dog (as you do),

giving him my brightest smile.

At the sight of me, the dog froze on the spot, nearly

yanking his owner off her feet. His eyes were fixed on mine,

his legs stiff as boards and shaking ever so slightly.

I looked behind me to see if perhaps he saw another

dog or a rabbit but there was nothing.

“Cheerio!” my neighbor scolded. “Come on, now. That’s

just Perry.”

She tried pul ing at the dog but he wouldn’t move. The

only thing that did was his mouth, as his droopy lips spread

open, showing perfectly white, pointed teeth.

A low guttural growl seeped out between them. I nearly

felt it in my running shoes.

“Cheerio, what -” she started.

Before she could finish, the dog leaped forward, ripping

the leash out of her hands and bringing my neighbor to her

knees on the rough concrete. She cried out in pain and the

dog kept running, coming straight for me.

Coming to kil me.

I turned on a dime, losing no hesitation, and sprinted

toward the house, ignoring the pain in my sides as I coaxed

my legs to leap wider, run harder.

I reached the door just as I heard the wet, snapping

snarls a few feet away, flung it open and slammed it shut as

Cheerio flung his body up against the door. I fel back onto

the foyer and the door sprang back open, having not

latched properly.

Cheerio had fal en too, and there was a brief instance

where both of us were on the ground, eyeing each other like

predator and prey, before scrambling to get to our feet, with

only an open door between us.

I reached the door first and put al my weight against it,

holding it in place as Cheerio slammed his body against

the door repeatedly, shaking me with each throw.

I kept myself against it until I found the agility to lock it,

my fingers fumbling as I slid the chain across. Then I curled

up into a bal at the foot of the stairs and cried until my

parents came home.

~~~

“You’re not touching your mashed potatoes, honey,” my

mom said gently, gesturing to the steaming pile of starch,

which looked as appetizing as a heap of albino crap.

We were having dinner, and thanks to my incident with

Cheerio earlier in the day, I lost the wil to eat, even though

mashed potatoes and chicken parmesan were among my

favorite foods. I could only pick at it and push the food

around my plate, feeling on edge and depressed at the

same time.

My dad sighed, loudly, and folded his hands, his chubby

fingers smeared with old ink stains. He rested his chin on

them and peered at me over the top of his thick glasses.

I shot him a derisive look. “What now?”

His eyes narrowed momentarily but he managed to rein

in his temper. It never did me any good to get snappish with

him, but I was sick and tired of having everyone look at me

like I was a mental patient. They did that already anyway,

and now it was even worse.

“I think we’re al worried about you,” he said careful y. He

glanced at Ada to see if she’d disagree. But from her quiet,

pensive demeanor, I could see she was worried too.

“I’m also worried,” I admitted. “Animals usual y love me.”

He sighed again and leaned back in his chair. “Perry,

come now, you must have done something to provoke the

animal.”

“Like what?” I exclaimed. “I just waved.”

“You waved at a dog?”

“I always wave at dogs! And I always wave at Cheerio.

Go ask the neighbor.”

“We would but I think she’s stil in the hospital getting her

knee looked at. That was her bum knee, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I said, pushing back my plate in

anger. It rattled loudly on the hard table. “How the hel

should I know that? It wasn’t my fault her damn dog went

psycho.”

“Perry!” he admonished. The tension in the room shot

up. “We do not use that word in the house.”

“Damn? Hel ?” I repeated. “Why the hel not? You think

God is going to come down and smote you for it? Fry you

like a piece of Goddamn bacon right here?”

“Perry, for goodness sake!” my mother yel ed, her voice

warbling in a mix of fear and anger.

I looked at my family, at their tense, tight faces, and

squelched the anger I felt rising through me. I don’t know

what happened, but it was like I lost al control. Not only of

my emotions, but of my actual being, my body and my mind,

like I was being split into two people. The scary thing was

I’d been feeling like that quite a bit.

I took a deep breath through my nose and closed my

eyes, trying to regain focus.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I don’t know what came over

me.”

Silence. I opened one eye and saw my parents

exchanging looks across the table. Ada was observing me

with her big eyes and reached over to pat my hand.

“Don’t worry about it, you weirdo,” she said with a smal

smile. She looked down at my hand and raised her brow.

“Wow, you’ve got some nice nails going on for once.”

I frowned and looked down at fingers. I did have nice

nails. They were longer than normal, expertly shaped and

coated in a shiny coral pink color.

The room started to spin slightly.

I’d never worn pink nail polish in my whole entire life. I

never even had a bottle of it.

“Oh, those are nice, Perry,” my mom added, happy to

change the subject. “Your nails are usual y such a mess.”

I brought my hand out of Ada’s and raised it up to my

face. This was my hand, right? It was attached to my body,

it had the same slight scarring across the top from when I

was an emo teenager and thought cutting myself with a

safety pin would be a good idea. I pinched the tips of my

nails, checking to see if someone had glued on fake nails

as a joke. But they were real, attached to my fingers, even

though I had no recol ection of ever painting them that color.

“What’s wrong?” Ada asked.

I shook my head, swal owing the confusion.

“Nothing,” I squeaked out. “I just…don’t remember where

I got this color from, that’s al . Is it yours?”

Ada looked at my nails a little closer. “No, that’s too

orangey. I have a similar shade but it has sparkles.”

I looked up at my mother hopeful y. Her nails had a

perfect French manicure.

“Not mine,” she said. “But I’d like to borrow it.”

I nodded at that and stared back at them. Everything

around me got fuzzy and swirly while I thought things over.

When could I have done this? How could I forget something

like painting my nails? Not that it was a significant event but

it wouldn’t be something that would just fal out of my head.

And where the hel did I get the color? I didn’t remember

ever buying it. I mean, pink? Yuck.

This was the kind of thing that happened when you were

drunk. Perhaps I’d been blacking out through the NyQuil or

while I was on the pain meds earlier in the week. It stil

didn’t explain where the nail polish came from in the first

place. Maybe I had been doing some
major
sleepwalking,

like the kind that sent me to raid the 24-hour Walgreens for

nail polish.

“I thought you were turning over a new leaf,” my mother

said, delicately munching on a bite of salad. “It would be

nice if you-”

She was interrupted by three quick knocks at the front

door. My heart lodged somewhere in my chest. One glance

at Ada’s frightened face and it was apparent she felt the

same way too.

My dad frowned, more perturbed than alarmed, and got

up out of his chair, tossing his napkin on the table.

“I’l go see who it is,” he grumbled and made his way

down the hal . I looked at my sister and mother, who were

leaning forward in their chairs, shoulders tense.

We heard my father slide the chain across and open the

door.

“Who’s there?” his professor-like voice boomed out into

the night. “Show yourself.”

There was a pause and the sound of his shoes on the

front brick stoop, then him coming back inside, the door

closing softly behind him.