by Dima Zales
Ariel sidesteps the older man and goes into the living room. Curious, I follow.
The room smells like a Febreze factory after a terrorist act—but that’s infinitely better than the horrific stench just minutes earlier. All signs of the body parts are gone.
“I can’t believe it’s the same room,” Ariel says, summing up my feelings on the matter.
“I did the hallway outside too.” Pada regretfully looks at his now-empty cup.
“How much do we owe you?” Ariel opens the window—presumably to air out the cloud of Febreze.
Pada sets the cup down on the coffee table. “Vlad took care of my compensation tonight.”
“Then thank you, and good night.” Ariel walks over to the front door and holds it open in a polite but insistent gesture.
Pada ignores the door, reaches into his pocket, and takes out a business card. Handing it to me, he says, “In case you need my services in the future.”
“She will not need your services,” Ariel mutters as she watches him march toward the door. “Not if I can help it.”
“Thanks.” I examine the card. All I see is his name, Pada L’Shick, and a 212 phone number.
Ariel slams the door behind him so hard that some dust and plaster are knocked loose.
Taking out my phone, I enter the odd man’s phone number and name into my Google contacts—just in case—and then walk back to the kitchen to throw away the actual paper card.
Joining me, Ariel sits down at the kitchen table, picks up her own tea, and cradles it in her hands, as though to warm them.
“You’ve got to tell me what you know.” I grab an ice cube from the fridge and angrily drown it in my tea. “I won’t stop asking, no matter how much you try to pretend you didn’t hear me.”
She puts down her tea, her forehead creasing as though she’s straining to think of something to say.
“Do you think you’re protecting me from something?” I stand up, looming over Ariel like I’m the one who’s Army strong. Infusing my voice with as much authority as I can muster, I demand, “Tell me what’s going on.”
She looks the most miserable I’ve ever seen her—even worse than after her last breakup. I feel an illogical pang of guilt, but steel myself against it. Adding more ice into my voice, I say, “If our friendship means anything to you, talk. Now.”
“I can’t,” Ariel says, and I watch in shock as her whole body begins to convulse.
The cup slips through her trembling fingers and shatters on the floor.
I gape in paralyzed horror as blood starts to trickle from Ariel’s nose, ears, and eyes.
Chapter Twelve
Ariel grabs her head as though she’s trying to prevent it from exploding, and for all I know, maybe that’s what’s about to happen.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I can’t. I can’t.”
Panicked, I grab a paper towel and hand it to her. “What’s going on? Are you hurt? Do you need me to call 911?”
She shakes her head, taking the towel from me and pressing it to the blood trickling down her face. “No, stop,” she manages to say as I pull out my phone, about to call an ambulance regardless.
I stop, feeling utterly helpless. For the first time, I wish I had medical training, like Ariel, so I would know what to do.
Instead, all I can do is watch as Ariel pats at the blood, which fortunately seems to be slowing.
In a minute or two, but maybe an hour of silence later, Ariel recovers enough to bend down and try to pick up the pieces of the cup she dropped.
“Leave that,” I say, eagerly seizing the chance to do something. Grabbing a broom and a mop, I methodically take care of the mess, my mind racing at two hundred miles an hour but coming up with no explanations.
Watching me, Ariel sniffles.
Oh, crap, is she about to cry? That would be harder than hearing Mom cry when I was little. Mom was such a crybaby that everyone eventually got desensitized to her tantrums, while Ariel has never cried in all the years we’ve known each other. In fact, if someone asked me, I’d guess that Ariel would only cry during her parents’ and my funeral—and I might be fooling myself about that last one. She might also shed a tiny tear at Felix’s funeral, though that would probably depend on the nature of his demise.
Putting the mop away, I approach Ariel. “I think I get it,” I say. “You can’t talk about it. Whatever it actually is.”
She nods and wipes at a fresh trickle of blood from her nose. Clearly, there is a correlation between the blood and her attempts to communicate with me about this subject.
“I’m sorry I pushed you,” I say, feeling like I’m about to win the worst friend award—but also more confused than ever. What could prevent her from speaking? And in such a violent way, too? Can a mental illness manifest itself with blood out of the ears, nose, and eyes?
If Ariel were a magician, I’d suspect some illusion behind the blood, like the stigmata effect that I performed two Halloweens ago when I made Felix almost faint again. But she’s not a magician, and if she were, then she’s pulled off the best effect ever—convincing the world she isn’t one.
Ariel stands up, grabs the entire roll of paper towels, and walks over to the sink to clean herself up. Returning, she sits down and looks at me, her eyes clear once more.
“I have what I need to help you,” she says, her voice regaining its usual composure. She rips the top page with the transcript of my dream from the notebook and says, “You’re still in shock. You’re probably seeing things. I’ve witnessed this happening on the battlefield. You should finish your tea and go straight to bed.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Ariel covers my hand with her palm. “Please?” she says softly. “Just go to sleep, Sasha. Really, it’s the best thing for you right now.”
I pick up my cup and gulp down the tea to give myself a moment to think. Now that the immediate danger is over, I am feeling like I’m about to pass out, the post-adrenaline crash combining with the many days’ worth of sleep deprivation, courtesy of my TV performance.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “Maybe things will seem clearer in the morning.” What I don’t say is that we’ll have to find a way to talk about this without Ariel bleeding to death.
She stands up and grabs me in a tight hug. The modest release of oxytocin makes me feel a little bit better, though not closer to any answers.
“Good night,” she says as we separate, and I nod at her.
“Good night.” I stumble out of the kitchen on noodle-like legs, get a robe in my room, and head into the shower. As I run through my evening routine, theories, one crazier than another, swirl in my head, and despite the weariness, I worry I might not fall asleep once I get into bed.
My worries are unfounded. I’m out as soon as I cozy up with my blanket.
I’m a naked consciousness, but with senses, floating again—just like that time in the morgue.
There’s a smell of antiseptic in the air, and medical equipment is clustered around a nearby hospital bed.
An emaciated bald woman in her forties reclines in the bed, and according to the wristband on her thin wrist, her name is Amie Descanso. The bottom of the wristband reads “Room 4128, Maimonides Hospital”—which means that not only did I lose my body, I also somehow ended up in Brooklyn.
I guess it could’ve been worse. I could’ve lost my senses completely and ended up in Queens.
Attempting to look around, I find that I can—which is odd given that I don’t possess a neck to turn my head, or a head with eyes for that matter.
The TV is showing the news, but I only pay attention to the date and time scrolling on the bottom: 10:19 a.m. on Tuesday, October 10th.
The door opens, and a familiar-looking woman comes in. The heart-shaped face belongs to Beatrice from the morgue incident. Only now she’s wearing hospital scrubs, and her ID clip claims that her name is Bea T. Rice, RN.
Unlike before, Beatrice is smiling. She’s also ceremoniously holding a tray covered by
a shiny, dome-like metal lid. It makes her look like a fancy waiter, or a room service attendant in a five-star hotel.
“Hello, Amie,” Beatrice says, her voice much kinder today than when she spoke to the mystery man on the phone.
“Hi,” Amie says, her voice hoarse, as though she’d been screaming for days on end. “Haven’t seen you around.”
“How are you feeling?” Beatrice approaches the bed and examines Amie carefully, like an art critic trying to authenticate a priceless painting. “Your chart mentions a lot of pain.”
“I’ve had a couple of very bad days, but I’m feeling surprisingly well today,” Amie says and shakes the nearby IV. “Morphine drip notwithstanding.”
Beatrice frowns as though she’s disappointed at this news, but quickly recovers her composure. “I understand you haven’t eaten breakfast yet today, am I right?”
“No, I haven’t,” Amie says. “In general, I’ve had a bad appetite for days now.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Beatrice looks genuinely upset. “Hopefully, this can help.”
Opening the special folding table attached to the bed, Beatrice places her tray on it and removes the big lid with a showy movement that makes her look even more like a waiter.
The tray is stuffed with delicacies like lobster, escargot, filet mignon, caviar, and a bunch of things I don’t even recognize. If I had a mouth, it would be watering now, and if I had a belly, it would surely rumble.
For someone with a poor appetite, Amie attacks the morsels with surprising gusto, and Beatrice seems to take vicarious pleasure in watching her feast.
“That was amazing,” Amie says, covering her mouth with her hand as she burps. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s fine,” Beatrice says with mirth in her eyes. “I’m very glad you liked it.”
She walks over to Amie’s IV bag and fusses with it.
“What did you just do?” Amie asks curiously, her face relaxing in a blissful expression.
“I tweaked your morphine,” Beatrice says. “You should feel even better soon.”
Amie closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them. She looks as though she’s trying to fight the drowsiness and/or the ecstasy of the drug.
“I’m worried I’ll get addicted to this stuff.” Amie’s pupils turn so small they’re almost invisible. “I know it’s a silly concern for someone in my situation, but—”
“Hush.” Beatrice softly strokes Amie’s head. “You don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
Soon, Amie slumps back, her eyes closing and her lips taking on a blueish tint.
The monitoring equipment complains about Amie’s slowing heart rate, but Beatrice does something to it, and it goes silent. She then fiddles with the rest of the equipment, and uses the bed controls to put the now-unconscious Amie into a lying position.
“I’m sorry about this,” Beatrice says, taking out her butterfly knife and opening it with the same flourish as in the morgue. “I needed a very fresh corpse, and I chose you because you only had a few agonizing days left.”
Not surprisingly, Amie doesn’t reply—if the morphine overdose hasn’t killed her already, it probably will soon.
“That poem, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night,’ is complete bullshit,” Beatrice continues, turning Amie onto her stomach to expose the hospital gown opening. “If I were in your shoes, I’d want someone to do for me what I did for you today.” She unties the straps on the gown to expose the poor woman’s skeletal back. “Maybe a part of you is going to be conscious, on some level, once I bring you back,” she says soothingly as her knife cuts into Amie’s back. “True, I’ll be in control, but—”
I don’t hear what she says next because blood wells up under the knife and darkness sucks me in.
I wake up in cold sweat.
“It was just a nightmare,” I tell myself, trudging to the bathroom. “Just a stupid dream.”
By the time I come back to bed, my breathing has slowed, and when I lie back down, I manage to doze off into unrestful sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
A sun ray hits my face, causing me to wake up angry at myself.
Like an idiot, I forgot to close the blinds last night.
What time is it? The sun implies morning, but then why do I feel like I’ve only gotten a couple of hours of sleep? Is someone using sleep deprivation as an interrogation technique on me? If so, I’m ready to spill national security secrets, so long as my tormentors close the stupid blinds and let me get back to sleep for just a little longer.
The sun doesn’t go away, so I check my nightstand clock and groan.
The blinds were not the only thing I forgot. I also didn’t set an alarm, which is why I’ve slept in until a whopping 9:07 a.m.—a luxury I rarely get even on the weekends.
In a half-daze, I drag myself to the laptop and email work, telling them I’m very sick. I wonder if I’m actually lying about that; the drowsiness and the sore muscles could be a sign of the flu. In any case, after yesterday’s fainting, they should accept my excuse without any skepticism, especially since this is my first sick day of the year.
My butt feels glued to my chair, and somehow, knowing that I spent a respectable number of hours in bed only makes me angrier about the wretched sleep deprivation I feel. If this isn’t the flu, then I must’ve been tossing and turning all those hours, without going into healing REM sleep. Now that I think about it, I even vaguely recall what kept me restless: the theories about what happened to me yesterday kept circling in my head. That, and I had a nightmare again.
Forcing myself to get up, I head to the bathroom.
A shower does almost nothing for my wakefulness, nor does brushing my teeth. The sight in the mirror actually worsens my mood because a huge fingerprint bruise on my neck reminds me of the sad domestic violence posters I sometimes see on the subway. I’ll have to buy a turtleneck before I return to work; else my coworkers will think there’s a guy I need to put in jail.
I pull on a robe and look for my roommates. Sadly, neither Ariel nor Felix are home.
Heading back to my room, I pick up my new phone and see that the battery is dead. Charging it is yet another thing I forgot to do yesterday.
I stick the phone on a charger, and when it boots up again, I call my friends, but get their voicemails.
This really blows because I have to talk to Ariel. I have some ideas on how she might be able to communicate with me without speaking, but I guess those will have to wait.
Since I have the phone on me, and because Fluffster finally deigns to greet me with a friendly chirp, I look up domovoi—a word that was mentioned twice yesterday, directed at him.
Apparently, a domovoi is a protective house spirit in Russian and other Slavic folklore. That sort of makes sense, if I assume Vlad is originally from Russia, which his knowledge of its history supports. He must’ve used that term poetically because it looked like Fluffster was trying to protect me in my home.
If chinchillas were anything supernatural, they would be part of Peruvian folklore, not Russian.
I feed Fluffster and make my way to the kitchen so that I can fix myself some oatmeal with bananas and almonds.
Eating my breakfast, I realize that Ariel was wrong. Sleeping did not aid me in making sense of my crazy new life. In fact, I would’ve slept better if I’d taken the time to sort out my thoughts last night.
I might as well do the thinking now. Hopefully, my subconscious mind worked out some good theories while it was messing up my sleep.
Fluffster jumps onto the chair next to me and looks longingly at the spoon I’m about to put into my mouth.
“Here.” I let him eat a little piece of banana off the spoon. “Now let me think.”
Something happened to me on that TV stage, and that’s probably a good place to start. The weird events began when I felt that pleasurable flood of energy. If it weren’t for the clean bill of health I got at the hospital yesterday, I’d think something broke in my brain. As is
, ignoring the strong case for the insanity option, I have to entertain the possibility of a supernatural explanation—and I hate that.
I’ve always been fascinated with mysteries, but especially so when I was very young. As a little girl, I devoured anything that talked about alien abductions, ghosts, Bigfoot, the Bermuda triangle, ESP, and the like. As I grew up, though, a lot of these entities went the way of Santa Claus for me. To some degree, I got interested in magic because magicians have an air of mystique about them that sometimes seems real—but of course, when I learned all the methods behind those mysteries, every single effect had a rational explanation.
In a way, becoming an illusionist made me an even bigger skeptic, because I could see that miracles could be staged, and that powers such as ESP could be easily simulated.
If I’ve developed a supernatural power, I’m probably the worst person to be in this situation—aside from someone like James “The Amazing” Randi, who’s made a career out of debunking the paranormal.
Fluffster jumps onto my lap, and I absentmindedly stroke his fur as I sip my orange juice and think further about this.
I had the first nightmare featuring a gray-skinned man on the TV stage—and then I was attacked exactly like that. I explained it all away with Valium side effects, but what if that really happened?
That would mean Gaius and his people have impossible strength—and now that I think about it, so does Vlad.
Unless embalmed corpses are easier to rip apart than I imagined. But then all of these super strong people also did that mirror trick with their eyes. Usually, I’d explain it by special contacts, but the eyes had an effect on me that can’t be explained—unless it was a placebo.
My head is starting to hurt from all this, so I refocus on my own possible supernaturalness—specifically, on the fact that my second dream was of Beatrice raising two dead people. As crazy as it sounds, how could that be just a dream if I was then attacked by people who looked exactly like the ones she reanimated? People who had been embalmed, no less? My theory about subconscious warnings could explain some of it, but not all; I don’t see how my subconscious could’ve known the details of the TV studio attack, nor the bit about the embalming.