by Sophie Kearing
“Hello?” I croak.
“Oh… did I wake you? It’s nine a.m.”
“I know, Mom. I had a rough night. Cara had another… episode.”
A judgmental pause, and then: “An episode, Margaret?”
I shift under my bedding, which seems to be imbued with the very essence of sleeplessness. I spent last night watching over my daughter, who’d suffered one of her nocturnal fits and made me promise to stay with her. Around midnight, her eyelids finally dropped. She slumbered motionlessly as I fidgeted through the darkest hours and into those of gradual sunlight.
When Cara woke, I dressed her in the costume that we’d slowly curated all month: white tights, a pale pink leotard and tutu, and a black shrug and ballet slippers. I affixed a bun atop her head with bobby pins and sprayed it with Elnett. She ate breakfast just like a ballerina, too, barely touching her oatmeal and drinking only half her orange juice. I put extra grapes and string cheese in her sack lunch and dropped her off at school. Desperate for a nap, I drove like an asshole all the way home.
“What Cara’s been going through aren’t episodes,” my mother rants. “You should know that more than anyone. You went through the exact same thing when you were a girl.”
I expel a belligerent gust at the ceiling and pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, Mom, I didn’t.”
“You just don’t remember because you were so young and it only happened a few times before I found a way to end it. Thank god for Oddo.”
“I am not going to run to some spiritualist hack just because my daughter’s having a rough patch.”
“A rough patch? Margaret, it’s been six months! How long are you gonna let the poor girl suffer?”
I let the seconds tick by in strained silence.
“It’s Halloween, Maggie,” my mother says quietly. “They’ll be stronger tonight than any other night of the year . . . . Who knows the damage they’ll do.”
An hour later, I pull up in front of Oddo’s Oddities. The large front window—with its yellowed glass and its dusty Tibetan bowls, gemstones, and tarot decks—is an absolute eyesore. I’m legitimately embarrassed that an establishment like this, irreverent in its ridiculous offerings and blatant unkemptness, looms on the Main Street of my hometown. When I enter the dim, cluttered space, I’m not sure what displeases me more:
The oppressive stink of incense.
Or the way Oddo immediately takes my hands in his.
“My dear Maggie,” he purrs.
“Hi, Oddo,” I say, hoping that he releases my hands from his clammy grasp before I have
to force the issue. “I came to see if you have something for—”
“Cara’s ‘night terrors.’” He winks. “Your mother called me earlier. I have just the thing for you.”
He leads me into a room filled with some really quality merchandise: shrunken heads, cast iron cauldrons, the works. He hands me a small box.
“Do not open it until you need it,” he says dramatically. “And remember: You won’t see these…” He gestures at the box. “…but you will see them.”
“That makes no sense.”
He pats my forearm.
I pay an ungodly amount for the mysterious box (and the complete lack of information). I lock it in my trunk and wear a faint smile as I shop for groceries, fill up on gas, and stop in the library to select a stack of board books for Cara—all tasks I would normally consider mildly burdensome. Today, however, I do them with relish, as they’re putting blessed minutes between me and the moment I have to handle my strange new purchase again.
When I get home, I deliberate about where to put the box. On a shelf in the closet seems too remote and under the bed seems like it’s asking for trouble. Nestled atop the unused side of my bed seems too intimate. So I clear away most of the items stored in my nightstand and lower the box into the drawer.
I put on my coat and grab my daughter’s. I also scoop up her sneakers and pumpkin pail. I collect Cara from school and drive her to a particularly festive neighborhood for some trick-or-treating. She’s heartbroken that the chilly weather requires her to wear a coat over her beautiful costume, but then she sees that her sneakers are in the back seat. She can either fuss about having to wear a coat and risk drawing my attention to the sneakers, or keep quiet and hope that I’ll allow her to trick-or-treat in her beloved ballet slippers. She decides not to fuss. She quietly dons her coat, takes up her pumpkin, and slides out of the car. We have a blast crunching down the leaf-strewn sidewalk and visiting people’s zealously decorated porches. Cara’s pumpkin fills up with miniature chocolate bars, lollipops, and other sugary delights. After only an hour or so, she makes noises of being hungry. I suspect that her feet, adorable as they are in those black slippers, have gotten too cold for her to tolerate. I swoop her up into my arms and carry her to the car.
Once back at home, I prepare her favorite dinner: mac and cheese with a side of candied baby carrots. We eat our fill, then settle on the couch for the Halloween episodes of network shows we like to watch. Soon it’s time to change into our pajamas. Cara squeals with delight when she sees the colorful board books I’ve procured, and I read her four of them before I turn out her light and retire to my bedroom.
I hover between wakeful stillness and bothered slumber. Around ten, Cara’s earsplitting scream gives me a start. I yank open my nightstand drawer and pull out the box. I lift its lid.
I stare in disbelief. “Th—there’s nothing in here!”
Another frenzied shriek permeates the house.
“I’m coming, baby!” I yell, scrambling off my bed.
The box falls to the floor. There’s a leaden thud, then a layered, metallic clattering across the hardwood.
Bullets.
I dash into my closet, jab at the safe’s buttons, and extract my gun. Sweat blooms from every inch of my body as I crawl around, waving my hand over the floor in search of the bullets.
“MOMMY!” Cara cries.
Shakily loading the gun, I shout, “Mommy’s coming!”
I pound down the hallway and explode into my daughter’s room. A short, black figure is crouched on Cara’s chest, pinning her shoulders to the mattress. Its mouth is arranged in a grotesque smile, viscous liquid dripping from its jagged teeth. Another creature pushes down on my daughter’s forehead with veiny hands. When Cara emits another agonized howl, the hateful beasts inhale her outbreath.
I rip myself out of my horrified paralysis and shoot.
I shoot again.
The impact knocks the creatures from the bed, inky blood spraying across the room. With each putrid ounce that leaves them, the beasts shrink. I gather my trembling daughter into my arms.
“You’re safe now, baby,” I whisper. I brush the wet strands from her forehead and kiss her. “You’re safe.”
The creatures wither and moan until all that’s left of them are foul black pools. Daybreak finds me still in Cara’s bed, too exhausted to move. Apricot rays filter in through the sheer curtains and wash away the beasts’ oily leavings. Thank god. I’m too tired to clean up their mess.
At nine a.m. the phone rings. I don’t even have to look at the Caller I.D. “Good morning, Mom.”
There’s caution in her voice when she says, “Good morning, Mags. You sound like you got some sleep.”
“Off and on, yeah.”
“So. Is it done?”
“Yes,” I say, drawing my daughter more tightly to me. “It’s done. And Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For pushing me to see Oddo yesterday, and for going to him when I was a girl.”
“You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. We mothers have to do whatever it takes for our daughters. I just shudder to think what would’ve happened if we didn’t have Oddo.”
“Jesus, don’t even say that. I mean, what would either of us have done without him? We’re lucky to have his shop in our town; we really are. Thank god for Oddo.”
Sophie Kearing is a Halloween fanatic. She loves going to pumpkin farms, watching scary movies, and using it all as inspiration for her creepy fiction. Her short stories have been picked up by Mojave Heart Review, Paper Angel Press, Horror Tree, Left Hand Publishing, Ellipsis Zine, Jolly Horror Press, New Pop Lit, Me First Magazine, and other publications. Sophie is an avid member of the #WritingCommunity on Twitter and would love to connect with you at @SophieKearing.