Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Emily was crying and Jerry was so overcome with fear and frustration that he almost whirled on Dr. Garcia, who had just entered the room. "What the hell is wrong with her! She just threw up again! Why is—"

  They stabilized her, and at one point during the chaos Jerry heard Dr. Garcia tell the radiologist that they would try the test again tomorrow once her stomach settled. Then they wheeled her out of radiology and back into intensive care.

  And the nightmare got darker.

  FOUR A.M.

  Jerry Enders couldn't sleep. He was sitting in a stiff chair in the pediatric intensive care unit while Emily lay sprawled between two chairs next to the hospital bed Hannah was sleeping in. Aside from the beeping of the myriad of machines hooked up to their daughter, and the slow susurration of her breathing, the room was silent.

  Jerry looked out the window. The room was dark, as was the hallway outside. He could hear footsteps in the hall as the nightshift nurse made her rounds. Jerry yawned and rubbed his eyes. He'd had only two hours of fitful sleep, and while his body screamed for more, his mind refused to let him rest any further. It was still tracking on the past several hours.

  Hannah had thrown up again around midnight and Jerry swore he saw blood in it shortly before he and Emily were ushered out of the room. Emily was hysterical; Jerry felt hysterical, too, but he had to be strong for both of them. Dr. Garcia’s replacement for the evening, a young pediatrician named Dr. Gomez, sat down with them in the waiting room and explained very patiently that something in Hannah’s system was causing her body to reject not just food, but fluids. Her blood work had come back normal. The medical team was stumped; they were positive her blood work would have turned up some abnormalities, something they could identify so they would know what they were up against. They wanted to do a spinal tap now. Jerry asked if there would be any consequences from the procedure and when Dr. Gomez answered that there probably wouldn’t, Jerry gave the consent much to Emily’s chagrin. Then they’d waited.

  Hannah had gone through the spinal tap fine; she was so out of it that she wasn’t aware of the procedure. And now she was back in bed, sleeping as her IVs were monitored. Patches had been placed on her stomach to monitor stomach contractions; when they started, it sent a message to the system administering her IV to cut off the fluids. Dr. Gomez was concerned about the excessive vomiting. “It can not only damage her stomach, but her esophagus,” he said.

  And now he was left sitting here in Hannah’s intensive care room at the hospital, wondering how his little girl could get so sick.

  And all he could think of was what that peasant told him at Dr. Westerman’s office. Your daughter...she is under the curse of a bruja...a witch.

  Jerry couldn’t help but dwell on that now, turning it over in his mind. He wasn’t a superstitious man. He was raised Catholic, and he used to go to church but had stopped years ago. He still believed in God, but he wasn’t an overtly religious person. He found it hard to believe in things like witches and curses.

  Yet there was something about that old man’s face when he saw Hannah coming out of the examining room at Dr. Westerman’s clinic...as if he’d seen something Jerry and Emily couldn’t. And the way he seemed to know Hannah’s symptoms intimately, without even overhearing what was going on. Jerry had been trying to convince himself that the old man was some kind of con artist who’d somehow overheard a snatch of conversation and decided to prey on them. But if so, why? What could be gained? Jerry didn’t have the answer to that question.

  And then there was the matter of what the old man said about Hannah missing something personal...as if she’d lost something. This was the first Jerry had heard about it, and now it troubled him.

  He leaned over and gently shook Emily awake. She opened her eyes, disoriented. “Wha?”

  “I want to ask you something,” Jerry asked, his voice a low whisper. “Has Hannah lost something recently? A toy, a book, a piece of clothing or jewelry?”

  “What do you mean?” Emily was more awake now but still drowsy. She was sitting up, balanced on her left arm, looking curiously at him.

  “Did Hannah misplace something?” Jerry asked again. “Or maybe lose something? A necklace or a doll or—”

  “She misplaced that little kitty of hers,” Emily said. “On Monday. She took it to school with her and when I picked her up from daycare, she didn’t have it. She said she lost it.”

  Jerry knew what Emily was talking about. Hannah’s kitty was a little toy kitten, a plush doll. It was brown, about the size of an adult’s palm. Hannah carried it everywhere with her in the house and had taken it to daycare before. Jerry was surprised that Hannah hadn’t raised a bigger fuss Monday evening because kitty was her favorite stuffed animal. Of course, by then she was sick.

  “So she lost it at daycare,” Jerry echoed, his mind whirling. “She left it there or...did she let another kid play with it or—“

  “I don’t think so...she told me she lost it,” Emily said. “I told her she shouldn’t be taking her kitty to daycare, but you know how she is...”

  “I know.”

  “Hannah guarded her kitty jealously. The only kid she ever let play with it was Amy, and even then I had to insist on that. Remember?”

  Jerry did remember Amy, who was not only a classmate in Hannah’s fourth grade class, but attended the same daycare facility.

  “Wasn’t Amy’s mother the one that was—” Jerry began.

  “Yes,” Emily said. “That’s the one.”

  Jerry didn’t know details, but from what little he’d gleaned, Amy’s mom and Emily had a run-in after a PTA meeting a few months ago. Jerry still didn’t know what the transgression was about, but there was no love lost between the two mothers. Hannah’s relationship with Amy, on the other hand, was practically non-existent. Hannah only mentioned Amy in passing, and the impression that Jerry always had was that Amy simply wasn’t on Hannah’s radar. The incident Emily just mentioned was a one-shot; Emily had just happened to be at the daycare facility to pick Hannah up when she’d overheard Amy ask if she could play with Hannah’s kitty. Hannah had said no, and Emily had told Hannah, “Oh, come on Hannah, let her play with it for a little bit.”

  "Why do you want to know about Hannah’s kitty?” Emily asked.

  "Just wondering." Jerry looked at the bed where Hannah was sleeping and Emily turned to look at their daughter, too. Hannah was in deep sleep, oxygen tubes stuck up her nostrils, the IV bag doing its slow drip. Jerry watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, noting her already too-skinny frame. She's been without food now for almost three days...hell, basically she'd just had a very tiny bit to eat. And fluids...very little of that. She's being starved to death. But how...and why?

  Emily settled back down in a comfortable position and started to cry again. Jerry knelt down beside her and felt stupid for trying to comfort her. He could only rub her back, her arm, and offer meaningless words of comfort as the black sky outside slowly gave way to morning.

  AT THE CRACK of dawn, with the western sun bleeding a dull orange, Jerry drove his sedan down a lonely highway heading out of El Paso and into New Mexico. He kept his eyes peeled along the side of the road, searching. He was told that the majority of day laborers gathered at various spots along this stretch of Mesa Street, which was now Highway 20, and was assured even more of them gathered near the Wal-Mart at the crossroads. Jerry was determined to find the peasant who'd spoken to him yesterday at Dr. Westerman's clinic; he would find him; he was sure of it.

  The last three hours replayed in his mind as he drove slowly up Highway 20:

  Dr. Gomez checking on Hannah's vital signs and monitoring the machine hooked up to her. Jerry noticed his frown. Blood pressure is dropping, he said. Oxygen level in her blood is low. She needs more fluids.

  Hannah waking up suddenly with violent wretches of vomiting. Her heart monitor accelerated into the stratosphere as two nurses and Dr. Gomez worked to stop the vomiting and stabilize her. Emily could only crouch in the
corner and weep.

  Jerry talking to a Hispanic custodian outside while he nursed a cup of coffee. Lots of day Laborer's in this area are Native Americans, you know, the custodian said in response to Jerry asking if the peasant's description was familiar. Not all of them come from Mexico, from Juarez. This guy sounds like he could be local. Most likely he just works at a farm.

  And now Jerry was driving up Highway 20 searching for the man he'd dismissed yesterday afternoon as a superstitious lunatic.

  Twice he thought he saw the man during two drive-bys near groups of men that were hanging around convenience stores waiting for work, but both times the peasant hadn't been there. Now Jerry was pulling up near the Wal-Mart when he saw what appeared to be a familiar face. He drove up to the group of a dozen men who were idly watching his approach. As he drew closer, Jerry felt the adrenaline surge. One of the men was the peasant! No mistake about it. He was dressed in the same basic uniform he was wearing yesterday; dirty blue jeans, a red and blue plaid shirt, and a dirty straw hat. Jerry pulled the car as close to the men as he could, put the vehicle in park, opened the door, and stepped out. He waved to get the man's attention. The peasant saw him and the other men began crowding around, eager to be picked for a day's work. Jerry could tell the peasant recognized him; their eyes locked. Jerry motioned the man over and the peasant approached.

  As he approached, the other men drew back. Jerry ignored them as he locked his gaze on the peasant’s. “Remember me?”

  “Si! Su nombré, ella obtiene peor. Your daughter, she is getting worse.

  “Yes, she is,” Jerry said. “Forgive me...my Spanish is poor. I can understand but...” He groped for the right phrase. “No habla espanol.”

  The peasant nodded. “Your daughter...she is getting worse.”

  “Yes. You said yesterday that my daughter...she...” Jerry felt conspicuous standing here with the day laborers eyeing them. He gestured to the peasant. “Please...get in. I’ll pay you for your trouble, just...”

  The peasant appeared to understand Jerry wanted privacy and got in the passenger side of the sedan. Jerry backed the car up and drove to the other side of the parking lot and stopped. He checked the rearview mirror; the day laborers had resumed their stance, waiting for work.

  Jerry turned to the peasant. He felt on the verge of panic. “You said yesterday that my daughter was missing something. It turns out she is. A stuffed toy. How did you—“

  “How did I know? I knew when I saw her. She had an aura about her. A black ring that clings to her that reeks of sickness and evil. I’ve seen it before. It’s a spell that only an evil bruja would cast. I saw my cousin get cursed this way, many years ago in Chihuahua. She died from it.”

  This wasn’t what Jerry needed to hear. He felt a tremor go through him. “Can it be stopped?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the peasant answered quickly. “The bruja...the witch...hasn’t been outside or seen by anybody for as long as your daughter has been sick, so it will be difficult. That’s what makes this particular spell work. You will need to find the bruja. Once you find the bruja, the item your daughter lost...what was it? A toy?”

  Jerry nodded. His throat felt sore.

  “The toy will be in the bruja’s possession. You must take it. Try to take other items if you can. Clothing, even if it doesn’t belong to your daughter. Your daughter’s hair or sweat might be on it from the toy. Most likely, though, this won’t be the case.”

  “How am I going to find this bruja?” Jerry asked, mostly to himself.

  “Whatever you do, do not harm the bruja in any way.” The peasant was grave. “You will want to. The vengeance of a man over the suffering of his child will be great. But please...I beg of you...for the sake of your daughter, do not cause harm to the bruja. That will only make matters worse.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s it. Simply take the toy. That will break the spell completely. You will know it has worked when your daughter’s condition begins improving.”

  Jerry’s mind was whirling. If spells were like recipes for meticulously prepared meals, it made sense. Take away an important ingredient and the dish was not the same. Perhaps it worked the same way with black magic. “How am I going to find this bruja?”

  “It must be somebody your daughter has offended deeply,” the peasant said. “Somebody your daughter must have told you about. Maybe—“

  Amy’s mother? No, it couldn't be.

  The peasant noticed the look on Jerry’s face. “You think you know?”

  “Yes,” Jerry said, reaching for the keys.

  The peasant’s face grew pale. “¡Mi Dios!” The peasant crossed himself. “Are you sure, señor?”

  “No.” Jerry didn’t like the look of horror that came over the peasant’s face. “The person I’m thinking of has no reason to harm my daughter. She got into an argument with my wife...it doesn’t make sense to get revenge on my wife by placing a curse on our child!”

  “Then go,” the peasant said. “Quickly. Pueda a Dios está con usted.” The peasant got out of the car and Jerry started the engine and drove out of the Wal-Mart parking lot, heading back to town.

  JERRY DIDN’T KNOW much about Amy White, only that she lived in a small two room house on the far west side of town, in an area that bordered Texas, New Mexico, and Mexico. It was a rural, poor area with a heavy Hispanic and Native American population. The few times Jerry saw Amy when he picked Hannah up at daycare he surmised Amy was of Native American heritage; she had that bronze skin, the high cheekbones, the long straight black hair.

  Jerry remembered he and Emily driving Hannah through this section of town, pointing out the route to her. The day care mini-van would pick the kids up from the elementary school and take them to the facility, taking her through this area. Hannah had pointed out all the houses where classmates lived and Jerry remembered her pointing out Amy’s house specifically. “That’s Amy’s house,” Hannah had said. Jerry remembered that the structure had stuck out from all the others; it was small, more like a crackerbox house with faded green paint, a dirty, unkempt yard surrounded by a chain link fence and clothes hanging from a clothesline in the front yard.

  Now Jerry was trying to find the house again, hoping he could bluff his way inside, but not knowing what to expect.

  As he drove, his mind raced back over the past few months. He’d never met Amy’s mother and all he’d heard from Emily was that the woman was not only an alcoholic, she was paranoid. “She always thinks somebody's out to get her,” Emily told him one night. “Always thinks the school is punishing her for some supposed wrong-doing, or that her daughter isn’t being treated well by the teachers or the other kids. You can’t believe how difficult that woman can be!” Jerry tried to remember what it was that caused the argument at the PTA meeting, but couldn’t.

  Still, if Mrs. White was paranoid as Emily claimed...

  And if there was the slightest chance she was a practicing bruja...

  Bullshit!

  There was Hannah’s kitty...Amy was the only kid who handled it. And it was missing.

  This is ridiculous, he thought to himself as he entered the neighborhood he remembered the White home to be in. If Amy’s mother had a problem with Emily, why take it out on a child? It doesn’t make sense!

  And it didn’t. But he had to find out for himself.

  Jerry finally saw the house at the end of the street he remembered, and pulled over. He got out of the car and let himself in through the gate. It didn’t appear anybody was home. He made his way up to the ragged porch and knocked on the rickety screen door.

  For a moment there was silence. Jerry tried to listen, to see if he could detect anything inside. Suddenly the screen door was wrenched open and a thin, ragged-looking woman stood behind the screen door peering out at him through red-rimmed eyes; obviously Amy’s mother. She was smoking a cigarette, dressed in ratted denim shorts and a thin t-shirt. Her hair was long, dark black with streaks of gray. “Yeah?”

&nbs
p; “This the White residence?” Jerry tried not to let the aroma of sweat and booze that permeated from the woman affect him.

  “Yeah,” the woman said. Her voice was slurred. Already eight a.m. and she was in the bag. “Who’re you?”

  “I’m from Health Services,” Jerry said, the lie springing to him quickly. “Amy’s school contacted me.”

  “Really?” The woman was making no move to let him in the house.

  “Can I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, Jerry shoved the woman aside and entered the house.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t just come in here like—“

  The smell was the first thing that hit Jerry. The cramped living room was dark and overrun with empty beer cans, empty pizza boxes, ashtrays, cigarette smoke, vomit, and cat feces from two litter pans that were overflowing with waste. The smell was cloying. If Amy’s mother was a bruja, there was no evidence of it here. Jerry squinted, hoping his eyes would adjust quickly to the dark. “Where’s Amy’s bedroom?” he asked, already heading toward what appeared to be a hallway.

  “The hell you think you’re doing?” the woman stumbled behind him. “You can’t just—”

  Jerry didn’t hear her, focusing now on a closed door at the end of the hall. When he opened the door to the room the smell of vomit hit him strongly. The sight was shocking, riveting, horrifying.

  A young girl was lying on the bed, her skin white and sweaty. The bed, floor, and walls were streaked with vomit. The room was bathed in a soft fluorescent light, lending an eerie atmosphere to the room. Jerry had time to see the condition of the girl, the strange designs scrawled on the walls and burned into the carpet and black candles that were now burnt out. Jerry’s eyes crawled over the comatose figure sprawled on the bed and he caught a momentary glimpse of kitty clutched in Amy’s grip, a puke-covered spoon lying by her side (Jesus, has she been forcing herself to vomit with that thing? My God!) when he heard the woman’s voice behind him. “You’re the father of that girl, Hannah, the one who's been bullying her.”