“Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in.”
My mom screams.
A man is in the backseat. He is smiling, but I do not think he is happy. I think he is mean.
I do not like his smile. He is missing a tooth.
“You should go to the dentist,” I say. My mom needs to call the dentist. It is time for my appointment. I do not want to be missing a tooth.
Sami is growling.
“Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in,” the man says. He says it with his mouth but I hear it with my head.
Sami is barking. My mom is shouting. My ears hurt. I cover them with my hands.
“Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in.”
The Ceiling Man is in Gramma Evelyn’s car. I think he wants to be in my head.
I do not want to be a little piggy.
My mom is shouting. She calls the man Blevins.
He is not called Blevins. Devon did not write Blevins on his list.
Sami is barking. She is on my lap. I think she wants to be in the backseat. I think she wants to bite the man. I think she should.
Gramma’s car is honking. My ears hurt.
“Shut up,” the man says.
Sami stops barking. She is heavy on my lap. I think she is crying.
I am crying. Mrs. Livvy’s quilt is not working. I think the comfort is all used up. Mrs. Livvy is all used up and maybe her quilt does not work anymore.
“Little Bunny Foo Foo, hopping through the forest.” The Ceiling Man is singing.
“Stop,” I say. I know I am not the bunny. I am the piggy.
“Scooping up the field mice—”
“No.” I know I am not the mouse. I am the piggy.
“And bopping them on the head.”
My mom drops Gramma’s keys. She falls down fast on the garage floor and puts her hands on her head. I think her head hurts. I think my mom is a field mouse.
My head hurts too. I know where the Ceiling Man is.
“He is not called Blevins,” I say. “He is called the Ceiling Man. Devon wrote it on his list.”
I do not think my mom hears me.
I do not want the Ceiling Man in my head.
I do not want to be the piggy.
[45]
Carole
“LITTLE PIG, LITTLE PIG, LET ME IN.”
The first time he spoke, it didn’t fully register. Abby’d talked about pigs and woodsmen and wolves for so long, I wondered what happened to her voice.
Blevins popped up in the backseat.
“Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in,” he said.
“Abby! Out of the car! Run for the house!”
Her hands covered her ears, and her eyes were shut tight. Overload signals. She was blocking out the world. A meltdown was on the way. On Abby’s lap, Sami barked. If she even noticed the dog, she didn’t show it.
Stay calm. He’s not violent. Just an asshole.
“Blevins—”
“Little Bunny Foo Foo—” He sang, but his mouth didn’t move.
Sami’s barking had to be torture for Abby. Why didn’t Sami just jump to the backseat?
«Hopping through the forest.»
Blevins’s mouth moved, but not in sync with the song.
How is he doing that?
His mouth stretched into a wide, toothy grin. Other than one missing front tooth, he looked like Batman’s Joker.
I hated the Joker.
“Blevins—”
«Scooping up the field mice—»
It’s not him. There’s someone else here. I fumbled with the key fob. The light inside the car went out. The panic button. I blindly jammed all of the buttons on the fob. One of them would make the car light up and the horn blare. Jim would hear it. He’d wake up.
Daddy is the Woodsman.
«And bopping them—»
Pain slammed the side of my head, and the darkness closed in. The sickly sweet smell of something dead and rotting overtook the garage smells. My stomach heaved, but nothing came up. Bone-chilling cold spread from the soles of my feet up my legs. The floor swayed and I fell. Somebody shook the snow-globe.
Abby was in the car with Blevins.
The pain in my head pulsed with the blare of the Lincoln’s horn. Evelyn’s keys lay in front of me. I must have found the panic button. I needed to get up, but my body wouldn’t listen. The cold concrete floor held me like a magnet.
«You’ll move when I tell you to move.»
The words thundered in my head.
Thunderclap pain. Cerebral aneurysm. No. I can’t die now—Abby. I need to get Abby.
«You’re not going to die yet.» Not Blevins’s voice. Someone else was there.
“The Ceiling Man.” Abby’s voice was soft and toneless, but like the other, it echoed inside my skull.
My mouth filled with dirt and pennies. The wind howled and snow gusted into the garage, hitting my face like icy needles. Sami barked and the car’s horn bellowed. Pain hammered my head. I gave up. Sink into the floor. Silence. Peace. No Ceiling Man. No Blevins.
“Mom. You should breathe.”
My arms and legs wouldn’t budge, but I managed to lift my head. Looking into the lit up Lincoln was like looking into the sun. My eyes burned. I strained to see around the bright spots floating in front of me.
Blevins was still in the backseat. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear him.
Abby rocked in the front seat, right where I’d put her, Sami half in her lap. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Livvy’s quilt covered her up to her neck. The quilt rippled. I knew she fluttered her fingers in front of her.
«Mom. You should breathe.»
I heard her speak, but her mouth never moved.
“Abby. Get out of the car and run.” She rocked faster.
Sami scrambled into the driver’s seat and barked and snarled at the man in the backseat. I wanted her to rip out Blevins’s throat. She lunged between the front seats. She didn’t make it. With a yelp, she bounced back and hit the dash. In a second, she was on her feet again, barking and snarling.
«Pick up the keys and get into the car.» Not Blevins, the other voice.
“And get rid of the fucking dog.” Blevins. His voice, I recognized.
“I have cash. In my pocket. Take it and go.”
“Too late for that,” Blevins said.
«Pick up the keys and get into the car.»
“You should have been nice to me, bitch,” Blevins said. “All I wanted was coffee.”
I can’t move. I need to get Abby out of the car. Get away. Back to the house. Get Jim.
«Pick up the keys and get into the car.» The voice filled my head. The same voice that told me to drug Abby. To bring her to him. To hurt her.
[46]
Abby
I THINK IT IS CODE RED HOSTILE INTRUDER ALERT.
Devon’s list says, “PROCEED TO THE NEAREST SECURE SPACE.”
I do not think Gramma’s garage is a secure space. I pull Mrs. Livvy’s quilt to my chin. It is soft and not scratchy and it is dirty but it does not stink. I want to pull it over my head, but I think that is a bad idea. I do not know why, but I am sure it is a bad idea.
The man in the backseat laughs. I hear him with my ears, but I hear the Ceiling Man with my head. The man in the backseat is not the Ceiling Man, but the Ceiling Man is the man in the backseat.
My mom says, “Abby, you can’t be in two places at the same time. It’s just not possible.”
The man in the back seat hurts Pete and Livvy. They are dead and gone and will never come back.
The Ceiling Man hurts Pete and Livvy. He laughs and makes them dead and gone and they will never come back.
I cannot think about Pete and Livvy or I will cry and scream. I do not think this is a good time to cry and scream so I shush my Pete and Livvy thought.
“Dead and gone and never coming back,” the Ceiling Man says.
The Ceiling Man and the man in the backseat are two people in one place at the same time. I think my mom would sa
y, “Abby, it’s just not possible.”
I think it is not possible but it is true. Not possible means no it absolutely cannot happen. True means real and not a lie. I think the Ceiling Man is both.
My mom is crying. I hear her with my head and with my ears.
The Ceiling Man is hurting my mom. I do not want my mom to be dead and gone and never coming back.
“Mom. You should breathe,” I say. I think I say it with my mouth, but I am not sure.
Maybe the HOSTILE INTRUDER is the man in the backseat.
Maybe the HOSTILE INTRUDER is the Ceiling Man.
Maybe the HOSTILE INTRUDER is both.
It is not possible but it is true.
Devon’s list does not say what to do when the HOSTILE INTRUDER is in the backseat.
Devon says, “Mrs. Lamb’s brain blew up.”
“You did it,” the Ceiling Man says.
“No. You did it,” I say.
The Ceiling Man tells my mom to get into the car.
“You should not listen to him, Mom. He is a bad man. I think he is two bad men.” I do not think my mom hears me. Maybe I do not talk with my mouth.
My yellow bricks are cracked and my wall is broken. I think the Ceiling Man hurts my mom and I do not think I can protect her.
“I huffed and I puffed and I blew your wall down,” the Ceiling Man says.
I do not think I can protect me.
“Leave my mom alone.”
The Ceiling Man’s laugh scrapes my ears like Sami’s growl.
I should make new yellow bricks and stack them up and up and they will reach the sky and my mom will be safe behind my yellow wall. My brain is talking in the Fast Voice, but I do not think I am Headed for a Meltdown.
I think I am headed for something else.
“Time for an adventure.” It is not my mom saying adventure. I think the man in the backseat says adventure. I think the Ceiling Man is laughing, but maybe he says adventure too.
“Little Bunny Foo Foo—”
I know it is the Ceiling Man singing because he is louder than the man in the back seat. I put my hands on my ears but it does not help. The Ceiling Man is in my head not in my ears.
“Leave my mom alone.” My wall does not grow. I try to concentrate but I cannot. “Focus, Abby, focus,” I say, but it does not work. My yellow bricks are crumbly and they fall apart.
“Scooping up the field mice—”
“I am not a field mouse. My mom is not a field mouse. I am Abby and my mom is my mom and you should leave us alone.”
“And bopping them on the head.” The Ceiling Man sings low and growly and I do not like it.
I think my mom’s head is full of thunder. She makes a squeaky noise and puts her hands on her head. Thunder-snow fills my mom’s head and thunder-snow fills the garage.
I am not the field mouse. My mom is the field mouse.
I do not want my mom’s brain to blow up like Mrs. Lamb’s.
I do not want my brain to blow up like Mrs. Lamb’s.
I do not want Devon to write Good-bye Abby on his list.
I hope Good-bye Abby is not the something else I am headed for.
“Leave my mom alone.”
“We’ll go for a little ride,” the Ceiling Man says. “Maybe we will stop to see Twyla.”
“Twyla does not like to leave town. She does not travel well,” I say.
I think I have a spring inside my chest.
“But she does like red,” the Ceiling Man says.
I see red ceilings at Twyla’s house. I do not think the Ceiling Man wants to take Twyla with us.
When the Ceiling Man talks, the spring in my chest gets tight. It does not feel good. It does not feel right.
“You and I need to spend a little time together.” The Ceiling Man is breathing hard.
I think that is not just a bad idea but a very bad idea which is even worse than a bad idea and means if I do it I will be in bad trouble.
• • •
“ABBY. GET OUT of the car and go into the house.” The Woodsman is here.
I do not ignore him, but I do not get out of the car. The spring is getting very tight. I am like a Jack-in-the-Box in a red box.
I do not like boxes and I hate red and I cannot get out of the car.
“Daddy is the Woodsman,” I say.
When I am little and Gramma Evelyn gives me a Jack in the Box and I do not like him, Daddy takes the Jack in the Box apart.
Daddy says, “See, Abby. He’s just a spring. Nothing to hurt you.”
I think it is a bad thing to have a spring inside his chest and I do not like the Jack.
“Carole? Can you get up?” My mom does not answer my dad.
“Blevins, get out. Slow. With your hands in the air.” Daddy uses his Mad Dad voice. The man in the backseat laughs.
“He is not the wolf,” I say.
The Ceiling Man laughs. I think he will sing the Bunny Foo Foo song and hurt my dad. My spring is very tight. My mom should tell me Breathe, Abby. Breathe.
“All around the Mulberry Bush.” I sing but I am whispery. I am a Jack in a Box, but I do not like the Jack. I know he will pop and jump but I do not know when. Waiting for him makes a squeal in my head and a thump in my chest and I cannot breathe.
I do not think it is good to be a Jack. I do not think even the Jack likes being the Jack.
“The monkey—”
“Little Piggies don’t sing.”
I am not a little piggy. I am a Jack in a red box and I am angry and my brain is stuck in the Fast Voice and the Jack song will not go away. I cannot breathe.
My mom should say breathe Abby breathe but she does not say anything.
“I said get out of the car,” the Woodsman says.
“Fuck you,” the man in the backseat says.
“—chased the weasel.” I am Jack in my box and my spring is very tight and the spring in my chest makes the Fast Voice in my brain sing the Jack in the Box song. I think maybe my mouth sings too.
Daddy pulls the man out of the car and hits him. I think the Woodsman is angry. I do not like angry and I do not like fights and I cannot breathe but I must keep singing.
I am the Jack.
I think I must be the Jack even if I do not like it.
“The monkey stopped to scratch his nose.” I do not think anyone hears me singing. Sami is barking. The garage is full of red screams. I think Daddy cannot breathe. I think maybe the Ceiling Man can hear me but he is ignoring me because he is busy trying to eat the Woodsman.
The wolf does not eat the Woodsman.
I think the spring in my chest will go POP and I will hit my head on the ceiling of Gramma’s car.
I hope the ceiling will not be red.
“This is going to be fun,” the Ceiling Man says. His hands are on the Woodsman’s neck and his mouth is open and I do not know where he got so many teeth. It is not possible but I know it is true.
I am not a little piggy and I am not a bunny or a mouse or a Jack. I am Abby in a red box. I hate red and I am angry and my spring is too tight and my brain talks too fast but it says breathe Abby breathe.
The wolf does not eat the Woodsman.
“POP goes the weasel.” I sing loud with my mouth and with my head and there is thunder and there is lightning and my ears hurt but I do not hit my head and the ceiling is not red.
The garage is quiet now, but I think it is too late.
[47]
Carole
ABBY. TRAPPED WITH BLEVINS. I needed to get up, to get to her, to grab her and run, but my frozen limbs refused to listen to me. Dense fog blanketed me. My breath caught in my throat. My chest heaved. My lungs screamed for air. I was dying.
No. I was inside in a nice warm bed, asleep and dreaming. Abby was safe and Jim was—
Jim. Jim is here. Blevins. Jim pulls Blevins from the car.
Thunder. A flash and—a dream. A nightmare. Not real.
It is not possible but it is true. Abby’s voice. Breathe, Mom. B
reathe.
My tongue thickened. The fog turned to sludge and engulfed me. Crushed me. Suffocated me.
Breathe, Mom. Breathe. I clung to Abby’s words and fought for air. Breathe, Mom. Bit by bit, I dragged myself out of the mire and back to consciousness. The concrete floor swam into clarity, every sharp detail of its sandpaper texture magnified. I was awake and in the garage. Not a dream.
My throat and chest cleared, and I breathed in the foul and metallic air.
Dirt and pennies.
“Abby?” The memory of pain ricocheted in my head and drowned out her answer, if she gave one. I struggled to get up, but my heavy body didn’t cooperate. The concrete stung my hands, and familiar pins and needles shot up my arms. Not numb. Not paralyzed. I’d lost all sense of time, but however long I’d been on the cold floor, it was long enough for my arms and legs to go to sleep. Not a stroke.
“Abby? Jim?”
Jim. Blevins’s hands on Jim’s neck. Teeth, thunder, and—
It is not possible but it is true. Someone was dead.
If Jim was there, why didn’t he say something? If he wasn’t, if he was dead, it was my fault.
Abby did it.
No. I brought Abby to the garage. My fault.
Breathe.
The roar in my ears faded, replaced by the howl of the wind. A high-pitched wail soared above the sound of the wind. Abby.
My arms and legs burnt, but they were mine again. I took it slow and fought through the pain and pushed myself upright.
The garage light was on. When did that happen? Snow billowed in the driveway and drifted in through the open door. Abby, covered up to her chin in Livvy’s quilt, sat in the front seat of the Lincoln, right where I’d left her. Sami sat next to her, ears cocked, on high alert.
And something else. Something I wasn’t ready to take in.
One of them is dead. Abby did it.
Not possible.
It is not possible but it is true.
I tried to stand, but my legs weren’t yet ready to hold me and I sank back to the floor. Abby was safe. Sami would watch over her. I had to get my bearings, ground myself, before I faced what I feared—what I knew—lay in front of me.
Breathe, Mom. Breathe.
On the garage walls, garden tools hung in a neat row. Only one hook stood empty. Evelyn’s garage was as neat and organized as her house.
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