The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  I hope Daddy is not gone. The wolf should not eat the Woodsman.

  «Which one, Little Piggy?» The Ceiling Man is in my head but not in Abby-land.

  I do not want him in my head but I must be patient. I ignore him. If Abby-land is a state maybe I am the capitol and I can make the rules.

  Rule One: Abby-land is warm and safe.

  I am not warm and safe.

  Rule Two: No bad guys can come in.

  I want Daddy to say, “I love you very much and I will never, ever hurt you,” but he does not say anything.

  Rule Three: Everyone is safe and no red is allowed.

  I think maybe I am alone. Maybe the Ceiling Man is giving up and going away. I do not think so, but maybe he is.

  Rule Four: Everybody lives happy ever after.

  “So, Little Piggy, have you made up your mind?”

  I hear the Ceiling Man with my ears and with my head. I am not alone.

  Devon should write my rules on his list. When Devon writes it on his list it is true. Devon is not here.

  I must be brave like Jo.

  “I do not have to make up my mind,” I say.

  My mom reads, “Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said I feel stronger when you are here. She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and ‘tried not to be a trouble’.”

  I think I would feel strong if Jo was here but Jo is not here. Jo is in my book and my book burned up in my house. Jo is brave and strong and takes care of Beth. I must be brave and strong and take care of my mom and Gramma Evelyn.

  «Beth dies anyway,» The Ceiling Man says.

  I hear a noise and it hurts my ears but I do not put my hands over my ears.

  «You can’t hide them from me, Little Piggy.»

  A piece of Livvy’s quilt falls in front of me and lands by my feet. It is a small piece but it is red.

  Ms. Colley says, “Abby, concentrate. Focus on what is in front of you.”

  I think I should focus on what is behind me. I cannot let the Ceiling Man hurt Livvy’s quilt.

  “No red,” I say.

  «Pick one, Little Piggy. Who do you want to tuck you in at night?»

  Jo makes stories. In Jo’s stories the bad guy dies and everyone is safe. Stories are not true but they are not lies. I cannot make stories.

  “I do not need to be tucked in at night,” I say, but I do not tell the Ceiling Man that I like to be tucked in at night.

  My mom says, “What you need and what you want are two entirely different things.”

  I do not think that is always true.

  Livvy’s quilt shines like the sun on my back and makes me warm. I smell purple flowers. I think my mom and Gramma are safe and I hope they are comforted.

  I hope they do not have to miss me.

  I do not want to be an adventure.

  I do not want to go away.

  Devon should write, Abby is brave and strong. I think it is too late for Devon to write Abby is brave and strong on his list.

  Beth comforts Jo but Beth dies and Jo is sad.

  “I do not want anyone to be sad,” I say.

  Sami is Velcro-pup at my side. She growls. I put my hand on her head and I am comforted.

  «If you won’t choose, I’ll have to choose for you,» The Ceiling Man says.

  “You cannot choose. They are warm and safe,” I say.

  I taste dirt and pennies. I do not see red but the red covers me and my skin burns.

  “Now!” the Woodsman says. He is not a whisper and his voice hurts my head and Sami barks and I want to scream but I do not.

  I breathe and I step behind Livvy’s quilt.

  The quilt snaps and screams but it does not rip.

  “I am not a Little Piggy. I am not Beth. I am Abby and I am strong,” I say. My mom and Gramma are crying and hugging me and it is okay.

  Livvy’s quilt is strong and we are safe.

  “It is 8:13,” I say. “I am tired and I think I should sleep now.”

  Devon does not need to write The Ceiling Man is gone on his list. It is true.

  [60]

  The Ceiling Man

  HE HIT THE PATCHWORK WALL and bounced into. . .nothing.

  The body he left behind was dead, and there was no going back. The girl, and her mother, and grandmother were out of his reach. He couldn’t even get to the damned dog.

  He’d gambled and lost.

  Blevins’s voice came back to him. “Ha ha, asshole. Taken down by a little girl.”

  Shit.

  Like a virus that cannot survive outside a host, he was gone.

  [61]

  Carole

  JIM DIED BEFORE THE EMTS arrived. He was gone before we called them. The autopsy said he died of a cerebral hemorrhage.

  Natural causes.

  Neither Evelyn nor I disputed the coroner’s findings. They went well with our account of what had happened. Jim collapsed into his breakfast. He regained consciousness, but was confused. Not himself. Before we were able to call 911, he collapsed again. Both of us told the same story.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” the doctor said. “It was quick.”

  “It is not a lie,” Abby said.

  It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was a truth.

  The hours we spent with Abby’s Ceiling Man, like a bad dream, were only minutes in real time, and like a dream, the more I thought about that time, the less sense it made.

  “Abby, where were we?”

  All I got out of her was Idunno.

  The official story was a truth I could handle and one I wanted to believe. Evelyn threw herself whole-heartedly behind the official account. When we were alone, I tried to find out what she’d experienced during the time we were in—wherever we were.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  Maybe I had imagined it all, except—

  As soon as she had the chance, she took Livvy’s quilt to the laundromat and washed it herself. She brought it back smelling of lavender, but one edge still bore mud and grease stains.

  “I told you I’d never be able to get those stains out,” she said.

  What happened next is popularly referred to as sharing a moment, but we never again discussed our shared dream.

  Instead of Abby and I going to my parents, they came to us. They wanted Abby and me to stay with them in a motel, but I convinced them we should stay with Evelyn.

  “She’s lost her only son.” A believable excuse. I couldn’t explain my need to keep Evelyn, Abby, and I together.

  My father oversaw the cleaning of the garage. My mother pampered us all, and Evelyn let her.

  I planned a funeral.

  The police, the fire department, and the town council turned out for the services. More than half of the residents of Port Massasauga—I think anybody Jim ever met and some he hadn’t—showed up. Many were there out of curiosity. The police hadn’t found evidence to tie Blevins to all of the Port Massasauga killings, but they had tied him to Pete and Livvy, and Blevins died in our garage. Rumors flew, each one wilder than the last. None approached the truth.

  At the funeral home, before the service, Evelyn and I stood in the receiving line and accepted condolences and platitudes from the endless parade of friends and strangers.

  “He was a fine man.”

  “We’ll all miss him.”

  “At least you have Abby.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  Abby sat in the corner, flanked by Twyla and Devon. The three of them held hands. Twyla wore blue from head to toe.

  “It’s her new favorite color,” Abby said.

  Sweet Mrs. Gardner, from the Senior Center, stopped to talk to Abby and bent over to give her a hug. Abby stiffened. Twyla and Devon held onto her hands. She couldn’t hug back, and the result was awkward. Mrs. Gardner backed off.

  “It will be all right,” she said.
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br />   “Yes. Devon wrote it on his list,” Abby said.

  He had. When he arrived, he showed me his new notebook. The first list had three entries.

  1. The Ceiling Man is gone.

  2. Everything is all right and everybody is safe.

  3. Everybody lives happy ever after.

  “When Devon writes it on his list it is true,” Abby said. I hoped she was right.

  A lot of people thought she hadn’t absorbed her father’s death and didn’t understand he was never coming back. I thought she understood more than the rest of us could or ever would.

  My parents left, and we settled into a routine. I didn’t know how long the peace between Evelyn and me would last, and I didn’t want to think about it. We would stick together for a while. We needed each other, and we both needed Abby.

  I bought a new copy of Little Women, and Abby and I finished it.

  “We should read the Alice’s next,” she said. “Because you like them.”

  “Maybe we should find a new book.”

  Jim got his wish. I went back to my own bed—my new bed—and left Abby alone.

  I dreamt I was back in Abby’s secure place, but even in the dream, I knew it was a dream. Scenes from Abby’s life swirled around me, but only happy ones. School. Peanut butter and dill pickle sandwiches. She and her father made brownie sundaes. A scoop of ice cream hit the floor, and Sami lapped it up. Abby and Jim giggled.

  Jim stands beside me. “It will be all right,” he says.

  “I know. Devon wrote it on his list.”

  I woke and went to check on Abby. I couldn’t help myself.

  She was awake and rocking. Her eyes were closed, but I suspected if I could see them, they were rolled back. Her smile was beatific. Wherever she was, it was a happy place. Abby-land from before the Ceiling Man invaded our lives, but watching her brought back all my fears of the last few months.

  When she rocks, he can find her. Tension twisted my gut and bile rose in my throat.

  Breathe.

  The Ceiling Man, whomever or whatever he was, was gone. He couldn’t get to her or any of us anymore. They all live happy ever after.

  I knew I had to let her have this small comfort.

  Knowledge and emotions are entirely different things.

  I wondered how long it would be until I could watch Abby being Abby without fear. As if she heard my thoughts, she stilled and opened her eyes. Her big loopy grin lit up her face, and she spoke.

  “It’s all right, Mom. Daddy says we’ll be okay now.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALTHOUGH WRITING IS A SOLITARY PURSUIT, it doesn’t happen in a vacuum, and I have many people to thank.

  The Ceiling Man served as my thesis for Seton Hill University’s MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program. (And that is Hill, not Hall.) Had I not been accepted into the program, I doubt if this book would exist, and even if it did, I know it would be a lesser book. I owe thanks to too many faculty members, fellow students, and alumni to list here, but I am grateful to all of you.

  There are, however, a few people who need to be singled out.

  SHU-WPF legend has it that we get one fuzzy-Muppet-cheerleader mentor and one mentor who tortures us in ways we never imagined. I got cheated. I never got my fuzzy-muppet. Instead I got Scott Johnson and Tim Waggoner. Both, in different ways, pushed me to look deeper at my project and to become a better writer. Thanks, guys.

  I had a wonderful list of critique partners: Jessica Barlow, Kenya Wright, Cody Langille, Daniel Goddard, Tanya Twombly, Amber Bliss, Stephanie Brown, and Michelle Lane. I would have never made it through the program or finished the book without the friendship and support of The Tribe: Alex, Anna, Crystal, Gina, Jeff, Jessica, Kenya, Lainey, Lana, Matt, Michelle, Penny, Tyler, and Valerie. Thank you all.

  Huge thanks to everyone in my very first SHU workshop, led by Will Horner, who suggested I turn my short story, “Abby,” into the beginning of a novel.

  Medals of Valor go to my beta readers and proofreaders, both in and out of SHU: Douglas Anderson, Lana Hechtman Ayers, Valerie Burns, Vera Kitchen, and Jennifer Ryan, and to the members of AWFUL who read early bits and pieces.

  Last, but the opposite of least, thanks to Liz and John Coblentz and my cousin Jennifer, for love and encouragement and margaritas as needed. John, I miss you.

  • • •

  This novel was inspired by my short story “Abby,” published in Deep Cuts: Mayhem, Menace, & Misery, edited by Angel Leigh McCoy, E.S. Magill, and Chris Mars. New York: Evil Jester Press, 2013. Parts of that story appear here, in slightly different form.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PATRICIA LILLIE grew up in a haunted house in a small town in Northeast Ohio. Since then, she has published six picture books (not scary), a few short stories (scary), and dozens of fonts. A graduate of Parsons the New School for Design and Seton Hill University’s MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program, she is a freelance writer and designer addicted to coffee, chocolate, and cake. She also knits and sometimes purls.

  The Ceiling Man is her debut novel.

  You can visit her on the web at www.patricialillie.com or follow her on Twitter @patricialillie.