Unlocked

by Margo Kelly

  “It should. Leave it in there for now.” He set the glass on the desk next to the art book. “You know, Chelsea could still be the one terrorizing you. You said she knew where the key was hidden. But whoever or whatever it is, you can fight it.”

  He reached up and lifted the caricature off the wall, leaving a blank spot next to the family photo and homecoming snapshot.

  “Is this new?” Plug asked. “I don’t remember seeing it when we were up here Monday.”

  I walked over to him, took the picture from his grasp, and dropped it into the bottom desk drawer.

  “When was it drawn?” Plug asked.

  “What does it matter?”

  He retrieved the caricature and examined the sketch of me with my distorted head and exaggerated eyes. “Because I’m interested. When did you go to Disney World?”

  Ants still dotted the edges of the red-and-white-checkered blanket and moved in a uniformed line into the picnic basket. I rubbed my eyes.

  “I was eight,” I said.

  “Special occasion?” Plug asked

  “We were celebrating my dad getting into Princeton for his master’s program.”

  With the caricature still in one hand, he pointed at the family portrait on the wall. “This is you with your mom and dad?”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “How did he die?” Plug asked.

  “He had schizophrenia. He committed suicide when I was eleven.”

  Plug was unflustered by the revelation. He stared at the portrait and said quietly, “My mom died from pancreatic cancer. She was in a lot of pain at the end. Your dad must have been, too, for him to commit suicide.”

  A tear ran down my cheek.

  “Where was the picture of your family taken?” Plug asked.

  I wiped my cheeks. “On the East Coast. We lived in New Jersey back then, but less than a year after my dad died my mom was so upset she changed our last names, dyed her hair brown, and moved us out here—clear across the country.”

  “A bit extreme,” Plug said.

  “She wanted to forget everything about my dad. She wanted to sever all ties with our lives back there.”

  “I can still remember when you joined our class halfway through the school year. You were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.” Plug hung the caricature back up on the wall. “Keep this on the wall as a statement of defiance against what’s happening around you.”

  “Defiance?” I asked.

  “Caricatures are a ridiculously inappropriate exaggeration of reality,” he said. “You need to laugh in the face of all this.”

  “Plug, whoever is doing this is getting inside my house. Inside my head. Making me nuts. What if it is a demon?” Zeus came to mind. He had growled and bared his teeth at me, and I had felt compelled to wait on the porch until Manny actually asked me inside.

  “What if an evil spirit has possessed me?” I asked Plug.

  “Be defiant. Laugh in its face. And to be on the safe side, we’ll finish smudging your whole house tonight. The supplies are in my car. And we’ll fix the tiger-eye, too.”

  “What if it’s schizophrenia?”

  “It’s not. Western medicine wants you to think it is. So you’ll buy their pills and stay within the boundaries of their system—”

  “My mom hated my dad. What if she ends up hating me, too?”

  “You’re not crazy.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s crazy,” I said.

  “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.” He surprised me with a quick kiss on the forehead. “Go take a shower and change your clothes. It’ll make you feel better. While you’re doing that I’ll check your laptop and pick up your room.”

  “You’re offering to clean?”

  “We’ll see how far I get.” He slipped his hands into mine and pulled me closer. Fire burned within me. He leaned toward me, but stopped a fraction of an inch away from my lips.

  He hovered there.

  And my breath trembled.

  My head seemed disconnected from my body, as if my inner conflicts and emotions were buried in stone like Rodin’s sculptures. Unexplainable urges filled my mind.

  “The dirty clothes hamper is in the hall closet,” I whispered, trying to restrain myself. “And the password to my laptop is Princeton.” I studied his lips. “According to Nick, you have an unjustified sense of entitlement.”

  A smile spread across Plug’s face. “That’s a matter of opinion. The real question is: how long can you ignore your overwhelming desire for me?” Plug winked at me. He was teasing, but he had no idea of the truth he spoke.

  “Take a shower,” he said. “I’ll pick things up.”

  We lingered for a moment longer. My head still floated in a fog. And then Plug stepped away from me and toward the hall closet.

  I plucked a pair of gray yoga pants, a pink shirt, and clean underwear from the disaster on the bedroom floor.

  Once in the bathroom, I studied myself in the mirror. My eyes were darker. I leaned in toward my reflection and poked at my cheeks. My vision blurred for a second and when I refocused my irises were brown instead of green. I blinked. Green. I set my palms against the mirror.

  “Are you still in there, Hannah?” I whispered to myself. My breath fogged the mirror, and a dark silhouette appeared behind me. In a split second the image took shape and lunged at me. I spun around to defend myself against the decaying flesh and rotting talons, but nothing struck me. I was alone.

  I faced the mirror, and everything seemed normal. I reached for the doorknob and considered asking Plug to come inspect behind the shower curtain for me, but that was silly. I was capable of showering by myself, but my mind drifted toward the idea. Images of the rings on his long fingers touching my skin came to mind. His body pressed to mine.

  I steadied myself against the counter. My muscles trembled. I touched my chest to slow my breathing, but then my hand moved, as if it had a will of its own. My fingers traced the line of muscles from my shoulders to my waist—like I had multiple times with Rodin’s sculpture in the art book. Heat spread throughout my body. I bit my lip and closed my eyes. Both of my hands caressed my body. A moan escaped my lips.

  “You okay?” Plug tapped on the door.

  I opened my eyes, and the reflection in the mirror showed a man behind me. His image shimmered. His face was darkened by shadows. I gripped the counter, and he stroked my body.

  I screamed.

  His bulky, hairy hands groped me and yanked me against him. His laughter reverberated off the walls of the small bathroom. I clawed at his grasp and dug my nails into his flesh.

  “Stop!” I yelled. “Stop!” I wedged my fingers beneath his. “Let go!” I shrieked.

  Plug pounded on the door. “I’m coming in!” he yelled, but I had locked the door.

  My hands slipped with sweat, but I continued to fight the man. He shoved me against the counter, and I threw my weight backward against him. He hit the wall, but his grip on me tightened.

  Plug threw the door open.

  “Help me!” Tears ran down my face. “Get him off!”

  Plug’s eyes widened, and he stepped back.

  I screamed. “Help me!”

  “Be gone! You have no power here!” Plug wrenched his arm back and smacked the wall next to me with his open palm. I flinched. “Be gone!” he yelled.

  Plug stepped past me, yanked open the shower curtain, and turned on the water. He held his fingers under the flow for a few seconds. Then without looking at me, he said, “Get in the shower.”

  I stepped toward him and caught my reflection in the mirror, completely naked. I gasped. I could not remember removing my clothes.

  “Get in,” Plug said again.

  “I can’t.” I was sinking into hysteria, and I couldn’t depend upon myself anymore. “I can’t trust my own hands. This isn’t who I’m supposed to be.”

  “Stand under the water. Remember how Rose taught us to visualize a safe place? Go there. Make your mind do what you want
it to do,” he said.

  I stepped into the shower, and he started to slide the curtain closed.

  “No!” I said. “Leave it open.”

  “All right.” He lowered the lid of the toilet and sat with his back to me. “I’m staying right here.”

  My hands trembled, then my arms, and then my entire body shook. I steadied myself against the wall of the shower and doubted my strength.

  “Picture your safe place, and I’ll talk to you,” Plug said.

  There was no way I could close my eyes. I took a breath and reached for my jasmine shampoo. I lathered up and pretended the water was a soft rainfall. But as I scrubbed my head, I worried that his hands were doing the work. I extended my hands in front of me. I squinted at my fingernails and scraped out the flesh from beneath them. His flesh. My breathing sped up. I gasped for air, as if I was drowning.

  “No!” I screamed and slapped the tile of the shower wall. Pain shot from my wrist to my elbow.

  “I’m right here,” Plug said. “Control your thoughts.”

  I leaned against the tile and focused on Plug’s voice.

  “Everything will be okay.” He told me stories in a quiet and steady voice. He explained what it was like to grow up with a tattoo artist for a dad, and the fact that he never wanted a tattoo. He described how he earned his black belt in karate two years ago. He talked the entire time, and the constant chatter helped soothe me.

  I rinsed my hair. Then I plucked my loofah from the wire basket and squirted shower gel into it. A single ant crawled out from the loofah and scampered up my thumb. It wasn’t alone. Behind it more ants swarmed out, as if I’d kicked their nest. They ran up my arms in waves. I dropped the loofah and screamed. Ants covered my entire body like a blanket. I backed into the corner of the shower, swatting the ants from my skin.

  Plug clutched my shoulder. “Hannah!”

  I continued to scream and bat the ants away.

  Plug shook me. “Stop! Whatever you’re seeing isn’t there. Picture the chaotic hotel lobby and run to the elevator. Push the down button. Get to your safe place. You can do it.”

  I scrunched my eyes shut and created the images in my mind. I ran to the small log cabin. Smoke rose from its chimney. I spotted a straw broom propped on the steps. I grabbed it and swept the porch of the cabin clean. No ants. No dirt. Nothing but wooden planks. My breathing slowed, and I calmed down.

  “You are okay,” Plug whispered. After he switched off the shower, he draped a towel over me. He turned away and leaned against the frame of the door.

  I stepped out of the shower, dried off my hair, and then I wrapped the towel around me, insulating myself from my own hands. My fingers trembled when I reached for my underwear. I skipped the underwear and tugged the yoga pants up and over my hips as fast as possible. I fiddled with the fabric of the bra. It would be impossible to fasten it and pull the straps over my shoulders without grazing my skin. I let the bra fall next to my underwear. I grabbed my clean shirt and pulled it over my head. The soft fabric brushed my chest, and the tingles began all over.

  “No!” I screamed. Plug spun around. He reached out to touch me, but he stopped himself when I jerked backward.

  I didn’t want anyone touching me. Ever. Again.

  He moved out of my way, and I went to my bedroom. He had picked up my room and even made my bed. I yanked a sweatshirt from a hanger in the closet and slipped it over my head. Too loose. I tugged it off and grabbed a new bra from my drawer. I fastened it over my shirt. Problem solved. I avoided touching my skin with the bra on top. I pulled my sweatshirt back over my head. No one would ever know.

  I snatched my robe from the hook on the closet door and pulled it on, over all my layers. I wrapped it tightly around my waist and knotted the tie around my rib cage. Better. I tugged on a pair of athletic socks and tucked the hems of my yoga pants into the socks. No ants could crawl inside. I relaxed long enough to notice the fresh odor of burned sage.

  “How long was I in the bathroom before you pounded on the door?” I asked.

  He waited in the doorway, his gray shirt soaking wet. “Long enough for me to clean your room and smudge the entire house.”

  I grabbed a clean T-shirt from my closet and held it out to him. He tugged his shirt up and over his head, revealing his long, lean muscles. His arms were tan, but his chest was white, with black hair circling each of his nipples. He took the oversized black Princeton T-shirt from me and pulled it on. It fit him fine.

  I perched on the edge of my bed and took a deep breath. “Why do you always wear gray shirts?”

  “Because life is gray.”

  “That’s depressing,” I said.

  “No. It represents the fact that there is truly no black and white in the world, only—”

  “But you’re an artist. You should want more color in your life.”

  He smiled and plucked the black T-shirt with bright orange lettering. “With you in my life, I definitely have more color. You’ve changed me forever.”

  Plug dropped his wet gray shirt into the trashcan by my desk. He lifted my pearl-handled brush and asked, “May I?” I was unsure what he meant until he pointed at my hair.

  I began to bawl.

  He sat next to me without touching me. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll do more research about demons and possession, but I think you had a breakthrough tonight.”

  “A breakdown, you mean.” I wiped my eyes and huffed.

  “You survived. You controlled your thoughts.”

  “Only with your help.” I used to love the solitude of a long shower. Now the idea made my gut wrench. At least Plug had been there.

  “It’s a start,” Plug said, “and I think the smudging will work this time.” He waggled the brush.

  “Only my hair. Do not touch anything else. Not my shoulder. Not my hand. Not my face.” I couldn’t believe he wanted to brush my hair. Plug: the guy with multiple piercings, a tattooist for a father, and a passion for the occult. He tenderly brushed the knots from my hair, and I tried to imagine Plug without the piercings. An image came to mind of when we were in the sixth grade. During PE, a boy had stolen my jump rope, and Plug, Eugene back then, kicked him in the shin and returned the rope to me.

  “Back in sixth grade,” I said, “do you remember the jump rope? When you kicked that boy?”

  “Yes.” Plug continued pulling the bristles in a rhythmic motion. “I was suspended for three days.”

  I stared at Plug.

  “Really,” he said. “The PE teacher told my dad I attacked that kid. So my dad enrolled me in martial arts to teach me self-restraint.” Plug continued with the brush.

  “What else should I know about you?” I asked.

  He shrugged and continued brushing my hair. Hopefully, Plug was right. If I practiced my own self-restraint, by changing my thoughts, tonight could be a turning point. Surely things would get better from here.

  “All done.” He rose and set my brush on my desk next to the laptop.

  I pointed at the computer. “Did you see if it recorded anything?”

  Plug twisted a ring on his finger. “After everything that’s happened tonight, let’s forget about the computer for now. We’ll check it tomorrow.” He walked toward the door. “Let’s go downstairs and watch television until your mom gets home.”

  I was too exhausted to argue. I followed him out of my room.

  Once in the family room, he picked up the remote and plopped into a side chair. The guy who was so eager to touch me before kept his distance now.

  “Thanks,” I said and curled up on the far end of the couch, but then I reconsidered. If I wanted things to improve, I had to do something about it. Make my own choices rather than react to everything and everyone around me. I moved to the end of the couch closest to Plug and extended my hand to him. He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  He reached out and held my hand. No tingles. No hallucinations. No panic. Just comfort.

  Plug flip
ped through channels on the television. He settled on Ultimate Cage Fighting.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Hey, we’re fighting the unknown here. We need all the inspiration we can get.”

  “Right.” A grin crept across my face, and Plug smiled back at me. I focused on the skills of the fighters and limited my thoughts. It was tiring, and I fell asleep.

  Thursday

  August 29

  I sat on the front steps and waited for Plug to pick me up for school. The brilliant sunshine and fresh morning air reinforced my sensation that things were about to improve. Plug parked at the curb and hopped out to open my door for me.

  He wore a V-neck T-shirt as blue as the sky. And I smiled. I brushed past him to take my seat. He smelled like fabric softener, clean and crisp.

  “Better today?” he asked.

  “Much,” I said. “Last night’s smudging must have worked, because I feel better than ever.” He ran around to the driver’s side and slid into his seat.

  “You cold?” He motioned toward my outfit.

  “No.” I plucked at the sweatshirt. “Do I look stupid?”

  “If that’s what you want to wear, don’t worry—”

  “I care what you think,” I said.

  “I’m used to seeing you in fewer clothes.”

  Images of last night popped into my head, and my chest lit on fire.

  He held up his hands. “Wait! I meant you normally wear flip-flops, shorts, and a shirt. Today, you’re wearing boots, big jeans, and a sweatshirt.” He fidgeted with his lip ring.

  What he didn’t know: Beneath my jeans, I still had my yoga pants tucked into my athletic socks, and under the bulky sweatshirt, I still wore my bra on the outside of my pink shirt.

  I was lying to myself about being better than ever.

  He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

  “We had some success last night,” I said, “and that makes me think things can return to normal, but I’m not there yet. I still need a barrier. I don’t want anyone to touch me, and more layers equal more protection.”

  “What about me?” Plug peeked in my direction. “Should I keep my hands off you?”