Nightscript 1

by C M Muller

  Without looking in Miles’s direction, she left the kitchen. Now she came to think of it, she hadn’t heard Wyll moving around upstairs. Perhaps he had gone out already. She went quickly up the narrow stairs, but stopped as soon as she reached the landing. She listened. There was a faint sound above her, like a fingernail scratching wood. No doubt it was simply a tiny creature alive in the flying beam. She put her head to Wyll’s door. Silence. As she straightened up, she asked herself why she hadn’t knocked. She wasn’t her normal self; something was askew. Was there a straight line in the house? The timbering appeared almost…tangled. She knew the carpenters used wood that had been deliberately bent out of shape, like the cruck beam in the end gable, but as she looked around her everything was subtly deformed: the corridor twisting from her, as if it were trying to hide an additional room in the house. As quietly as possible, she moved away from Wyll’s door. For months now she had sensed he was up to something in his grandmother’s room. She inched forward until she was standing right outside the other door. Just as she was about to turn the handle, she drew back. Sweat broke out on her forehead; a ribbon of cold perspiration tickled her spine. She stood very still and tried to control her breathing.

  Wyll was in his bedroom. Alone in the house. At least that was what they thought. It had not been easy persuading them that, at sixteen years of age, he was capable of spending a few nights at home without his mother. The doctor and the social worker both imagined he must be in a state of shock. Well, they were mistaken. He wasn’t even slightly surprised. Once a closer look was taken at his mother’s medical records, they would realize that what had happened was all too foreseeable.

  Mr. Brampton’s kind offer to stay over had been especially unwelcome, but fortunately the social worker was not enthusiastic about it either. And now they were gone and he was lying in his bed, flat on his back, with his arms dangling outside the sheets. He had left the curtain slightly open so he could just see the sharp points of stars in front of the snow-skid of galaxies. The house was quiet. Although spring had almost come, the nights were cold. Moonlight patched the bottom of his eiderdown with silver.

  He stretched out his hand, so as to stroke the soft fur of a creature on guard below the headboard. There were four of them altogether, one positioned on the floor at each corner of his bed, and reassuring to the touch. Whilst they were predominantly invisible, it was possible to catch a glimpse of them, usually by coming into the room unexpectedly, or by turning on the light in the small hours. If one was facing you, you would see white teeth flaring and the blaze of red-brown eyes. And then the creature would be replaced by something quite ordinary.

  How long would his mother be away this time? The birth of his brother brought back her depression; his death had deranged her. Wyll could sense her insanity without hugging her, which she wouldn’t allow in any case. Inside her was a black flame feeding on dark wax. If he stretched out his hands, he could feel the heat of her mad grief pushing him away. And his father hadn’t coped either. Instead of trying to comfort her, he’d immersed himself in the estate and, in less than a week, chopped enough wood to last them seven winters. Then there’d been the accident with the chainsaw.

  After the double funeral, which she’d refused to attend, Wyll managed to get medical assistance for her. The school had helped.

  It was unfortunate that just when she was making a partial recovery, she should disturb him, kneeling, hunched and full-coated in the corner, even his head and feet fully covered by the pelt.

  What was important now was that tomorrow he would examine the writing under the carpet without interruption.

  He knew there was the weave of every week, its sometimes colorful patterns: the reassurance of the well-stitched routine. And then beneath this lay the secret script: the truth outside the self. It was his task to decipher it and find how it matched the text of his dreams. Then he would know who he was and what he would become.

  And as for her husband, just because they thought he was dead…

  At her with their bone-dry doctrines, they were; but she knew how flesh formed in the wind and an invisible hand grasped the axe.

  As for Gwyll! The name chosen by his grandmother, the price of the legacy that rescued them from poverty in the city, didn’t they know what it meant? No matter how often you called him Will, he was Gwyll, a thing sent to creep at dawn and dusk. Why should she put her arms around him, let him suck her breast? Almost from the first she had known what he was. They sent him away so he could get his milk.

  Did they think she didn’t understand that all the creatures his grandmother had bred were in the forest, waiting to enter the house? Of course she did.

  She wasn’t prepared for what was in the room. At first there was only a stump of fur, but then came the writhing within, and next lumps like small heads bobbing beneath the pelt. She remembered how she thought that if she could bring herself to touch them gently all the agony would stop. But as she took a step forward, she saw a mouth part; an eye opened in the teeming fur. Another one joined it, shiny with terror. And then forty mouths were wide, waiting for the hiss of the gas.

  The Cuckoo Girls

  Patricia Lillie

  She just wants to finish her folding in peace, to escape the laundromat’s overwhelming smell of bleach and the shrieking toddlers running laps around the tables and carts, but the strange girl appears intent on making Jennifer her new best friend.

  The girl looks about seventeen—a hard, worn-out seventeen, but still seventeen. She sounds about twelve, both in voice and conversation. She says she’s six weeks pregnant, but her belly looks more like eight months along.

  Jennifer is shocked when the girl says she’s a dancer at the Wild Cherry. Jennifer’s always assumed strippers are about boobs and butts, not bellies and babies.

  “It pays good money,” the girl says, “and they buy me fast food, so I’m good.” She babbles about her boyfriend, her job, and the two extra coats that somehow ended up with her laundry the last time she was here.

  “I found them when I got home,” she says. “They were really great, even if they were too big. It was like Christmas.”

  “Somebody probably missed them.”

  She looks at Jennifer, her eyes wide. “I never thought of that.”

  Jennifer revises her opinion. The girl looks fifteen. Jennifer finishes folding and packs up her clothes. She double-checks to make sure she has everything. She doesn’t want any of her things accidentally ending up in the girl’s basket. Her wardrobe is sparse enough.

  “I’ll help you carry out your stuff,” the girl says.

  “No need. You probably shouldn’t be lifting any more than you have to.”

  “It’s okay. I’m really strong. Dancing’s a good workout.”

  They put the baskets in the backseat of Jennifer’s Civic. Jennifer thanks her and leaves.

  If the girl ever says her name, Jennifer misses it. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t expect to see the girl again.

  Jennifer sits in her car outside the laundromat.

  Why does she have to be here? The building’s plate-glass windows are fogged with condensation, but not enough to hide the girl on the other side.

  Shut off the car. Get out. Go in. She turns the key and cuts the motor but doesn’t move from her seat.

  She’s just an irritating little girl.

  The girl doesn’t bother to sort her laundry. Black, red, white, green, blue—it all goes into one washer. Jennifer is annoyed but doesn’t know why. They’re not her clothes.

  I can leave. She won’t even know I was here.

  She can’t bring herself to turn the key, start the car, and back away. She hesitates too long. The girl sees her. She’s out the door and banging on the window of the Civic.

  “Hey, Jenn? You need help carrying stuff in?”

  She can’t remember telling the girl her name.

  The girl watches Jennifer put her darks into a washer. “You’ve got really nice stuff. I’ll help!”
She grabs Jennifer’s basket of whites.

  “Thank you, but please don’t. I’d rather—” It’s too late. Seeing the girl handle her clothes makes Jennifer’s skin crawl. I’ll have to come back tomorrow and wash them again.

  They end up sharing a folding table.

  “Look! I saw yours and liked it so much I bought one just like it.” The girl holds up a purple sweater full of twists and cables.

  Jennifer knows the girl didn’t buy it. Jennifer knitted the sweater herself, from her own pattern. Well, her own adaptation of a simple pattern. It’s one of a kind and customized to fit her.

  The girl puts the sweater on. It fits her perfectly.

  That’s not possible. The girl is tiny, smaller than Jennifer in both height and girth. Other than her belly, which looks slightly smaller than it did when Jennifer met her.

  I’m losing my mind. Jennifer tries to remember the last time she wore or even saw the sweater. She can’t. She throws the rest of her laundry into her baskets without folding.

  “I need to go. I’m running late.”

  “Bye, Jenn!” The girl’s cheerful voice follows her out the door.

  The shelves hold too many varieties of vitamins and supplements. Their bright labels make Jennifer’s eyes burn. There’s one for energy, one for vision, one for over fifty, one for under thirty. All she wants is one basic multi-vitamin, but she wants a good one. She’s run down and out of sorts. Nothing she can put her finger on, but she hates going to the doctor. Self-diagnosis and a trip to the drugstore are always her first line of defense.

  I should have gone to a real drugstore. Talked to the pharmacist.

  The super-store seemed like a good idea. Get everything at once and get home. Except Jennifer and her cart full of groceries can’t make it out of the vitamin aisle. The fluorescent lights give her a headache. She can’t make up her mind. The burning in her eyes threatens to give way to tears.

  “Hey, Jenn!”

  She recognizes the girl’s chirpy voice but doesn’t turn around.

  My little stalker.

  “Last night was really busy at the club. Good tips! I get to go shopping today!”

  If I ignore her, she’ll go away.

  “Wow. All you have is food! I’m going to get something orange and sparkly.”

  Jennifer tries to remember the girl’s name. She’s sure the girl mentioned it, but she’s forgotten.

  “Ginkgo biloba is supposed to be good for memory. Ginseng, too.”

  “How—” Jennifer turns to look at the girl.

  She wears Jennifer’s purple sweater buttoned tight over her enlarged breasts and distended belly.

  It’s meant to be a jacket. Jennifer’s carefully wrought cables and twists are stretched flat. Her small, even stitches become lattice-work, and the girl’s pale flesh shows through the gaping holes.

  She’s ruining it.

  The girl reaches into Jennifer’s cart and pulls something out.

  “Ohhhh. Raspberry Fudge Ripple! My favorite!”

  Lightheaded and dizzy, Jennifer leaves her groceries and the girl in the aisle. She sits in her car shaking and crying for a quarter of an hour before she’s able to drive home.

  This is stupid. She’s just a strange little girl who stole my favorite sweater.

  She doesn’t know how the raspberry fudge ice cream got in her cart. She hates raspberry, hates it even more when it messes up her chocolate. Raspberry Fudge Ripple is her sister’s favorite.

  “So, I’ve got a teenage stalker,” Holly says.

  Jennifer and her sister talk on the phone once a week. Their parents are gone, and they are the only family left. They may not like each other, but they stick together. As long as that together doesn’t involve anything more than short conversations from a hundred and fifty miles apart.

  “What’s he look like?” Jennifer assumes Holly’s stalker is a young man. Holly is always sure any male in her presence is fascinated with her. About half the time, she’s correct. Maybe a third of the time.

  “It’s not a boy! It’s a girl.” Holly’s voice is tinny and empty.

  Must be a bad connection. Holly always sounds confident and full of life. Full of herself.

  Jennifer wants to tell her sister about the girl. Tell her that she has a stalker of her own, but she knows Holly won’t believe her. Holly’s the younger sister, but she always does everything bigger and better. At least, Holly thinks so. She definitely does everything louder. If Jennifer tells her sister about the girl, Holly will sneer and call her a copycat. Holly seems convinced Jennifer envies everything about her and wants to be just like her.

  If I wanted to be someone else, I’d choose someone I liked.

  Holly’s still talking. She never waits for Jennifer’s answers.

  “She’s tallish, dishwater blond. A little dumpy. She sort of looks like you at that age. Except she’s pregnant. Did I tell you she’s pregnant?”

  Jennifer realizes whom her girl reminds her of. She looks a lot like Holly at fifteen. Or twelve. Holly blossomed early.

  “Mine too,” Jennifer says but knows Holly doesn’t hear her. When Jennifer speaks, Holly rarely bothers to listen unless they are talking about Holly.

  “Gotta run,” Holly says. “Date. Maybe he’ll protect me from my stalker.”

  “Next week,” Jennifer says, but she’s talking to dead space. Holly’s hung up.

  The vomit swirls and disappears down the toilet. For the third morning in a row, Jennifer throws up. Her period is late. She knows what this should mean, but she also knows it isn’t possible.

  She’s been alone since she stopped seeing Wayne. Stopped seeing sums it up. They never exactly broke up.

  She watched him sit in her living room, engrossed in a Nature Channel documentary. He blended with the decor. Gray walls, gray curtains, gray furniture, gray Wayne.

  “…brood parasites, slyly planting their own eggs in the nests of others…” Even the voice from the television was gray, drab.

  “I wonder if they still make black and white televisions?” she said.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not yet.” She took a sip of her white wine.

  “…and the cuckoo’s oft-targeted host species appear to have developed an instinctual acceptance of the interlopers…”

  After he left the next morning, she stopped answering or returning his calls. Eventually, he stopped calling.

  A stomach bug. She’d wait it out. No need to visit the drug store. What would she buy? A pregnancy test? Wayne was six months ago. Or three. Was he before or after the girl? She thinks before, but isn’t sure.

  The nausea doesn’t go away. She has to pee every hour, on the hour. Her breasts hurt. She stops leaving her house except to go to work. Every time she goes out, something makes her gag. She misses a second period. She’s frightened.

  “Early detection,” says the soothing voice on the television PSA. Jennifer tells herself it’s time to put on her big girl panties. She makes an appointment with her doctor.

  The morning of the appointment, she finds her purple sweater. It’s on the shelf in her closet, right where it belongs. Was it there yesterday? She can’t remember.

  It’s not stretched out at all. It fits perfectly. She wears it, for luck.

  “Really. I can’t be pregnant. It’s not possible,” Jennifer says.

  “We’ll do a test anyway,” Dr. Yuhaz says. “Just to make sure. How old was your mother when she entered menopause?”

  Jennifer doesn’t know. She tells the doctor her mother had a hysterectomy after her sister was born and no, she doesn’t know why. Nor does she know about her grandmother, who died when Jennifer was six. Her family didn’t talk much. Jennifer marked “No” next to Family History of Breast Cancer for years before anyone told her that was what killed her grandmother.

  Knowing what killed her grandmother is still more than she knows about her father’s family. The only sign he ever had a family is a stack of old photos, all of a single dark
-haired man.

  “I’ll order blood work and an ultrasound, but you are pregnant,” the doctor says.

  “I don’t even have a cat.” Jennifer’s feet are in the stirrups and she can’t see the doctor’s reaction, but she hears his laugh.

  How would I take care of a child? She puts both hands on her belly and imagines she feels a spark. I need him. The ferocity of her reaction surprises her. She’s never wanted children. He’s mine. She is convinced the baby is a boy. Fetus, not baby. Get a grip. If she is going to change her mind, she needs to do it soon.

  Outside, Jennifer sees the girl across the parking lot. She waves to Jennifer before getting into the backseat of a dark SUV. Her belly is flat.

  She must have had her baby.

  For the first time, Jennifer wants to talk to her. Ask her questions. It’s too late. The girl is gone.

  Her cell rings. She doesn’t recognize the number, but answers anyway. She feels a need to talk to someone, anyone.

  “There’s been an accident.” The voice on the other end won’t give her any details, but Holly is in the hospital.

  Holly’s stalker. Jennifer looks around the parking lot for the SUV, but it’s gone.

  “Is my sister okay?”

  “She’s out of danger, but she’s asking for you.”

  Instead of going home, Jennifer goes to her sister.

  It wasn’t Holly’s stalker, and it wasn’t an accident. Holly’s current boyfriend beat her up. Jennifer always thinks of Holly’s men as The Current Boyfriend or The Last Boyfriend or The One with the Good Job—or No Job or whatever. She rarely meets them and doesn’t bother to keep track of their names.

  “I thought he’d be happy when I told him I was pregnant,” Holly says. “We’d been together eight months!”