Monster in My Closet

by R. L. Naquin

  I rolled my eyes and speared a chunk of gooey fruit. “Deal. Thank you.”

  I slid the fork between my lips. I felt bad for being angry. The pie was incredible and far beyond my meager cooking abilities. What harm was he doing if nobody missed the ingredients from their yards?

  Neither of us spoke as we ate. Cups clinked, silverware scraped, and bodies shifted. Maurice’s eyes flicked to my face from time to time, looking worried. I realized halfway through my second cup of cocoa that he was showing incredible restraint in not asking about the dream that had me sobbing in my sleep.

  The truth was that I didn’t remember a lot of it.

  “It was a crap dream,” I said. I wasn’t sure which one of us needed the reassuring the most. “It didn’t mean anything. Garbled stuff mostly. I was taking out my subconscious trash for the day.”

  Green eyes flashed in my head, demanding and hungry. I shivered.

  “Taking out the trash makes you cry?” Maurice wasn’t buying it.

  “I don’t remember much. A chapel, my wedding dress was wrong, something about a raccoon. It was nothing.”

  I can’t wait to see what you’ll cook for me next.

  The second half of the dream slammed into me, and I choked. I saw Selma’s body contorted in pleasure and agony. Emerald eyes danced in my brain and sent my head spinning. I could feel him reaching for me through the dream, engulfing me, tasting my emotions. A tiny whimper trickled through my lips, and I clutched at the table.

  “Zoey!” Maurice was up and around to my side of the table in a blur. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Zoey, don’t let him in. He can’t touch you unless you let him. Push him away, Zoey!”

  Through the fog of the remembered dream, I reached for Maurice’s voice and pulled myself back to my warm kitchen. A thin layer of sweat coated my skin. Enormous, unblinking yellow eyes stared into mine, grounding me.

  “How is he doing that?” I said. “How can he get into my head?” I was trying my best to hold back panic. “Maurice, what do I do? He got in, despite all the fairies, stinky bags and skunk-apes.”

  “You can keep him out, Zoey. You have to take back your power. He tasted you on the street, so he’s tracking you. But he can’t come into your head unless you allow it. Remember what Andrew showed you—you can use that against this demon. Next time, push him out.”

  I snorted. That sounded simple enough. Just push him out. Of course. I could do that. “I may never sleep again.”

  He squeezed my shoulder and sat back down. “You’re strong, Zoey. And he can’t hurt you from a distance, not really. He’s messing with you. Don’t let him.”

  “Am I intruding?” Molly popped onto the table, having vaulted from floor to chair.

  I smiled. She was disheveled from sleep, her bruised face already looking far better than it had the day before.

  “Not at all. There’s pie and hot chocolate. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

  “My little one had a bad dream, and I heard voices. I like pie.”

  Molly joined us, and the conversation turned to mundane things like turnip crops, babies and high-top sneakers. For all my years of living alone (and cherishing the solitude), I’d never imagined the warmth of having people around me when I needed companionship. It was a new feeling, and I savored every second. I knew Molly was only with us temporarily, but my heart skipped at the thought of Maurice leaving. How long would it be until he could sort out his own life? For having been there for such a short time, he’d managed to fit into my life and my home as if he had always belonged. After only a few days, I didn’t think living alone again would sit well with me. He’d have to leave sometime, though. He had a life before he came to stay with me, even without his wife in the picture. As if reading my mind, Molly asked the question I’d been too afraid to ask.

  “Maurice,” she asked in a gentle voice. “Have you spoken to Pansy since you arrived?”

  He swallowed hard and scratched at a dry spot on his wrist. “She won’t take my calls or answer my letters.”

  Molly and I exchanged looks. “What will you do?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Give her time. She’ll miss me eventually, right?” He shifted his gaze to my face, pleading.

  I had serious doubts that this could be fixed, but that wouldn’t do him any good to hear right now. It was too new, too raw. “Give it time, Maurice. However it’s going to turn out, today probably isn’t the day it does. You’ve got a home here as long as you want it.”

  I glanced at the clock over the stove and was stunned to see it was five forty-five. I rubbed my eyes.

  “I have two appointments today, one of which is a cake tasting,” I said. “This is going to be the longest day ever.”

  Molly nodded her head in commiseration. “My children will be up soon. We are all going to need naps.”

  Maurice cleared the plates and cups.

  “Maurice, when do you sleep?” I asked. I realized I knew hardly anything about him. “And for that matter, where do you sleep?”

  He laughed. “I’m a closet monster. I’m nocturnal, mostly, but I don’t need much sleep. I doze in the guest-room closet when you’re at work.”

  “Do you need anything to make you more comfortable?” I felt terribly guilty for not considering the question before.

  “I’m fine, Zoey. I don’t need much.”

  “Nothing? Blankets? Pillows? Can I clear stuff out of there for you? Anything?”

  He thought about it. “I could use a radio, if you have a spare. It’s awfully quiet around here during the day.”

  With all the drama throwing itself at me lately, it probably was a great deal quieter when I was gone.

  “Okay. And if you think of anything else, tell me,” I said. “I’m off to the shower, see if I can beat some magic into myself to give the illusion of presentable.”

  The hot water and steam engulfed my tired body like a warm hug. I inhaled the scents of shampoo and soap and let them work their way inside, lifting out the disgusting muck that stuck to my consciousness like tar. I used the exercises Andrew taught me to clean it all out, exhaling it into the air and visualizing it swirling down the drain and away from my vicinity. My skin was pink and glowing when I finished, having scrubbed my outsides as hard as my metaphysical insides. I stepped onto the thick purple bathmat feeling cleaner than I had in days.

  Sometimes a hot shower can cure a world of ills.

  It bothered me that Maurice had done so much for me, yet I hadn’t had one thought for his comfort. Part of it, I supposed, was his efficiency in running my house and the visitors we’d had. He slid into the role so smoothly it seemed he’d always been there. To be honest, he didn’t ask for anything except a roof over his head. But there was more to it than that. I supposed, as much as any of the rest of us, he wanted a place in the world where he fit. It made me uncomfortable to think that Maurice saw cooking and cleaning for me as his place.

  I resolved to get him the best little stereo I could find. And maybe speak privately with Molly about the care and feeding of closet monsters. There had to be something more I could do for him.

  I dressed carefully. My Goth bride was my first appointment, but the cake tasting this afternoon was with a more traditional bride. I chose a simple, knee-length black skirt, black tights and black heels with gold buckles. I debated the blouse for some time before finally choosing a light cotton with red and black horizontal stripes which I topped off with a black suit jacket. Somber, but not ass-kissing for the Goth, professional, but slightly quirky for the traditional.

  To me, it was on the boring side and needed brightening up. I’d have to make an effort in the future not to mix my brides on the same day. It limited my wardrobe choices.

  Having gorged on pie a few hours before, I tried to slip out of the house without stopping for breakfast.
Maurice wasn’t having it. I got a very dad-like lecture on good nutrition and starting my day out right.

  I tried to argue. “There were fruits, and grains, and milk,” I said. “All of these are part of a nutritious, balanced breakfast. Ask any cereal commercial.”

  He stared at me with his enormous, unblinking eyes. “Sit. Sit. Sit.” His tone indicated I was not in charge and would not win this fight.

  As I snarfed down a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel, I wondered how the hell I’d lost so much control over my life.

  On the way out, I stopped in the garage to see Bruce. He’d kept my ice maker working overtime since I found him, but when I’d checked on him before bed last night, his temperature had been normal, as near as I could guess.

  I pulled up the door and peered inside. “Bruce? It’s just me.” I headed into the far dark corner. “How do you feel, buddy?”

  At the back of the garage, I stood over his corner, allowing my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. “Bruce?”

  The dragon was gone. The corner had been vacated, a rounded spot of clean left on the floor in his place. I looked for him between boxes and under tables. I looked up at the rafters overhead, in case his puny wings had managed to carry him there. Nothing.

  I was surprised at how sad I felt at his loss.

  “Good luck, buddy,” I said to the shadows. “Come back anytime.” I went to his spot to double check. Maybe he left a note? Could dragons write notes? Doubtful. His claws were probably too long to hold a writing utensil. And the paper could catch on fire.

  Nope. No dragon curled up in the corner of my garage and no note. But there was something. I bent closer to look, and my breath caught in my chest. A gold amulet encrusted with diamonds and rubies lay in his place. A shiny gold chain coiled around the pendant. I lifted it from the cold cement and brushed it off. The metal radiated a pleasant warmth in the palm of my hand. I was touched both by the gesture and the beauty of the piece.

  Despite how gorgeous it was, it was large and clunky. Any number of curses and blessings filed through my head to be catalogued. I had to assume Bruce wouldn’t leave me a monkey’s paw that caused my unspoken wishes to kill off a friend or raise a loved one from the grave. If I rubbed it, would a genie pop out? Would the genie have phenomenal cosmic powers?

  I flipped it over and looked for markings. I couldn’t discern any directions to the Well of Souls—not even one-sided directions that would have me digging in the wrong place.

  I watched too many movies.

  Most likely, it was a pretty piece of jewelry Bruce thought I would like. I slipped it in my bag and forgot about it. It was going to be a long day. Mysterious amulets with hidden powers would have to wait.

  Chapter Eight

  Most days I stopped off at a local coffee shop and grabbed a pastry and cappuccino. Since a delicious breakfast had been forced on me, I didn’t need the pastry. Still, I needed the coffee. Coffee at home is one thing—I was grateful for the cup I’d been handed to wash down the sandwich. A venti for the office was non-negotiable, all the same.

  The little coffee shop two blocks from my office was crowded, even for a Monday morning. I inhaled the heavy scent of roasted beans but the various perfumes and colognes of the customers jostled my nostrils in a hostile takeover. The woman in line in front of me was especially obnoxious. Her perfume was thick and flowery, assailing me like a child throwing a tantrum. “Look at me! Look at me!” it seemed to shriek.

  I’ve always taken offense at people wearing heavy perfume. It’s as if they have no respect for boundaries. If I wanted my personal space to reek of lavender and musk, I’d dump a vat of bath salts into the tub and go for a soak. It’s rude to think everyone wants that stuffed up their noses. Whatever happened to subtlety?

  I rubbed at my nose with the back of my hand, as if that might clear out some of the stench.

  “It is a little much.” The voice came from behind me in line, low and secretive, as if he didn’t want anyone but me to hear him.

  I was embarrassed. I had hoped no one else had caught me trying to wipe away the smell. I turned to answer and was caught off guard. In fact, I babbled like an idiot.

  “You,” I said, already kicking myself for my lack of suavity. “I saw you on TV the other night.”

  He looked puzzled, probably afraid I’d confused him with an actor or talk show host. “You know,” I said, trying to clarify, “on the news. Taking the grocery clerk to the ambulance. Or her body anyway.” Shut up, Zoey. Please shut up. “It was a shock. I’d just been in there talking to her the day before. I bought cheese.” Oh for the love of the one-eyed god of wombats, will you stop now? “I recognized you from earlier the same day when that man was hit by a bus. You do seem to be around when people die. What horrible luck. But then, you’re a paramedic, right? So it probably happens to you a lot.”

  I stopped to take a breath and realized he was smiling at me. He nodded toward the counter and I thought I’d lost his attention. Not sure whether to be devastated or relieved about that, I realized he was urging me forward in line.

  Excellent. I was an all-around doofus, not just the babbling kind. I turned to face front and closed the gap between myself and the stink bomb. Because I am a total glutton for punishment, I turned around and faced him again. One more try. I took a deep breath.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “Honestly, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m not normally this way.”

  And then I tripped backward and bumped into the woman in front of me. Who was holding the coffee the barista had handed her seconds before.

  “Dammit,” the woman said. She didn’t yell. It was a fairly low-key attitude for someone with hot coffee dripping from her sleeve.

  “I am so sorry,” I said. I grabbed napkins and blotted at her drips. “Please, let me get you another one.”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine. I hate this sweater. Only a little spilled anyway.” She took the napkins from me and mopped up, then tossed the paper in the trash. “All better. No harm.” She smiled and left.

  I felt like a total shit for bashing her perfume.

  There was no way I could make eye contact with Captain Dreamy behind me. Miserable, I placed my order for a venti cappuccino with a double shot of Irish cream. I needed the double shot. I only wished it were alcohol instead of flavored syrup.

  I huddled in the corner waiting for my order to be called, hoping he wouldn’t see me. If he were smart, he’d order a black coffee and clear out before I had to walk past him.

  It turned out he wasn’t smart.

  He came over and leaned against the wall beside me. I pretended not to notice him, though I’m sure I wasn’t in the least bit convincing. From the corner of my eye I could see he wasn’t in uniform. His jeans were snug, but not ’70s avert-your-eyes-you-can-totally-see-his-package tight. His green t-shirt hugged him affectionately without looking like he’d dressed from the kids department in an effort to look hot. No, hot came naturally. As much as I wanted a good, thorough look at him headlong, I refused to acknowledge his presence. A girl can only endure so much self-inflicted humiliation in one morning.

  Regardless of how much attention I pretended not to be paying him, I was very much aware of it when he moved toward me. He lowered his head and brought his face next to mine. I could feel his breath on my cheek.

  “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “The coffee probably improved her smell.”

  There is an excellent chance that I blushed at that point. I started to stammer a response, but having blurted out a stream of incoherence before, I swallowed it.

  “If your name is Zoey,” he said, “they’ve called your order three times.”

  I considered denying my name, but the damage was already so bad I couldn’t see trying to repair it. Any chance in hell with paramedic guy was totaled. Call
the insurance company and get a claim started; once the frame is bent, the shop can’t do a thing.

  I murmured a quick “thanks” under my breath, darted in to grab my coffee, and blew out the door before I could do something worse.

  Nice one, Zoey. You did everything short of farting in there. Maybe if you see him again, you can tell him you have a yeast infection.

  I needed the brisk two-block walk to the office in order to further my self-flagellation to the point of depression. Never in my life had I behaved that way in front of a guy—well, maybe in sixth grade. Since then, I wasn’t the smoothest talker, but I could hold my own on witty banter. Today’s display was worthy of a night in bed with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. I didn’t own flannel pajamas, but I was considering stopping at the mall to get some.

  When I walked into the office, Sara glided from her desk to meet me at the door.

  “Good, you’re here,” she said. “The Dickson-Strauss wedding is a week from Saturday and I have a ton of errands to run. I’ll be in and out all day. Can you man the phones in case she’s having a meltdown? You’re better at calming the storm.”

  She paced the office, picking up samples and books, moving coffee cups, peeling Post-it notes from one location and re-sticking them in another. There was a frenetic energy I admired in secret—Sara’s mornings did not look like a zombie movie. She never grunted before her first cup of coffee. Sara was my idol.

  “I have a two o’clock at the bakery, but other than that, I’ve got it. If I have to leave, I’ll forward to my cell.”

  I plopped into my chair, trying to shake off the utter dejection I’d built up for myself. I took a sip of my coffee and managed to burn my mouth.

  “Why do you insist on buying overpriced sugar disguised as coffee when we have a perfectly good coffeemaker here?”

  “Why, indeed.” I shuffled through a pile of papers and pulled what I was going to need for my meeting in an hour. “Probably because my ego is far too large and needs a good downsizing.”

  Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Problem at Ye Old Coffee Shoppe?”