Prey

by Stefan Petrucha

  As she walked in and sat on the old green couch, she realized she’d never seen him find that file. It was like a little performance for her sake, a distraction, just like the toys scattered about for his younger patients; the interesting wooden dollhouses, the muscular monster dolls. She’d been a child when she started seeing him, and back then she’d always liked his office and all the toys. The cacophony of objects, rather than being irritating, seemed to form a safe buffer against the rest of the world.

  But she wasn’t a child any longer. She worried for a moment she’d outgrown his ability to help her, but as he continued to hum, she noticed something new above his desk. A little strip of leather was tied to holes in either corner of a flat stone, the strip held in the wall by a red thumbtack. On the stone, he’d painted, in homey, so-so calligraphy.

  WHAT MIGHT BE ALWAYS OWES

  ITS DEEPEST DEBT TO WHAT IS.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

  He turned from his papers then followed her eyes back to the plaque. “Oh that. That. Something I read somewhere, or maybe I made it up. What do you think it means?”

  “I haven’t got a clue.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. So. We think OCD may be physiological, based in the basil ganglia of the brain, but it’s also a disease of the imagination, right? It uses your imagination to conjure horrible images and bizarre solutions. We don’t want to defeat your imagination, it’s a wonderful thing. But we want the OCD to let go of it. So, what’s stronger than an imagined fear? Reality. So, focus on what’s real, not what you feel might be real. Reality would exist without our imagination, but imagination would not exist without reality. So…get it?”

  He pointed at the stone and then turned back to her, apparently giving up on pretending to find his notes.

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, maybe it’s not a very good quote. But how was the week? Where’s the OCD at, right now, on a scale of one to ten?” His chair squeaked under his weight as he leaned forward in it.

  “Twelve.”

  His eyes widened. “Really? That’s high. What’s going on?”

  She shrugged. “Midterm week is coming up and I’m doing a double shift at the store. Derek asked me to go to Hobson Night.”

  He nodded. “Of course, of course. Pressure gives the OCD an in, but remember it can’t do anything except scare you. What was that project we had from last week? A book you started but couldn’t finish, because if you did you’d die from some infection?”

  The Missing, by Sarah Langan. She was sorry she’d ever heard of the damn thing. “I finished it. I couldn’t put it down. It’s about a virus.”

  “And?”

  “I couldn’t sleep for two days.”

  “But what happened? Did some virus come out of the book and infect you?”

  She shook her head. “No. It was fiction.”

  “So who’s in charge, Chelsea? You or the OCD?”

  She shrugged. “Me?”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “Me.”

  “So. Thoughts can’t hurt you and you’re in charge. Now, I can’t advise you to go to Hobson Night. But if I could advise you to go…”

  “I know. I just…I just don’t want to.”

  He made a face as if he didn’t believe her and then looked at her, a little puzzled.

  “So, what are you not telling me?”

  It was a common-enough question, but this time it happened to hit the nail on the head. In a few short, clipped sentences, she repeated the offer from Ms. Mandisa. As she spoke, his smile spread into a grin. “Wonderful. But you’re afraid of the lizard?”

  When he said the word, she thought she felt something twitch in her skull, like a flashing tail. Reptile brain. Lizard in my brain. Chelsea nodded.

  “I can understand that. They can bite. They can scratch.”

  “It’s more than that. Monitors can get really big. And they’re aggressive.”

  “Is this a big lizard?”

  She furrowed her brow. “I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Is it in a cage or is it wandering around the house?”

  “A cage. Ms. Mandisa said it was totally safe. She used to study them. She was a herpetologist.”

  “And we trust Ms. Mandisa?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So there’s a good opportunity here for you, but you’re worried there’d still might be some danger. What’s the OCD telling you to do?”

  “Don’t do it. No matter what. Don’t do it.”

  “And what should you do?”

  “Go and see if it really is dangerous before I decide.”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes. Exactly.”

  He pointed at the little quote above his desk, and for a second, Chelsea felt as though she understood it.

  3

  On the outside, at least, the home of Ms. Mandisa was disappointingly unremarkable. It was a typical white cape, sort of stately if you accepted a loose definition, dormers extending the second floor headroom. Maybe it had been painted once in the last ten years, but the lawn was overgrown and the rust on the chain-link fence was worse than Pete’s acne. A blue Volvo was planted in the yard, the fraying Bilsford High School parking sticker looking like its newest part.

  Not that it was unusual. Most academics weren’t big earners, and—head in the clouds anyway—some just let their places go to seed. What bothered Chelsea more was how far she was from home. The bike ride that she’d told her mother would take fifteen minutes was closer to forty. Thirty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds. And she was cold despite her warm jacket.

  Chelsea pedaled onto the gravel driveway. She hopped off, laid her bike against a thick pine and noticed that all the first-floor windows were barred. This was also not unusual. The university town suffered from many a petty robbery. Usually no one was hurt, but there was always some down-and-out student willing to test your doors or windows. The newer colonial Chelsea shared with her parents had a full-blown alarm system, but her parents had only installed that so she could sleep at night.

  She looked up and thought the bars on the second-floor windows were pushing it. Bilsford thieves didn’t bother to climb. Too much effort. She made a quick circuit around the house, counting. Twenty-one windows, all barred.

  Back out front, a cheerful yipping made her turn to see a creature from a fantasy story galloping straight toward her. She gasped at the little brown body and white mane. Except for the floppy ears, it looked like a tiny horse. She thought she was hallucinating until she recognized the dog’s breed: Chinese crested. They’d had one just like it at Rhett’s when she started there. Pete nicknamed it “Ming the Merciless” because of the way it shredded chew toys. This little fellow had the same coloring.

  Wait a minute. Could it be?

  “Ming?”

  The dog yipped again and lolled its tongue. It was Ming! Chelsea bent and patted the tiny horsey head, noticing the dragging leash. “You’re a surprise! Yes you are! A nice surprise! Where’s your owner, baby, huh? You got a tag?”

  She felt around the neck and pulled a pink collar with silver studs into sight. Could it get more tacky? Well, what other sort of person would want a dog that looked like a little horse, anyway?

  “Aristotle!” a sandpaper voice cried out. Chelsea remembered the tall, elegant woman who’d bought the dog two months ago as she strode up on her long legs. At five foot ten, she was a sight to behold. Straight, bleached-blonde hair dipped below her shoulders. Straight bangs hung over plucked eyebrows and eyes so blue, they had to be contacts. The light colors she wore, faded jeans and white turtleneck, coupled with her pale skin made her seem fragile, like porcelain.

  “Bad, Aristotle!” the woman said. To Chelsea: “I’m so sorry. He’s so frisky. Just a puppy!”

  “It’s okay. I know him. I work at Rhett’s.”

  The woman’s mouth rounded with recognition. “Yes. I remember. You kept counting the change,
like it was going to be different each time.” She scooped the little dog into her arms and nodded at the house. “You live there?”

  “No, my teacher does. Ms. Mandisa.”

  “Hope she’s hiring you to mow her lawn.”

  “Sorry. Just pet sitting.”

  “She has a dog?” the woman said, surprised.

  “Uh…lizard.”

  “Ew,” she said reflexively. “Well, if you need anything, or if Aristotle gets loose again, I’m Tess Sullivan. I live right across the street.” The woman spun and walked toward her box-like home, the long leash dragging behind them.

  Turning back, Chelsea crept up the leaf-laden path to the door of the cape and tried to avoid counting her steps. There were only four stairs leading up to the porch, though, so she took them in at a glance before she could stop herself.

  It wasn’t really an OCD thing. More an observation. Perfectly normal, right?

  Before she could press the paint-covered buzzer, the door opened, revealing Ms. Mandisa. She wore a brown housecoat with orange accents that matched some of the dead leaves, and a wide grin that was singularly hers.

  “I was afraid you’d decided not to come, and then I saw you with my neighbor. Quite a character, isn’t she? Come in, come in.”

  As Chelsea entered, Ms. Mandisa lingered at the door, fidgeting with a big lock that seemed, strangely, to have a key on the inside. “The door’s a little complicated,” she said. “I’ll explain all that later, so you don’t lock yourself in.”

  The door had opened to a staircase heading up. To the right was a small hall leading deeper into the house, a single doorway on the side. Further right was the living room proper, open to the hall and stairway. Outside the afternoon sun was shining, but the living room was dark enough for a small lamp to be turned on. Thick green drapes smothered the windows. The flower-patterned couch looked expensive and foreboding. Chelsea, afraid she’d have to sit on it, scanned for things to count.

  But Ms. Mandisa kept walking, down the hall and into a wide, sunny kitchen with a back door. Chelsea followed her hostess, sliding her windbreaker off as she went. She was sweating already, and the house felt very warm, steamy even. Old radiators pinged and hissed.

  “Juice? Coffee?”

  “OJ with water would be great, Ms. Mandisa.”

  “Call me Eve. Just not in the classroom, all right?” she said pleasantly.

  Chelsea nodded and sat, not at all sure she wanted to call her teacher Eve. She liked the way Ms. Mandisa felt when she said it, but now, of course, the woman might be hurt if she didn’t use her less-lyrical first name. The table she sat at was a massive thing that looked like it could stop a tank, but at least it was clean. Though there wasn’t a spot of rust or decay, the design was very retro; silver edges, thin silver legs and a white Formica top. In the pattern lay scores of swirling dots, like instant coffee grains melting in hot water. The urge to count them was strong, but she resisted.

  “Mostly I live in the kitchen. The living room is so depressing. I only go in there at night to read,” Eve Mandisa said as she retrieved the juice from the refrigerator.

  “Why not take off the drapes?” Chelsea asked, quickly adding, “Eve.”

  Eve made a face that revealed her skin was not as smooth as Chelsea thought. Tiny crow’s-feet stalked her beautiful eyes and mouth. “The bars are more depressing than the dark. Mrs. Tenselbaum, the last owner, was a shut-in. Spent the last decades of her life without ever stepping outside. Sad, isn’t it?”

  Chelsea assumed Eve was fishing for her to say something about her own condition, but it was a bad tack on a few counts. Shut-ins generally had agoraphobia. OCD could strike anytime, anywhere. It didn’t matter where she was. Still, there were days when she felt like locking herself in her room.

  “Emily Dickinson was sort of a shut-in,” she answered defensively.

  She heard the juice pour from behind the open refrigerator door. “Would you really want to be Emily Dickinson if it meant never going outside?”

  Chelsea shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

  Eve raised her head above the fridge door, smiled and shook it. “I guess you like her poetry more than I do. Mrs. Tenselbaum didn’t write anything except checks. All the window bars and locks she put in would be ridiculously expensive to replace.”

  She put the juice in front of Chelsea. Throat dry from the cold outdoor air, Chelsea drank greedily.

  “Upstairs is my bedroom and a lot of junk. I’d rather you didn’t go up there. Not that you would. Everything you need is down here anyway. You can put your coat in the hall closet if you like.”

  Stay downstairs. Check. But then, where was the big, bad lizard? She twisted her head back toward the hallway, scanning, wondering if she’d missed a cage or a terrarium in the shadows of the living room.

  “So where’s Koko’s cage?”

  Eve’s face broke into a grin. She raised her hand to her mouth in a gesture that looked like she was catching a laugh before it escaped. “Sorry, I should have explained. It’s not a cage, exactly. Koko’s habitat takes up most of the basement. The only part of the house that has my special touch. Had to have the whole thing redone, special heating, infrared lights and such. That’s really why I couldn’t afford to remove the bars from the windows.”

  Chelsea reared, noticing the remaining door in the kitchen that must lead to the basement. “Whatever he’s in, he can’t get out, right?”

  Eve laughed and this time didn’t bother to stifle it. “Of course. Koko’s smart, but there’s no way he’s getting out, unless he charms you with his cute eyes and pouty expressions. Ready to see him?”

  Chelsea nodded, even though she wasn’t. Eve rose.

  “First the gross part. Get through this and I promise the rest is a snap. Koko only eats every other day, and I leave tomorrow.” She stepped toward a second, larger refrigerator Chelsea hadn’t noticed before.

  Her eyes shot to the tabletop. How many dots were there? 6, 8, 10, 12…

  Eve bent over and took something out of the fridge. Not wanting to seem like a complete idiot, Chelsea forced her head up. Eve held a large plastic bag in her hands. There was something in it heavy enough to make the bag sag, wet enough to cause a reddish liquid to pool in the bottom seam. Interior moisture blurred the surface, but white and brown fur was visible.

  “Rats,” Eve said. “I buy them prepackaged. It’s amazing what they do these days.”

  Wanting to look at anything except the horrid bag, Chelsea’s eyes scanned the kitchen, but there was no comfort to be found. The two refrigerators were crammed on either side of a large gas-burning stove. She’d hated gas stoves ever since that propane truck exploded on the interstate. The article said the whole back of the truck flew across the earth like a missile, crashing through three houses, setting them ablaze before coming to rest and starting a forest fire. Immediately, the OCD assured her that the same fate was in store for her.

  Nerves increasing, Chelsea turned back to Eve Mandisa and, try as she might to stay riveted on the woman’s pleasant face, could not help but take in the bag again. This time she made out their little noses, whiskers and long hairy tails, curled like wet string. There were three in the bag, eyes closed. One had its head shoved into a corner, reminding her of a sleeping rabbit.

  Seeing her reaction, Eve lowered the bag, making it easier to ignore. “You don’t need a psychological condition to be disturbed by this part. It is gross. But if you’re serious about pursuing animal studies, it may be something you want to try getting used to. It is the hardest part, I promise.”

  Eve took her hand and pulled her to standing. “Come along and let’s see Koko. He’s really quite fascinating.”

  Counting quickly as she could, Chelsea stared down at the table top (12, 14, 16, 18) as her teacher pulled her gently along, deftly hiding the bag at her side. “It’s okay.”

  They stepped toward that door in the far kitchen wall. Eve opened it and a blast of hot, moist air hit Chelsea in the fa
ce. She stared down and saw gray-painted wooden stairs curving left. A yellow light from below traced a semicircle on a dark wood-paneled wall. Eve started down, and then looked back at Chelsea.

  “Are you good?”

  Chelsea nodded. She had to do this. Had to, if she didn’t want to be stuck the rest of her life, afraid of the echoes in her own brain. So she followed Eve down, counting the steps, trying to guess their height in inches and the depth of the basement in feet. She had trouble with inches, but over the years she’d developed an unerring eye for exactly how long a foot was. Each step was less than a foot tall, maybe eight inches. And by the time they reached the last one, she knew there were twelve.

  Twelve steps in all.

  All painted.

  All gray.

  She was about to count the height of the ceiling in feet, when a surprise, a pleasant one for a change, took her aback. The moist heat had intensified, but at the base of the stairs, rather than harsh concrete or the fiery pits of hell, there was a nice, clean sand-colored carpet.

  She looked up and felt as if she were standing in a zoo.

  No windows, yes, but light and heat were everywhere. Occupying most of the basement was the cage, or the habitat, as Ms. Mandisa had called it. Three quarters of the space was sealed off with thick Plexiglas walls five feet tall. Some kind of chicken wire led up from the top of the Plexiglas to the remaining three feet of ceiling. There was a Plexiglas door in the middle of the biggest wall with strong bolts holding it shut, and near that, a small round window that looked like it opened. Chelsea assumed it was for putting in the food.

  On the far side of the clear plastic was a whole other world. There were thick vines, a tree trunk, patches of grass and other plants, as well as a small pool of gurgling water. A hissing made Chelsea think she’d spotted the lizard, but the sound was coming from some sort of humidifier that sprayed mist. Three powerful lights hung in the ceiling above the enclosure, shining on the water like small suns. The back walls, beyond more wire and Plexiglas, had been painted to look like the sky.