Monster in My Closet

by R. L. Naquin

  That felt far too close to what I recalled, though having been eight, I didn’t have much to remember before that day. It was as if someone had robbed us not only of my mother, but of most of our memories associated with her. For me, that apparently meant memories of my time with Aggie, as well.

  “So, before that day, we knew each other? Why didn’t I see you after that?”

  “You were over here all the time, dear. I wondered why you stopped coming to see me after she was gone. I didn’t want to intrude, so I let it go. I thought you were hiding from the memories, but it looks as though maybe the memories were hiding from you.”

  Every clock in the house went off at that moment. Cuckoos, digital clocks, the oven timer, brass alarm clocks. Never in my life had I heard so much noise in such a confined space.

  A minute later, they all went back to their quiet ticking. I wondered if she ever slept.

  She patted my hand. “It seems our past has a mystery. But that’s for another time. A time, perhaps, when your life isn’t hanging in the balance?”

  “Yes. I do have a more immediate problem.”

  “I thought you might. Maurice wouldn’t say exactly what had frightened him so badly. Only that you needed some protection when you were away.”

  “I have a demon problem.”

  “Oh, demons are quite bad. That is a problem. How can I help, dear?”

  “I need to know how to kill one.”

  She shook her head, her blue-white curls bouncing around her face. “You can’t kill a demon. They aren’t alive.”

  I dropped my head on the table and covered myself with my arms. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, then.”

  She made soothing noises and patted my arm. “You can send him back. That’s always an option.”

  My head popped up. “Send him back?”

  “Of course. What kind of demon is it?”

  “Incubus.”

  Aggie blushed. “Oh, my. Well, we can’t have one of those nasties strutting around town, now can we?”

  “He’s already killed two people because of me.”

  Her face dropped. “No, we can’t have that at all.” She scuttled out of the room and was gone for several minutes. I was left in the bright yellow kitchen, listening to the ticking of hundreds of clocks.

  When she returned, she had an armful of dusty books. She dropped them on the table and rubbed her arms.

  “These are yours,” she said.

  “Mine?”

  “Your mother kept them here. There’s more, but these are most likely to help us.”

  I didn’t know what to say. What was my mother?

  We pored over the books through two more silence-shattering clock announcements of the hour. We hadn’t learned much that was specific to incubi, but I had enough demon lore to work up some kind of solution.

  I’d pictured a ritual involving candles and a big circle drawn on the ground. In truth, it was simpler than that—but it meant getting a better handle on my empathicness. My empathitude? The empath thing.

  “Anything worth doing takes practice,” she said, walking me to the door.

  “I have no idea where to start.”

  “You’ll figure it out. It took Clara some time to adjust to her gifts, too.”

  “Was she a very powerful empath?”

  Aggie laughed. “Oh, my heavens, no. She wasn’t an empath at all. She was more of a healer. It made her quite unpopular with the local reapers of the time. Bad for their business.”

  At the gate I turned and looked back. A white rosebush grew in the corner near the house.

  “Salamanders,” I said.

  Her face lit up. “Yes!”

  “I played with them by that rosebush. They were on fire.”

  “They’re elementals. But they were very careful not to burn your fingers.”

  The memory was clear and sharp, as if it had happened the day before. “I remember. I made piles of dried leaves and they would race in and set them on fire. Mommy hated that game.”

  Where had my memories gone? And why did this one sneak in?

  Aggie nudged me out the gate. “Time enough for that later, dear. Right now, you have a sex demon to vanquish.”

  “If I can find him.”

  “If you don’t, he’ll find you, no doubt.”

  That thought chilled me.

  “Thank you for your help, Aggie.”

  “Anytime, dear. Come back whenever you need me. But don’t forget to come back when you don’t, too.”

  She hugged me and stood back to look at me. “Beautiful. Just like I knew you would be.” She turned away, still smiling, but not before I saw the moisture in her eyes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I gathered up my things to leave for work the next morning, nothing was where I had left it.

  I was sure I’d left the sample book on the kitchen counter with my purse. Neither was there. I looked everywhere. Circling through the house, I came back to the kitchen counter. Sometimes when you lose something, it’s not really lost at all, and it ends up right where you knew it was in the first place.

  Not this time. But what I hadn’t noticed before was a small, multicolored bag with a gold clasp. I picked it up and opened it. It weighed hardly anything and the inside was also a patchwork of colored fabric. It was beautiful. I stuck my hand in and pulled out my cell phone.

  That was weird. I hadn’t seen it in there. I stuck my hand in again. Out came my wallet. I repeated the trick until I had a large pile of crap on the counter—tissues, mints, my appointment book, a banana, two handfuls of stray receipts.

  There was no way a fraction of that should have fit in the tiny purse.

  I examined the bag more closely, running my fingers over the small squares of fabric held together by the tiniest, most even stitches I’d ever seen.

  I couldn’t help myself. I giggled.

  I’d complained about my purse in front of Molly a few nights ago. Last night, I left my sample book next to my purse.

  I read The Shoemaker and the Elves when I was a kid. I’d been elved. Or brownied.

  I put everything in the bag, still marveling at how well it fit. I was going to have to order a new sample book. Those didn’t come cheap. A bag like this, however, was worth a warehouse of sample books.

  It was priceless.

  I wanted to thank her, but the house was oddly silent. I considered the story of the shoemaker and the elves. When the shoemaker’s wife thanked the elves by making them clothes, they left. Was there a brownie etiquette book that warned against thanking them? Getting advice from old fairy tales was probably not the best way to handle things. I would have to ask Maurice what to do.

  Strange that he wasn’t around either.

  I turned to leave when another thought occurred to me. How much would the bag hold? I picked up one of the dusty tomes I’d lugged home from Aggie’s place. Brushing it off smeared the cover and made clumps of dirt, so I blew on it too. A cloud rose up and choked me. I hated the idea of putting the dirty thing in my pristine new bag. Whapping at it with dishtowel did a better job. Satisfied it was the best I could do, I compared it to the size of the purse. You are seriously demented if you think this will go in there, Zoey.

  I shrugged. Stranger things had happened over the last week. I opened the clasp on the bag and shoved. The book disappeared.

  What’s more, the weight of the purse didn’t change an ounce.

  Best. Present. Ever.

  Feeling less encumbered than I had in years, I headed out the front door.

  “Have a good day,” I said over my shoulder. I had a strong feeling I’d been watched the whole time.

  * * *

  I was the first one into the office. That hardly ev
er happened. I glanced up at the clock and saw it was five after nine.

  I flipped on the lights, took the calls off forward, started a pot of coffee for thrifty Sara, and settled into my desk with my overpriced cup of sugar and caffeine. I had a long list of vendors to call. I’d never had a client die before, but I had some experience in undoing a wedding. Sometimes weddings were cancelled. It happened.

  I could have waited for somebody to call me from Helen’s family, but there seemed no point. The sooner I made the calls, the better chance I had of getting some or all of the deposits back. Not that Steve needed the money. Still. It was my job. If I didn’t cancel everything, that would be a reflection on my business. I didn’t want to risk my reputation simply because it was an awkward situation. The likelihood of Steve or another member of the party having the wherewithal to cancel anytime soon was slim. Better to have it done before it occurred to him to call and ask me to do it.

  It was a truly awful morning. I poured every ounce of concentration I had into thinking of “my client” rather than “Helen.” I had to depersonalize or I’d never get through it.

  The first call would be the worst, so I thought it best to get it over with. Moira had spent a lot of time with Helen and me, planning the cake. I liked Moira, and I knew she liked Helen. This wouldn’t be easy. I dialed her number, feeling queasy.

  “Zoey, wonderful to hear from you!” She was always so cheerful. I hated to be the one to kill that cheer.

  “Not so wonderful, today, Moira. I’m afraid I have to make a cancellation.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Did someone get cold feet?”

  I swallowed hard. Come on, Zoey. It’s just business. You can do this. “Helen…” I choked. Nope. Not easy at all. “Helen Cranston passed away yesterday.”

  Moira was quiet on the other end.

  “Moira?”

  “I’m here. Sorry. That’s so awful. I’m having trouble understanding it. Was she sick?”

  “Not that anyone knew.” I thought about poor Steve blaming himself and having to be dragged from the ambulance. No. She wasn’t sick. But I knew a bastard incubus who was sick. “Anyway, I’m really sorry, Moira. I guess Red Velvet Death by Chocolate will never make it to the menu.” I stopped. What a morbid name for a cake, now that Helen was gone.

  “Don’t be silly,” Moira said. “I’m putting it on the menu with her name on it. It’s the least I can do. I really liked her. Don’t you worry, Zoey. I’ll cancel it and send you the deposit back to give to her fiancé.”

  When I hung up, it took me a few minutes to pull myself together. If every call I had to make was even a fraction of the difficulty of the first, I wasn’t going to make it. At twenty after ten, Sara finally showed up.

  “Good morning!” she said as she sashayed through the door.

  “Morning, sleepyhead. Decided to take it slow today?”

  She glanced at her watch, surprised. “Huh. I guess I’m running behind.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and set it on her desk without further explanation.

  I came in late all the time. Unless I had an appointment, I didn’t see the point to opening the door promptly at nine a.m. It wasn’t like our business encouraged spontaneous walk-ins. But Sara always came in early anyway.

  She took off her coat and hung it on the coat rack.

  “Your shirt is untucked in the back,” I said.

  She patted herself down and shoved the blouse into the waistband of her skirt, satisfied. Her hair, though not messy by any stretch of the imagination, wasn’t as neat as usual either.

  “Anything you want to tell me?” I leaned back in my chair, bemused.

  “About what?”

  She seemed bewildered—as if her appearance and behavior were nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Nothing. What have you got going today?”

  “Not a lot. Still have to finish the birdseed favors for Gail. I was thinking of cutting out early today. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “They’re done. I finished two days ago. I told you.” I was torn between amusement and worry over her distracted state.

  “Oh.” She sat in her chair and rummaged through her purse. “I guess I forgot.”

  “I guess.” Maybe all she needed was a good night’s sleep.

  She pulled out a tube of lipstick and mirror and hummed while she touched up her lips. “What are you up to today?”

  “Canceling vendors.” I flipped through my Rolodex—another dinosaur Sara often harassed me about—and looked for the number of the caterers Helen had chosen.

  Sara looked up from her compact. “Cancellation? Who’s canceling? We can’t have a cancellation.”

  I felt better. This was more like the Sara I was used to, not the distracted, humming Sara. “Helen Cranston died yesterday.” There. I blurted it right out without wincing too much. Maybe this would get easier.

  Sara was silent. I glanced up from my phone number search to see her frozen with her lipstick hand hanging halfway to her mouth.

  “I just talked to her last week,” she said. Her hands fluttered into activity, capping the lipstick and tucking it with the compact into her purse. She was up and next to my desk in seconds, her hand held out.

  “Give me the file. I’ll help you make the calls. Crap, crap, crap.”

  There’s an old saying that goes “Tragedy breeds efficiency.” Okay, so maybe there is no saying that goes like that. But there should be. It snapped Sara out of whatever fog she’d been in, and my day’s work was cut in half.

  Misery loves company—now that one is real. It made a shitty morning a little less shitty having her there to help. In a matter of hours, we managed to cancel all the carefully laid plans it had taken me months to put together. We also were fortunate in getting back most of the deposits. There seemed to be some sort of unwritten “bridal-death clause” I hadn’t been aware of. It wasn’t as if I’d had cause to know about it before.

  The only holdout was the catering company. In their case, I couldn’t really blame them. Helen had requested some very expensive caviar that had to be pre-ordered. The caterers weren’t getting their deposit back on the goods, so they weren’t willing to give it to us.

  Around one, we decided to call it a day. We’d done everything we could for Steve Welsh, checked in with Gail and tied up a few other loose ends. It was an awful day, but it made me remember why Sara was my best friend. I’d been so busy lately, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed spending time with her—even under such lousy circumstances.

  Sara’s arms were full when the phone rang, so I picked it up.

  “Happily Ever After, this is Zo—”

  “What sort of business are you running over there?”

  Alma Dickson was the absolute last person I wanted to deal with that day. “Mrs. Dickson, how are you? What seems to be the trouble?”

  Her voice grated in my ear like girders scraped together on a construction site. “I understand the menu has errors, the linens are wrong and something has to be done about these lazy bridesmaids. I won’t have my daughter’s wedding ruined because of your incompetence.”

  It was too much. The day was one horrible moment after another, and this harpy was going to be the reason I snapped. I opened my mouth to speak, then slammed it shut again. I felt like a guppy, but I had no appropriate words to give her. I had plenty of other words, but none that were appropriate.

  Sara saw my distress from across the room and jogged over. “Dickson?” she asked in a whisper. I nodded and she took the phone from me.

  “Mrs. Dickson, how lovely to hear from you. This is Sara. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that we caught the problems with the caterer before any harm was done, and I changed the linens as you requested.” She paused, listening. “Yes, of course. I was over there yesterday.” She rolled her ey
es. “No, as we discussed, that silver pattern was unavailable. If you’ll take a look in the notebook I gave you, you’ll see the pattern you actually chose.”

  Sara wandered back to her desk and sat down. “Absolutely. Roses are lovely, but I’m sure I can get the florist to add some gardenias to the bouquets.”

  Sara went quiet again, a sure sign that Mama Dickson was off on a new tirade. Sara threw an eraser at me and made a strangling motion with her hands. “I understand, completely. Bridesmaids can be difficult. But controlling them isn’t something I can do for you, Mrs. Dickson. However, you’ll be happy to know we’ve taken the birdseed favors into our own hands. They’re nearly finished.” She winked at me.

  I tried not to think about the crazy bitch dressed all in black and sneaking into our office after hours with a box of cockroaches or dead rats.

  The conversation went on for some time. Usually I was responsible for calming a difficult client, but this woman, especially on this day, was far beyond my capabilities. I worked out people’s emotions. Sara knew how to schmooze. I was infinitely grateful to have Sara taking care of Grand High Pubah Councilwoman Dickson.

  Sara hung up the phone and groaned. “Good Lord, that woman is a nasty piece of work. I’ll be so glad to have this wedding behind us.”

  “She’s all sorted out?”

  “There wasn’t anything to sort. I think she makes stuff up as an excuse to throw her weight around.”

  “Well, she’s lost my vote next election day.”

  Sara ran her fingers through her hair. “God help us if the business she brings in gives us any more mothers like her.”

  I shook my head. “She’s one of a kind. I doubt there’s anyone in Marin County as difficult as she is.”

  “Don’t say that. You’ll jinx us.”

  “Lunch?” I asked as we cleared up our desks.

  “I think I’m going to head home. I feel like I’m coming down with something.” She did look a little gray.