by M. Verano
My personal favorite theory is that the spiders have all moved back outside now that the weather is getting warmer. It’s pretty hot now, and there’s barely been a cloud in the sky for the past couple of weeks! A nice change, for once. Anyway, that seems like a nice, wholesome, not evil explanation, so that’s a mark in its favor.
In any case, it’s a lot better than the other option I’ve considered, which is that nature itself is out of joint in this house, and the flies have been eating the spiders. I know I did suggest that solution a while ago, but . . . I think I’ve changed my mind on the desirability of that option.
TUESDAY, MAY 19, 8:22 P.M.
So today was baby’s first shrink appointment! Very exciting.
No, I don’t know. It was fine. A little . . . disappointing, maybe. But not bad. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. I think I hoped I would go in there and tell this lady all about the flies and the phone problems and the bags of vegetables materializing on the kitchen floor, and she would give me an answer. Or at least a path to hunt down.
I guess it wasn’t very likely that she’d be like, “Yeah, your house is haunted, here’s a phone number of a guy I know who can take care of it for you.” Or on the other hand, for her to be like, “BOOM diagnosis, here’s what’s wrong with you and here’s exactly the pill to fix it.” But I hoped it would be that easy.
Instead it was just sort of . . . awkward. It feels really weird telling personal stuff to a total stranger. But she is cool and easy to talk to, so by the end of the hour it got a lot easier. And weirdly, I didn’t even talk about the house, really. I went in there totally planning to, but then she asked me a bunch of questions that pushed me in different directions. Like I started out telling her about us moving in, but that made her go back to asking about my dad, and how I was feeling about that relationship. And at first I was like, whatever, I don’t want to talk about that. But she prodded a bit more and it turned out I had a lot to say!
And then I happened to mention Mom’s new boyfriend, just in passing, but Dr. Clyde jumped on that and immediately was like, “How are you feeling about that?” And at first I was like, “Fine, he seems fine.” And I changed the subject. But she kept circling back to it, and eventually I started sort of free-associating about it, and well, I don’t know. Maybe I am more conflicted about Mom dating than I thought I was.
Anyway, after all that, the hour was up. But I do want to try to talk about the house stuff next week.
THURSDAY, MAY 21, 10:26 P.M.
Arthur came to dinner again. While he was there, I thought a lot about what Dr. Clyde had said, about my underlying animosity toward him and protectiveness toward my mom. But strange to say, he’s just such a pleasant guy. It’s hard to stay focused on that stuff when he’s around. In fact, I kind of like when he comes by because it makes the house seem less spooky. Just me, Mom, and Logan in that big house . . . I don’t know, it becomes tense. Sometimes I feel like we don’t even know how to talk to each other anymore. But when Arthur is there, it smooths things over.
Although I don’t know if Logan’s feelings are the same as mine. Logan’s a lot more withdrawn around him, which is weird, because Logan has always been such an outgoing kid. But I guess I can’t really blame him. I mean, this must be hard for him. And it’s not like Logan’s rude or anything, he just . . . doesn’t really laugh at Arthur’s jokes, and looks like his mind is elsewhere, even when Arthur is going out of his way to engage him. I don’t know, Logan’s a funny kid. I’m sure he’ll get over it, though.
SATURDAY, MAY 23, 3:45 P.M.
Wow, so was I ever wrong about the spiders.
The good news is that the flies have probably not been eating the spiders.
The bad news is . . . so inexpressibly horrifying that I don’t know if I can even write it down.
Of course, Logan—my baby brother/science mentor—isn’t bothered at all by it. He called me into his room after school today as I was walking past on my way downstairs. I hadn’t been in there in ages. Thanks to that horrible buzzing noise, I’ve just been avoiding it since the night of his seizure. But he called to me, so, holding my breath, I opened the door and went in.
Instantly I had to press a palm to my forehead to calm the cacophony inside. “Jeez, Logan, how can you stand to sleep in here?”
But he just gave me a quizzical look, like he had no clue what I was talking about. Apparently he had dropped a comic book or something behind his dresser, and he needed help shifting it so he could get back there.
I got on the other side and we both gave a mighty heave, moving the old oak dresser about a foot away from the wall. Logan grabbed his comic book and we were about to shove the thing back into place when I stopped him.
“Look at that,” I said. “The floor under the dresser is darker than the rest of the wood. It’s totally discolored.”
“So?” said Logan, the correct care and maintenance of hardwood floors not being a major area of interest for him, I guess.
“It’s weird,” I said. “We just brought this dresser from California, right? It’s not like it’s been sitting here 100 years. I wonder if the varnish from the dresser has been seeping off or something.”
It didn’t sound like a very convincing explanation, even to me, but I couldn’t think of a better one. Shaking my head a little to stave off that annoying buzzing sound, I bent down to press my fingers to the darkened wood. I wanted to see if it felt sticky or wet at all, but about half an inch from contact, I froze.
Because the dark spot on the floor was moving. The whole patch, just . . . writhing and undulating. Holding my breath, I leaned down to look closer, and the whole thing is like a mass of teeny tiny little spiders crawling all over each other until they look like one solid organism.
And when I say tiny, I mean it. Each one was about the size of a pinhead, maybe slightly bigger. From a distance you couldn’t really see them at all. But up close . . . Christ, I can still see that seething mass whenever I close my eyes. My vision got all gray at the edges, and all I could think was that those tiny spiders could be anywhere, could be under me, could be crawling all over me. I got up and ran down the stairs and outside, and I didn’t stop until I reached a coffee shop downtown.
It’s getting late now, and I really better go home. But I don’t know how I’m going to set foot back in that house unless I somehow block what I’ve seen from my mind forever.
TUESDAY, MAY 26, 7:25 P.M.
Therapy again. I tried a little harder to direct the conversation this time. It’s weird. You go in there totally planning to talk about one thing, and then find yourself talking about something totally different. And it’s not like Dr. Clyde is forcing me or anything. In fact, she hardly talks at all during the session. But having her there makes me realize I have stuff to say that I didn’t even know I was thinking about. Magic!
This time I tried at least. At the beginning she asked me if there was anything in particular I wanted to talk about, and I was like, YES. It’s about the house. And I was all proud of myself for bringing it up all directly like that, but then I wasn’t sure where to go with it. I just felt so awkward telling her about the stuff that has happened, just because . . . well, damn, a lot of it sounds kind of dumb if you’re not there, experiencing it.
Too many jars of tomato sauce in the cupboard? A bag of veggies that disappears and reappears mysteriously? Glitchy cell phone service? This stuff wouldn’t even make the cut in a Scooby-Doo script. I tried to tell her about it, but even though she didn’t say anything, I just got the feeling that she wasn’t really buying it. Like this wasn’t what she wanted to hear. But shouldn’t therapy be about what’s bothering *me* rather than what she wants to hear? I don’t know, she’s the professional. Maybe she knows better than I do.
Anyway, part of it was her nonengagement with what I was saying, and part of it was maybe just me hearing myself talk, and hearing how silly it all sounded. So we’ve got some flies and spiders and stuff—what old house doe
sn’t? It’s gross, but it’s not supernatural. And everyone’s got a million stories they can tell you about some time their cell phone screwed up.
But then I remembered the stuff with Logan . . . That stuff is pretty messed up, right? So I told her about that, about the seizure (in the middle of telling her I realized that obviously she already knows about that, and probably a lot of other stuff—she’s Logan’s doctor too), and about him playing video games that aren’t there. And she didn’t say anything. So then I told her about the letter, the duplicate letter he wrote. And I tried to really emphasize that it wasn’t just a similar letter—it was identical.
I was so hoping that with that, I’d be able to break through her . . . I don’t know, her professional reserve. I just wanted a genuine reaction out of her. Like a “Holy crap” or even just “That’s kind of weird.” Anything other than her medically approved “mmm-hmms” and “How did that make you feels.” But I got a lot of that. And finally I was just like, no, how does that make *you* feel? I mean, isn’t that strange? How would you explain it? All I want is some kind of explanation for it. For all this stuff.
But Dr. Clyde kept evading my question, and finally she was like, “Look, we’re not here to talk about Logan. We’re here to talk about you. Logan’s problems are Logan’s, and while they do affect you, I’m concerned that you are using his issues to deflect this conversation away from your own feelings.”
When she said that . . . I had to sit with it a while. Because . . . I couldn’t deny that when she put it that way, it made a lot of sense. Is that what I’ve been doing all along? Just putting all this on Mom and Logan because I’m scared to look at myself?
So then she asked me if there might be a reason I was directing the conversation toward Logan. Was there something going on in my relationship with him that was troubling me? And I told her obviously I am worried about him. And she just “mmm-hmm”d and nodded and looked . . . unconvinced. What’s up with that? I hate that the most about therapy, I think. Like I can tell she is thinking something, but since she never says it, I can’t confront her about it without looking crazy and paranoid. But the way her face looked . . . I could swear she thought that I had some, like, secret anger toward Logan. Which is such bullshit! I love Logan. I just want him to be okay again.
But then again, maybe that’s not what Dr. Clyde was thinking at all. Maybe I just projected that onto her because I’m worried that there’s something dark inside me. I don’t know. Therapy is supposed to help you figure out and resolve the issues in your life, isn’t it? But I feel like it’s just making everything even more complicated.
I wonder if anyone’s shrink has ever actually made them crazy.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 27, 6:10 A.M.
So I woke up this morning to a fantastic smell wafting through the house, like smoked bacon or something. I ran downstairs to find Arthur sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a book. I asked him what was cooking and he cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just coffee . . . sorry.”
So I’m thinking it must be a neighbor or something. I’m like, “Do you smell that? Like someone’s having a barbecue or . . .”
That’s when he gives me a smile that doesn’t seem to have much humor behind it. “That’s not food,” he says. “That’s fire. They’re doing controlled burns all over the area right now.”
“Oh right,” I say. “To prevent wildfires.”
And he’s like, “Kind of. That may be a little optimistic.”
“You think there will be a wildfire this year?” I say, and he laughs.
“There are wildfires every year. It’s just a question of how bad. And this year looks like it might be pretty bad.”
“How do you know?”
“We didn’t get enough snow this winter.”
“You mean sometimes there’s more?”
He laughed again. This place is so weird. At least it smells nice, though.
THURSDAY, MAY 28, 10:27 P.M.
I forgot to mention before that Dr. Clyde did try to help me feel better about the house. She didn’t ignore my concerns completely, in all fairness. I had mentioned the horrible ringing sound that seems to come from Logan’s room, but maybe comes from inside of me. Toward the end of the session she brought it up and asked me if I might want to try some simple exercises that might help make the noise go away. And I was like, HELL YEAH, why didn’t you offer me that in the first place?
So yeah, it’s just really simple stuff. Like phrases to repeat to myself or visualize while I’m falling asleep, mostly. It seemed a little babyish, to be honest, but I’ve been doing it the past couple of nights, and you know what? The sound does seem to have faded a bit, to the point where I don’t notice it unless I am listening for it. And I have been sleeping better, and getting along better with Mom. And I haven’t even had any problem with Logan. So . . . I don’t know. Maybe there is something to this therapy crap. Who knew?
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 10:27 A.M.
Okay, scratch that. Shit. I don’t even . . .
Okay. Deep breaths. This morning I woke up feeling awesome, well rested, and prepared for my bio test today. Mom was making pancakes, and Logan was chattering about some field trip. It was a good morning. Everyone was being normal.
But as we were getting our school stuff together in front of the door, I happened to notice something in Logan’s bag. It was a letter. And I just got this pit in my stomach, because . . . who would Logan be writing to? He’s a 12-year-old kid. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of snail mail correspondents. So it had to be another letter to Dad. And I just couldn’t help wondering, was it the same thing again? Was it normal, or was he at it again? I just had to know. And somehow, before I even consciously formed the thought, I took the letter out of his bag when he wasn’t looking and put it in mine.
I know! It was a shitty thing to do. But I am worried about him, I really am, no matter what Dr. Clyde says. Besides, the letter could be like . . . evidence. Something tangible, that isn’t just me blabbing about stuff I might completely be making up. And anyway, the ironic thing is that once Logan noticed it was missing, he probably wouldn’t even think to blame me because so much random stuff goes missing in our house these days. He’d probably just assume it was our friendly ghosts. Ha.
I could hardly breathe the whole way into school. But the minute I sat down in homeroom, I got the letter out and ripped it open. My eyes scanned the first few lines, and instantly I knew. It was the same letter.
But there was something different this time—some of the words were crossed out. But not like, just a line through them, or a bit of a scribble, like a normal person might do. Someone—Logan, I guess—had gone over each crossed-out word probably a million times, scraping over and over with a ballpoint pen, until it made a deep indentation in the paper. And the words he had chosen seemed totally random. I can’t figure it out at all, what he thought he was doing.
That’s assuming there was any thought going on at all.
FRIDAY, MAY 29, 4:03 P.M.
Update . . . When I got home, I found Logan’s last letter and compared them. Sure enough, they are word for word the same. And now I can see what words he was crossing out.
the
dead
will
bring
you
what
you
want
don’t
want
sick
key
ana
What the hell.
Dear Dad,
Mom’s making me write this letter. I mean, not that I mind writing to you, but she’s making me write the letter by hand. The shrink has decrede that I’m not allowed to have screen time, so I have to email you the old fashioned way. I’m a little surprised to learn that the postal service isn’t dead yet, but there are still people who will physicly bring paper with writing on it to your front door.
I’m getting excited about my science project. Have I
told you about it? I’m trying to show what happens when you look at a really bright color for a while and then look at a white wall like what the rods and comes are doing and stuff.
Do you think there’s any chance you might be able to come for it? I don’t know if you’d want to, but I think it will be interesting. I know you’re busy, nut I bet Paige would be really happy to see you. And I would be too.
By the way, have you been getting my gaming magazines. I don’t know what happened to the subscription when we moved but there’s a review of the new Aeon of strife that I want to check out. It’s supposed to be sick.
Sorry if my handwriting is hard to read, it really never occurred to me that penmanship was going to be an issue in my life. I can’t wait to get back to a keyboard.
Well, it’s almost morning and I’m starving. The banana in the fruit bowl is calling to me. Write back soon!
Love,
Logan
SATURDAY, MAY 30, 3:23 P.M.
God, my eyes are killing me. How do people live like this? It’s worse than allergies. Worse than that sandstorm, even. I woke up this morning and my eyes were *stinging* and I couldn’t figure out why. My throat was burning too, so I thought, am I getting a cold? Strep? Then I looked out my windows as I was getting dressed, and the light looked . . . weird. Kind of golden, like sunset, even though it was nine in the morning.
Arthur stopped by for lunch and told us about the fires—all this golden haze means that somewhere out there, the fields and forests are burning.
“Out there?” I said. “What about the town? Will it . . . ?”
The rest of the thought is too scary to finish, but Arthur smiled and shook his head. “No, they’re really far away now,” he said. “Hundreds of miles, in fact, but the wind is so strong, it sweeps the ash and debris over to us. But there’s no danger here. Not now, anyway.”