The Ceiling Man is quiet but he is not gone. He is breathing. I must find him but I do not want to wake him up and I do not like it inside his head.
I want the Ceiling Man to be gone.
“Abby. Abby. Listen to me,” a Daddy-voice says.
I think it is a trick. The Woodsman is gone.
“Abby. It’s me.” The Daddy-voice is in my head and not in my ears. I think it is the Ceiling Man’s friend pretending to be my dad.
“You be quiet. You are not the Woodsman.” I try to shut the door but it will not budge. I think shutting the door is something the Ceiling Man must do, but he is asleep in his breakfast and he is quiet. I cannot hear him, but I can feel him and he feels mad.
Mad Dad.
The Ceiling Man is not my dad.
“Abby, you have to listen to me,” the Daddy-voice says.
The Ceiling Man’s friend is called Blevins. The dead man in the garage is called Blevins.
“Abby. The dill pickles count as vegetables,” the Daddy-voice says.
I do not think Dead Blevins knows about the dill pickles.
“Daddy?” My face is wet.
Outside my head, the Ceiling Man sits up. He has syrup on his nose. His nose is Daddy’s nose but his eyes are not Daddy’s eyes.
Inside my head, the Ceiling Man says, “You little brat.”
“The wolf always dies at the end,” the Daddy-voice says.
«Shut up,» the Ceiling Man says.
Something says thunk and Maybe-Daddy is gone.
“The wolf does not eat the Woodsman,” I say.
Gramma is screaming. She does not use her mouth.
“It is okay, Gramma. It is not Daddy,” I say with my mouth. “Daddy is the Woodsman. The Woodsman is gone. Dead Blevins cannot trick me.”
“Evelyn, call 911,” my mom says.
The Ceiling Man sits up. “No need,” he says with Daddy’s mouth and it sounds like noneeee.
«Good try, Little Piggy, but I’ve been at this much longer than you have,» he says with his head.
The right side of Daddy’s face is droopy. The Ceiling Man only makes one half of a smile with Daddy’s mouth. His left-side-only smile says, “I’ll eat you up.”
Gramma holds the phone but it is unplugged because we are tired of talking to stupid reporters. When people say I am stupid, my eyes burn but I do not cry.
I am not stupid. Maybe the Ceiling Man and Dead Blevins and Officer Weber think I am stupid, but they are wrong.
“Evelyn, don’t call 911,” the Ceiling Man says. His words are mushy and he says doan instead of don’t. I think maybe he needs to see Mr. Lanham the speech therapist.
Gramma stands very still. The phone is in her hand but it is not plugged in and she does not move it to her ear and mouth. Her eyes are very big. I do not know what her eyes mean. Maybe they are burning. Maybe she is surprised. Maybe she is scared. I wait for her to talk. I wait for her words to tell me what her eyes mean.
Gramma does not talk.
My mom says, “Your grandmother has something to say about everything and anything.”
But my grandmother does not say something about anything or everything and I think there is a lot of anything and everything in her kitchen right now. I think it is the Ceiling Man’s fault and I should help her.
«Go ahead, Little Piggy. Help her like you helped Mrs. Lamb.»
Mrs. Lamb is dead. I did not do it.
I do not want Gramma Evelyn to be dead.
“Oh, you did it, Little Piggy,” the Ceiling Man says. “Do it again.”
I cannot tell if he is talking with his mouth or with his head. My mom is talking with her mouth, but I only hear the Ceiling Man.
I did not hurt Mrs. Lamb, but I did hurt the man in the garage. The man is named Blevins and he is dead.
I think maybe I made the Woodsman go away.
“You did it,” the Ceiling Man says.
I hurt the Ceiling Man and he did not go away.
Gramma Evelyn does not move but she is standing up so she is not dead. Maybe the Ceiling Man is right and I made Mrs. Lamb dead. The right side of the Ceiling Man’s face is droopy and does not move when he talks with Daddy’s mouth.
Right also means correct. Right is a slippery word and I do not like slippery words.
I do not care that the Ceiling Man is droopy on his right side and I do not care that maybe I hurt him but I do not want him to be correct. I do not want to make Gramma Evelyn dead like Mrs. Lamb.
I do not know what to do.
“Evelyn,” my mom says.
Gramma does not move. Her eyes are big and I do not know what is wrong with her, but I think it is not my fault. It is the Ceiling Man’s fault.
Gramma screams in her head.
Mrs. Lamb screams in her head and I make her stop.
I do not make Gramma stop.
“Do it,” the Ceiling Man says.
I do not know what my mom wants Gramma to do and I do not know what I should do.
The Ceiling Man-Daddy smiles. Only the left side of his mouth smiles. I do not see his teeth, but I know that they are there.
I will be like Pete. I think Gramma and my mom will be like Pete and I do not think Gramma will like her ceiling red.
“Abby.” The Daddy-voice is a whisper but I think it is a trick.
Daddy is the Woodsman and the Woodsman is gone.
“Abby, don’t listen to him.” The Daddy-whisper does not say doan instead of don’t.
I should tell my mom.
My mom says, “Abby, use your words.”
Ms. Colley says, “Abby, use your words.”
My words are stuck in my chest. My words are all mixed up.
Daddy says, “I love you very much and I will never, ever hurt you.”
The Ceiling Man says, “I will eat you up.”
“Abby, can you hear me?” the Daddy-whisper says.
“Idunno,” I say.
Maybe the Woodsman is the Ceiling Man’s new friend. Maybe the Woodsman is still here and he is not the Ceiling Man’s friend. Maybe it is not possible but it is true.
My mom says, “Abby, just because you want something to be true does not make it true.”
Daddy is the Woodsman.
The clock on Gramma’s stove has blue numbers.
I do not know what I should do.
Daddy is the Ceiling Man. The Ceiling Man is Daddy.
I do not want my mom to be dead.
I do not want my gramma to be dead.
I do not want to be dead.
“It is 7:57,” I say. “I do not think I should go to school today.”
[53]
Carole
ABBY, ASHEN AND STILL, STARED at her father. Tears ran down her face. He stared back, their gazes locked in silent battle. Don’t be ridiculous.
“Abby. Go to the living room.” Whatever was happening to Jim, I needed to shield her. Protect her. She’d already seen enough—too much.
“No.” The steel in her voice belied her fragile appearance.
I couldn’t cope with Abby in stubborn mode, so I didn’t.
My mother-in-law stood rooted to her spot, dead phone in hand, eyes dull and unfocussed.
“Evelyn, you need to plug the phone in.” Nothing. Inside, I screamed why the hell are you just standing there—do something but outside, I stayed calm. “Evelyn—”
Jim shifted his attention from Abby to me, and my words died in my throat. His mouth hung open. Only one side of his face moved. The other drooped, lifeless. I saw him melting away, a wax figure left in the sun. Spit gleamed at one corner of his mouth, and from the other, the dead side, drool trickled to his chin. The living side of his mouth stretched into a rictus of. . .what? Not a smile. The leer of a predator about to crush his prey.
It’s not Jim. He’s gone.
My eyes burned and my chest constricted. Desolation spun with panic, and my veneer cracked.
He’s gone. I’m alone.
“Leave my mom alone
.” Abby brought me back to reality, but I didn’t have time to figure out what she was talking about. I took a deep breath and pictured the poster on the wall of the Senior Center. Warning Signs of Stroke. Act FAST! It was too late for speed, but FAST was an acronym.
F-Face. Jim’s non-smile and sagging face fit the bill.
A-Arms. “Jim, can you lift both arms?” I shouted at him, as if volume would force him to answer me. It didn’t. Two out of four, and Evelyn still hadn’t moved or called 911.
Jim’s eyes gleamed. His lopsided smirk terrified me. Sami snarled. I struggled to breathe.
“Leave my mom alone.”
Bright lights zig-zagged in front of me, and the familiar jagged crescent appeared in the corner of my vision. The once comforting odor of bacon and waffles turned sour and nauseated me.
“Relah. Jus go with eh.” Jim’s mouth barely moved, and his words oozed like mud.
S-Speech. Slurred speech. Not making sense.
My vision narrowed. Far away, at the end of a tunnel of red, I saw myself, my hands around Abby’s neck. I clenched my hands, and my fingernails cut into my palms. The pain brought me back. The tunnel disappeared.
«Don’t fight. Go with it.»
“Mom. Breathe.” The bossy voice. Abby was the only one holding herself together.
The lights flickered, and the room wavered.
I needed to be the adult. The mom. Do something. Get help.
A flash of light and the kitchen brightened. The glint of sunlight on the stainless steel sink pierced my eyes like barbed wire. The glaring yellow of the cupboards assaulted me, and the simpering cookie jar echoed Jim’s leer. I didn’t see my surroundings. I felt them, in overwhelming detail.
«Don’t fight. Relax.»
Jim was right. I wouldn’t fight. I’d slip away to somewhere dark. Soft. Quiet.
“Leave my mom alone.”
Concentrate. Fight. Stay with Abby. Help Jim.
T-Time. How long since Jim collapsed? I strained to see the clock, but all I saw was Evelyn. She hadn’t moved, and her face was wet with tears.
“It is 8:02. It is time for our long night to be over.” Abby’s words hammered my ears and drove spikes into my head.
I felt sound as well as light. Fight it.
I got up to take the phone from Evelyn. A block of knives stood on the counter behind her. Instead of the phone, I reached for the largest knife. I would end Evelyn and end our long night.
A bolt of pain sent me back to my chair. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. I was back on the garage floor, cold and paralyzed.
“Leave my mom—”
“Jus go wi—”
Abby and Jim spoke at the same time. Their words rolled over me. Crushed me. I’m dying. Jim’s dying.
“Dead and gone. He’s dead and you might as well join him,” Evelyn said.
Abby will be alone.
“I’ll finally be rid of you.”
“Do not listen to him, Mom.”
Him? What was Abby talking about? Evelyn’s voice dripped with years of hatred, and for the first time, I wanted to listen to her.
“Mom. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”
The pain drifted way. I watched it evaporate, wisps of red steam. In its place came overwhelming drowsiness. Dorothy in the Field of Deadly Poppies.
When was the last time we read The Wizard? Dorothy’s shoes were silver in the book.
Abby doesn’t like red.
My eyelids are weights and my arms tingle with electricity. I will melt into my chair and disappear. The cookie jar smirks. The air thickens with a sweet, heavy stench. Poppies. I know poppies have no scent, but I know it is poppies I smell.
It is not possible but it is true.
I will give in to their drug. More than anything, I want to give in to their drug.
“It is okay, Mom. Breathe,” Abby says. Her whisper is the sound of the ocean.
A soft rumble. Thunder. No. Jim—or maybe Evelyn—speaks, their words a tremor I don’t understand.
“We need to go to Oz,” I say. “The man behind the curtain—”
“I know,” Abby says.
My daughter is wise.
“Mom, breathe.”
I obey. The saccharin perfume fills my nose, my lungs, my head. The kitchen tilts and fades, and I am surrounded by waves of crimson.
Poppies are red.
“No red,” Abby says, and the soft scent of lavender replaces the reek of the poppies.
[54]
The Ceiling Man
THE BRAT HAD HER MOTHER. The woman was out of his reach.
For a while.
He’d lost the battle, but not the war.
He never lost the war.
Syrup dried and stiffened on his face. Its sticky sweetness soaked his pores and sickened him. A napkin lay in front of him, but his useless body refused to reach for it.
It really wasn’t fair. All the years of taking only throwaways, he finally landed in a healthy, well-fed human—this guy had all his teeth for fuck’s sake—and it didn’t even last him a day.
It was his own fault.
He should’ve killed the brat the first day he discovered her watching him. Or ignored her and moved on. But no, he had to hang around. Cats weren’t the only creatures felled to curiosity.
The slight rise and fall of the mother’s chest said she still lived. The brat had her stashed somewhere out of his reach, and if he couldn’t get in, she was as good as dead for his purposes.
“Leave my mom alone.” The brat was stuck on repeat.
«You killed your mother.»
“You should go away now.”
She didn’t know her own strength. He needed that strength.
He craved it.
He had Gramma locked down, but didn’t know for how long. He couldn’t underestimate the girl again, nor could he let himself be distracted by the thought of pleasure.
He should have finished her off back at the hospital, when she was weak. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve. Except—he was no longer sure she was weak, even then. His stunt with the neighbors hurt her, that he was sure of, but it also made her stronger.
She wasn’t a catalyst. He hadn’t fed on her energy. It was all her. He’d piggybacked on her pain and rage, not fed on it. The sensations were a drug. They made him greedy.
The pleasure. . .now. While she’s distracted with her mother. He nudged Gramma. She reached for the knife the mother had failed to get ahold of. It was in her hand.
«Stop.»
At the girl’s silent command, the knife clattered to the floor.
Not so distracted after all.
He’d never been a hedonist. Lust was so human. He was disgusted with himself. Disgust didn’t kill the yearning, but survival was his first priority.
Daddy would soon join Blevins, and he needed to move on.
He didn’t have many options, and he had to choose carefully. He only had one chance to get it right. Little Bunny Foo Foo. The girl was a fast learner.
Who was the easiest target? Wrong question. He needed the best target.
She loved her mother and grandmother, but wearing either of them wouldn’t protect him. Wearing Daddy hadn’t. Taking either of the women was likely to piss her off even more, and he couldn’t afford another hit.
He certainly wasn’t moving to the damned dog.
A seventeen-year-old girl hardly fit his lifestyle, and with what he planned to leave behind, the whole country would be looking for her. He could wear her long enough to go get Chuckles. Leave her at the hotel and wear the moron long enough to get out of town. Maybe feeding would give him the energy for one more jump.
Maybe she would give him the energy for one more jump.
Or kill him.
His worst option was also his best option. Like Artie the penny-ante gambler, he needed to think positive. I won forty dollahs! This was no penny-slot. He was in the high rollers room.
Time to hit maximum bet. All or nothing.
&nb
sp; “You should go away now.”
“We’ll both go. I promised you an adventure and an adventure you’re going to get. It’ll be the time of your life.”
“I do not think I need an adventure.”
She sounded pretty sure of herself. Sounded. They were speaking. He wasn’t inside her head. She’d shut him out, and he hadn’t noticed.
“Little Piggy, you’re just like me. We are going to have so much fun together.”
“I am not a little piggy and I am not like you.”
Confident. He only had one shot at her. It better be a good one.
“Abby, what does my smile mean?” The words echoed in the back of his head. Shit. Daddy was awake.
“You love me very, very much and you will never hurt me.” The brat still spoke aloud, but her voice quavered.
Good. Maybe Daddy would come in handy.
“Don’t you want to go on an adventure with Daddy? There’s only one way you’ll see him again, my Little Piggy.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Daddy said.
“The wolf does not eat the Woodsman.” The brat narrowed her eyes.
He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, and he didn’t like it. It made him feel powerless.
He wasn’t powerless. Not yet.
“But he does eat Gramma.” He let go of the old woman, just long enough for her to hit the floor with a satisfying thunk.
The girl jumped.
“Abby—” The mother started to speak, but stopped when the brat looked at her.
“Gramma, what big eyes you have,” he said.
“Leave my Gramma alone.” The brat’s eyes flickered toward her grandmother. Her mother sat up straighter.
That was it. She couldn’t shield both women—and with any luck, herself—at once. Not yet, anyway. Distract her and his odds would improve. Too bad Artie wasn’t around. He’d be proud. Thinkin’ positive. Gonna be a winner.
“I think we’ll take Gramma with us.”
“Abby. Ignore him.”
The brat pushed her unfinished breakfast aside and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
«Daddy?» She didn’t speak aloud. Her eyes brightened. Hope?
“Don’t listen. He doesn’t mean what he says.”
Blevins was irritating, but Daddy was dangerous.
«I don’t have time for this.»
He kicked the door shut on Daddy, but instead of a slam, it snicked shut with a whisper. Maybe the girl’s work, but he suspected he was weakening fast.
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