Need np-1

by Carrie Jones

  "Uh-huh." I let her have a second because I just know she must be trying to process that. Then I go on.

  "And I feel squigg-ley, like I do whenever he shows up-" "Okay. Nick's there, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "You put him on. I will be there as soon as I can, okay? I'm coming now."

  "Okay."

  I give the phone to Nick. He says, "Yep. I know. I know."

  Then he holds it out from his body. "It know what kind.

  "Nick? Can they all come in if one has been in before?"

  "No. They're waiting outside."

  "Can he come in the room if he's been in the house?" Terror hobbles me.

  "I don't know."

  He snarls and I don't know what to do, what to say, so I just say his name. "Nick?"

  His voice is warm and aching all at the same time. "I'm trying hard not to change, Zara. But when people are in danger, I change."

  "And I'm in danger?"

  He nods.

  I touch his back. I'm such a mess I don't even remember walking toward him. The muscles ripple and move beneath my fingers, like the fibers are struggling to stay themselves.

  "Then change!" I order him.

  "I don't want to scare you."

  "I'm already scared!" I shriek. "I just don't want you to get hurt!"

  "Me? It's not me I'm worried about. It's you."

  A hand pounds on my bedroom door. The entire thing shakes in the door frame. Oh God. Oh God.

  Nick swings around. His eyes fill with pain and grief. He rips off the sweatshirt and rushes to the other side of the bed where I can't see him.

  "Whatever you do, Zara,do not let him in. Whatever he says. You can't." He snarls and there is a knock at the door, a gentle, lovely sounding knock. I step farther away from it.

  The pants Nick has been wearing fly across the room. I catch them in my arms.

  He keeps trying to talk. "I might be able to take him one on one in here, but I'd rather not chance it. He's stronger than the rest of them, and this isn't my habitat, you know…"

  "Nick?" I whisper.

  A pillow flies over the bed.

  "We just have to make it till Betty gets here. Just hold out till then, Zara." His words rush out and the knocking on the door muffles them. But they can't muffle the fierce growl that escapes his throat, half warning, half battle cry, all wolf.

  "Oh God," I whisper.

  Someone knocks lightly against the door.

  "Zara, let me in."

  The wolf growls and stands between me and the door. His fur, thick and full, seems to bristle against the threat.

  He said there were at least five. One is here in the house with us, but as long as I don't open the door we'll be safe.

  Why would Nick think I'd open the door? He must think I am the most naive human ever. There is no way I'm opening that door to let the pixie thing in.

  But what about the other ones?

  I peek out the window, moving the shade just an inch and spot two dark figures in the snow. The snow shovels down from a grayish white sky, billowing toward them, and everything seems almost peaceful.

  The knock comes at the door again, a sweet knock, like when my mom would knock when she needed to wake me and my friends at a slumber party. I stare at Nick. He crouches down, ready to spring.

  They are trying to trick me. I won't let them. I'll ignore the door and I'll watch the ones outside.

  Turning back to the window, I shriek. A face hovers, pale and wild eyed, attached to a body. I leap back and shriek even more. The shade flops down to obscure my view.

  I sit in the middle of my bed and pull my knees to my chest, but I hold on to the poker. I will use it.

  Pacifism is overrated sometimes.

  "This is not happening," I chant. "This is not happening."

  Something scrapes against the window and I am so sure it's not a tree branch. It is something scary that wants in.

  Nick circles the room, patrolling, back and forth, back and forth from window to door, window to door.

  His lips pull back, revealing his teeth. Another light knuckle knock sounds against the door. Nick bares his teeth even more, all the way back to the gums.

  "Zara?" The voice comes, deep, a little hoarse. It's familiar and it's not the voice from the woods.

  My heart leaps up, and not because of fear.

  "Zara, sweetie?"

  It can't be. It can't.

  I sit up straighter and swing my legs off the couch.

  The candle flame on the bureau flickers, then catches a draft and leaps to twice its size.

  I answer with a whisper and a prayer, a hope.

  "Daddy?"

  Vitricophobia fear of a stepfather

  It can't be. There is no way, but it sounds just like him. My tongue seems to stick to my throat and my chest squeezes tightly, but I manage to say it again.

  "Daddy?"

  Nick's growling goes out of control. His body shakes with it. It rattles. My body rattles too.

  A wolf growling is not something you want to be within ten feet of, and I'm much closer than that and it's scary. It's really scary, but not as scary as what is on the other side of that door.

  My dad died. And yet my dad is speaking. I can hear him over the growls. I can. I can hear him somehow, right behind the door.

  My feet silently move across the floor.

  "Daddy, is that you?" I whisper.

  He hears me somehow.

  "Open the door, Zara honey, and let me in."

  I want to. I really want to, but shock makes my limbs slow and heavy. Then Nick smashes up onto his hind legs and presses his front paws against the door, blocking me.

  "Move, Nick," I beg and step closer, lean in, put my hands flat against the door, like I can somehow feel through to the other side and touch my dad's face, feel his skin warm again, pulsing with life. But I can't.

  Of course I can't. The cold wood against my hands seems so unfair.

  "You can't be here." My voice sounds tiny and weak. My heart thumps in my chest.

  If I opened that door would he be there? Would he smile at me and show his dimples? Would his cheeks be scruffy because he needed a shave? Would he hug me? All I've wanted all these months was for him to be alive.

  But I'dseen him on the floor. I'd seen him in the coffin. And you can feel it when someone has died, you can feel that his soul is gone, just gone, the emptiness of his body. But if werewolves and pixies can be real, then maybe this can be happening. Maybe my dad can actually be here, right here, just a few inches of wood away from me.

  I sway against the door. My shoulder presses into Nick's side. "You can't. You can't be here."

  "I am, Zara. Let me in. I'll explain," he says.

  He died. He died. I saw him die. The water on the floor. His face cold beneath my fingers.

  But what if he didn't? "Daddy?"

  "I'm right here, baby."

  Lumps form in my throat, going all the way down into the core of me.

  It's his voice. His. Right there. I reach toward the doorknob but I don't get to turn it.

  Nick smashes at me with his head, pushing against my lower jaw and cheek, like a blow. His muzzle moves my head away from the door. He presses his face in between me and the wood. Fur gets in my mouth. I spit it out and push at him.

  "That's my dad. My dad." I slap the door. "He's on the other side. The pixies will get him."

  Nick shows me his teeth.

  "I can't lose him again, Nick."

  The wolf snarls like he's ready to bite. My head jerks back and away, but then I steady myself.

  "Get… out… of… the… way."

  Pushing against his thick neck, I slam my hands against him over and over again, pummeling him. He doesn't budge.

  "Move!" I order. "Move."

  "Zara, is there a wolf in there with you? Do not trust him," my dad's voice says, calmly, really calmly.

  I grab a fistful of fur and freeze. All at once it hits me that something
is not right. My dad would never be calm if I was in my bedroom with a wolf. He'd be stressed and screaming, breaking the door down, kicking it in like he did once when I was really little and had accidentally locked myself in the bathroom and couldn't get the lock out of the bolt because it was so old. He'd kicked that door down, splintering the wood, clutching me to him. He'd kissed my forehead over and over again.

  "I'd never let anything happen to you, princess," he'd said. "You're my baby."

  My dad would be kicking the door in. My dad would be saving me.

  "Let me in," he says. "Zara…"

  Letting go of Nick, I stagger backward. My hands fly up to my mouth, covering it.

  Nick stops snarling at me and wags his fluffy tail.

  How would my dad know that it is a wolf in here and not a dog? How would he know that it isn't pixies?

  I shudder. Nick pounds next to me, pressing his side against my legs. I drop my hands and plunge my fingers into his fur, burying them there, looking for something. Maybe comfort. Maybe warmth. Maybe strength. Maybe all three.

  "You're dead," I say and a sob breaks through my chest, exploding out of me. "You can't be here."

  "I'm not dead, Zara."

  I move away from Nick, grab a pillow instead, clutching it against me like a shield. The memory of my dad on the floor assails me. I see the water bottle rolling across the wood. I see his mouth, loose, open, aching for air.

  "Yes, you are. You're dead," I say. "You left me. I saw you. You left me. And now I'm here in Maine where everything is crazy and you can't run at night and it's cold."

  "Zara, let me in. I'll explain."

  I throw theAnnual Report on Human Rights 2009 at the door. It wallops against the wood. Nick ducks and scrambles out of the way. I grab another annual report and smash it against the doorknob.

  "You liar! You can't explain. You can't! You left me!"

  Sobbing, heaving, I race at the door and hit it with my fists.

  "You left."

  He was the best hugger, my dad. He was an encompassing safe hugger, like a giant teddy bear, only warmer.

  "Just let me in, Zara." He sounds angry now, the way he sounded when I talked back to my mom. He sounds just like my dad.

  One step forward, another. Nick's wolf voice lets out a low rumbling growl. I hold my finger to my lips, trying to tell him to be quiet.

  My fingers tremble but they still unlock the door.

  "Open the door for me, Zara," he says.

  Nick nudges me away from the door and I let him.

  "No," I say. "If you were really my father you could open it yourself."

  There is no answer.

  I knew that. I knew there would be no answer.

  Nick nuzzles my hand. My fingers plunge into the fur.

  "Why don't you open the door then?" I ask. "It's unlocked."

  Something shrieks inside of me, something violent and desperate and real.

  "Go ahead!" I scream, wild and lost, alone but not alone. Nick pushes his side in front of me, blocking me from the door and whatever is beyond it. "Why aren't you, huh? Why aren't you opening the goddamn door?"

  I stare at the doorknob. It doesn't move. He knows he can't fool me.

  Nick was right. Pixies can only go into homes and places they've been invited into or places they've been in before.

  My stepdad has been in this room a million times. If it were him he would have just walked right in the moment I unlocked the door.

  But it isn't him. He isn't magically back from the dead.

  It's someone else. Or something else, something that has been in the house but not in the room. It's something that sounds just like my dad.

  "Just come to me, Zara. I need you to come to me."

  "What?"

  "My need… I can't hold it back any longer… it's huge."

  "What arc you?" I ask, staggering backward, still staring at the doorknob. "What the hell are you?"

  Whatever he is roars with rage. He storms up and down the stairs and it sounds as if he has summoned a tornado to trash Grammy Betty's house. Books crash. Glass breaks. I close my eyes and cover my ears.

  Nick growls.

  I crumple on my bed. For a second, I believed that what I wanted more than anything in the world had come true. For a second, I believed that my dad was back. But he isn't. He's gone again. He's really, truly gone and I know it. I know I'll never see him again no matter how much I want to.

  The candle in me has blown out and I'm afraid, really, really afraid, because my biggest fear is true. I have to live my life without my dad, my running partner, the guy who taught me about Amnesty and sang John Lennon songs really off-key.

  I sob and clutch my stuffed bunny. Nick leaps up on my bed and squashes his body against mine, nuzzling my face with his muzzle until I lift it enough for him to lick away my tears.

  While the pixie rages downstairs, I wrap my arms around Nick's furry body and cry into him. My shoulders quake from the effort of it. He whimpers once or twice and tries to lick my face some more, but mostly he watches the door, and eventually I stop with the pathetic sobbing stuff and just keep crying.

  And eventually the crying stops too because I am hugging myself against Nick, hoping that everything isn't real, that it is somehow a dream, but if that were true, it means that I would lose Nick, too. It would mean he isn't real, and I really, really want him to be real. I want that even though I know that I'll probably lose him, like I lost my dad and my mom, like I lost myself.

  Necrophobia fear of death

  He's human again when he wakes me up with just a small kiss on my forehead.

  I open my eyes to see him smiling above me.

  Groaning, I put my hands over my face. He's pulled the shades and bright light streams into the room. I moan.

  "Did I fall asleep? Really? How could I fall asleep?"

  "Stress and crying knocks people out. You conked out once the pixie stopped destroying everything downstairs."

  "Oh." I touch my cheeks. "You licked me."

  He laughs and leans over, giving a tiny tongue swipe to my hand. "You're very lickable."

  I try to hit him. He laughs harder and grabs my hands.

  "No fair! Mere mortal against werewolf," I complain.

  "Fine."

  He lets go, but first he kisses my fingers, each of them. I sigh happily.

  Then I come to my senses and sit up.

  "The pixies?"

  "Gone," he says, standing up and stretching. He's put on clothes again. His entire body makes cracking sounds, one vertebrae at a time. "I can't smell them."

  I nod like that makes perfect sense, which it doesn't, but it isn't like I'm some expert in magical creatures.

  My stomach sinks.

  "He pretended to be my dad," I say.

  Nick's eyes soften. "That must have been hard."

  I swallow. My mouth tastes terrible, like old, burned wood.

  "You outsmarted him, though," he says. "I'm proud of you."

  I try to smile but I can't quite do it.

  He grabs my hand. "Let's go see if the phones are working, okay? Maybe find something to eat?"

  "Is Betty here?"

  "Not yet."

  "Do you think she's okay?"

  "The roads are bad, Zara. Unless she changed it would be hard for her to get here quickly."

  "Unless she changed," I repeat. My fingers wrap around his. They like the feeling, safe, nestled in his crevices. "Is it safe?"

  "I'm with you, Zara. I promise you, you'll be safe."

  I want to believe him, but I'm not sure I can. Is there really anything that's safe?

  We brave ourselves up enough to go downstairs and it's awful, so awful. Maybe only one pixie made his way in, but he's done so much damage, it's hard to believe he couldn't have been a hundred or more. "it looks like I had a party. A really big, really good party," I say, stopping on the middle of the stairs to survey the damage. "Oh God, Betty is going to kill me."

  The couch i
s all Hipped over. The white leather chair has soot smeared into it. Papers and books are scattered about the floor. Pixie dust coats the cushions of the couch.

  Nick grabs my hand and pulls me down the stairs. "It's okay. We'll deal with it. It won't be bad."

  He lets go of my hand and takes an end of the couch. "Let's flip this first."

  Together, we turn the couch right side up and push it back up against the wall. Nick blows the dust off his hands. "Disgusting."

  "It could have been worse. He didn't slash the pillows or anything," I say, but my voice sounds fake.

  It fools Mick, though. "Right."

  We start picking things up. I check my cell phone and the regular phone to see if they work yet. They don't. We open up the door and snow tumbles into the house. Any pixie prints are long buried.

  My breath catches.

  The world has a fairy-tale, Nutcracker, Christmas look. The snow covers the trees, turning them white and magical. Nick's MINI is completely blanketed. It seems beautiful and orderly, and natural and safe, the opposite of Betty's house.

  "We're snowed in," I announce.

  He sniffs the air. "It's a big storm. It'll probably last all afternoon, and not end until tomorrow morning."

  I tromp across the living room and try to radio Betty. I get Josie, the dispatcher, who says, "She set out for home two hours ago."

  "Oh, God."

  "No. Don't you go worrying. I'll try to call her up on the other channel. There's been no word on the Dahlberg boy. The storm's supposed to last through tonight, and the roads are bad, so it might just be taking her a little bit of time. And the satellite's down, too, so some of the other channels aren't working."

  I press the button on the radio. "Okay. Don't tire yourself out, Josie."

  She laughs and it comes through the static loud and clear. "I'm not dead yet, Zara. I still got some life in me."

  We all do, I think, and I go back to trying to clean up the living room.

  We clean forever it seems and finally both our stomachs growl louder than the wind.

  "I'm starving. You hungry?" he asks.

  I pat my belly. "Yep. You think Betty's okay?"

  He hugs me. "I think she's okay."

  He strides into the kitchen and grabs some eggs out of the refrigerator, while I move the rest of the contents outside into the snow so they won't go bad.