Page 31 of Play Nice

My sisters continue to ignore my calls. I leave voicemails.

I read. Turn the pages too fast. Get paper cuts. Freakishly deep ones. I lick my wounds and carry on.

I read.

The third and final call I made was to a woman in Connecticut named Mariella.

“Hello, darling,” she said when she answered the phone. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

I learned Mariella was a psychic medium who was the head of a group she called “The New England Occultist Collective.” She explained she’d met Father Bernard while investigating a haunting in the Hudson Valley in 2003.

“Most people find the supernatural very overwhelming,” she said. “But I was born into a house of belief. The sky is blue, the grass is green, the veil is thin. It seems rather silly to me to deny the existence of other possibilities. Seems far-fetched that we would be all alone in this world.”

Mariella’s views made sense to me. She was the first person to present the situation in a way that I could metabolize. She was warm and friendly, and I liked her immediately.

“I am overwhelmed,” I admitted. “Whatever’s here in the house with us, I fear it.”

“Of course. We fear what we do not understand. I won’t sugarcoat it, darling.

Not all that moves in parallel to our reality moves with good intent.

Try to think of it as this. Everything that exists, exists in need.

In want. We operate with our own motives.

Some more selfish than others. It sounds to me like you share your home with something that may be rather… egocentric.”

THE SELFLESS STARVE

PICK MY TEETH

WITH THEIR BONES

I laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Mariella told me she would come by that weekend, along with a few members of her collective.

Thankfully, it was a weekend the girls were with their father.

I got off the phone with Mariella, and for the first time since I moved in, I felt like I could exhale.

That night, the girls and I had breakfast for dinner. We flipped pancakes to Fleetwood Mac, sang into spoons.

Thunder only happens when it’s raining…

I woke up in the night to a crack of thunder. A brutish summer storm.

At the sound, my eyes flipped open. It took a moment for me to realize I couldn’t move.

It felt as though something heavy was sitting on my chest. I found it difficult to breathe. My entire body was rigid, with pins and needles up and down my limbs.

I attempted to relax back into sleep, but a white flash of lightning warned of more thunder and put me on edge.

There’s something terrible about that time between lightning and thunder. That cruel purgatory of anticipation, waiting for the universe to scream.

I realized I still couldn’t move. I’d never experienced sleep paralysis before, but my sister Helen had. She went through a spell of it in her teenage years, so I knew what it was. I didn’t immediately panic.

Not until something moved in my peripheral vision. My eyes followed the movement.

The door to my room. It swung open. Slowly. So slowly.

I expected to see one of my daughters. Cici.

Instead, there was a hulking shadow. It took up the entirety of the doorway.

A voice in my head. Don’t look.

Sweat drenched my hair, my back.

Don’t look.

It was there. It was there.

The house shook. Thunder.

It stepped inside. Inside the room. Inside the sound of the thunder, to hide its own noise. Its step.

Don’t look.

How could I not?

The shadow moved in such a way that I knew it wasn’t a shadow. It prowled, crawling along the walls. Into the dark spaces. The corner.

And shadows don’t have tails.

Close your eyes.

It was in my head, but it was also standing in the corner of the room, watching me.

Another flash of lightning, and I saw it.

The beast of the house. The demon.

In that split second of light.

A thing of pure nightmare. The face of hell.

Of every hideous thing in the world, not just in aesthetics, but in spirit.

Roadkill. Swarming bugs. Prey being caught in the jaws of a predator.

Open wounds. Charred bones. Parts no longer connected to the body they once belonged to.

War. Wreckage. Death. Every image you’ve ever seen that lingers behind your eyelids, that discomfort you cannot shake.

The things that get inside and reassemble you. Make you uglier at your core.

Drive you crazy.

Don’t look.

Those big milky eyes staring back at me. Red slits for pupils. Gaping, drooling mouth open, crowded with sharp teeth glinting in the brief, bright flare…

I shut my eyes.

The thunder came.

Darkness. Not sleep.

When I finally opened my eyes, it was morning. My alarm clock squawking.

“Some storm last night,” I said to the girls over toast.

They hadn’t heard it.

When we left the house, the ground was dry—as if it hadn’t rained. As if there’d been no storm at all.

—

It’s raining now. It’s been raining on and off for I don’t know how long. I’ve lost track.

Lightning. Thunder.

I ordered a pizza that I have no appetite for. It goes cold on the coffee table in front of me.

I read. Turn the pages. Turn, turn, turn, turn, turn.

Mariella arrived Saturday morning, sweeping into the house dressed in a satin blouse with matching trousers, as if she were attending a glamorous luncheon, not a suburban paranormal investigation.

She didn’t come alone.

There was Ruth, a woman about my age with blue hair and a tattoo of a butterfly on her chest. She was a self-described clairvoyant specializing in nonhuman contact.

Then there was Jed, who looked like a California surfer but was a paranormal technician—an expert in EMF (electromagnetic fields) and EVP (electronic voice phenomena).

He carried with him a backpack full of funny-looking equipment.

He wore a Tommy Bahama shirt barely buttoned, had an August tan in June, and shaggy blond hair.

And finally, Roy. The demonologist. Mariella’s nephew. He was handsome, subdued. He seemed more focused than the rest of them. They were on an adventure; he was on a job.

I welcomed Mariella and her team with coffee and donuts.

They were all nice. Enthusiastic. Empathetic.

“Yep! Something’s here for sure,” Ruth said as soon as she walked in. “You’re not wrong about that!”

They all laughed. Except Roy.

We sat down for coffee, and I told them everything that had happened, including the incident two nights prior when I saw the being in my room.

“I might have been dreaming,” I said, dismissing myself out of habit.

“I don’t think so,” Roy said immediately. He seemed embarrassed, like he hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words out loud. He blushed and shook his head.

All I felt was relief. It was different from the validation from Father Bernard because these people seemed to be on my side. Allies. More than just believers, they wanted to help me. They didn’t appear to be in any rush to leave. There was no judgment. No fear.

When they looked at me, I could tell they didn’t see a middle-aged single mother in distress on the verge of losing her mind, of losing everything. They saw me as a person.

My problem didn’t intimidate them. And they took it seriously. Took me seriously. Took themselves seriously, but not too seriously.

“We’re going to do separate walk-throughs and then compare notes,” Ruth explained. “You don’t need to worry about anything right now.”

Jed laughed. “Nothing to worry about. Except for the fact you’ve got a bunch of weirdos roaming around your house.”

Ruth elbowed him. “You know what I meant.”

“We’re here to help,” he said, smiling. All his teeth were chipped.

Mariella escorted me to the back deck. The two of us smoked cigarettes—she used one of those old-fashioned Holly Golightly holders—and talked for hours. She told me about the spiritualist movement, about her upbringing, her beliefs.

“Does it bother you?” I asked. “That some people think…”

I stopped myself, not wanting to offend.

“Darling, what other people think of me is none of my business,” she said.

We spoke until it was her turn to make a pass through the house.

When she left me, Roy joined me.

He didn’t speak. He looked paler than he had when he arrived. I offered him a smoke, and he accepted.

After a while, I asked, “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

He reached out and put his hand on my hand. His way of both answering my question and comforting me.

By the time they were finished, the sun had set. They called me inside and we gathered around the dining table.

Jed spoke first. “The bad news is you have a demon living in your crawl space. The good news is we can help.”

“How?” I asked.

“We will need to call in Father Bernard and have him perform an exorcism,” Mariella said, pouring me a glass of bourbon from a bottle she must have brought—it wasn’t mine. “Ruth and Roy have experience with demons and can assist.”

“I’m glad you called us. With all our experience, I feel confident in our assessment,” said Ruth. “We can help. But we shouldn’t delay the exorcism. I believe the demon has taken an interest in your daughter, Cici .” CLIO

“What does that mean, ‘taken an interest’?”

“Please know that it won’t come to this.

We won’t let it,” Roy said, standing. “But from what we can tell, the demon living in the house has attached itself to Cici. That attachment will be severed through this exorcism, but the sooner the better, before it progresses to codependency. Now, I don’t think it will.

If the demon had any intention of possessing Cici, I believe it would have done so already.

Some demons want to possess bodies. Humans.

Minds. Others are content to possess places.

Some demons thrive by causing chaos. Others pain, and grief.

What most people fail to understand is that demons, above all, are beings of attachment.

On their own, they have no power. We give them power.

We give them purpose. Now, some use their power to exert control. Others for fun. They’re just bored.”

—

It’s maybe the most jarring thing I’ve come across in the entire book.

They’re just bored.

I’m not sure why I find this particular detail so unsettling, why it’s got me queasy.

I set the book down on the coffee table, stretch, check my phone. Austin sent me a novel-length text about having to cover a coworker’s shift because their babysitter fell through and they have no one to watch their kid, so now he has to stay on until one a.m.

I type out a response. Okay but who’s gonna watch me??

I delete it and say nothing instead.

I’m unjustifiably angry with him for not being around. I resort to scrolling to temporarily change my brain into placid mush.

Once I’ve had my fill of social media fluff and internet gossip, I get up to go to the bathroom.

It’s pretty dark out now. Getting late. Still raining, so I can’t open the windows even though it’s hot and sticky and gross. I flick on every light switch I pass. Living room. Kitchen. Hallway.

Bathroom.

I go, flush, wash my hands. Splash some water on my face.

I look tired. Am tired. I lean closer to the mirror, my hips pressing into the vanity.

There are bags under my eyes, a few blackheads on my nose.

I haven’t been keeping up with my skincare routine, and it shows.

While studying my pores, my breath fogs up the mirror. I take a step back.

As the fog dissipates, my surroundings arrive in my reflection. The bathroom. Tile. Shower. Shower curtain. Swaying. Moving. The squeal of rusty hooks traveling across the rod. There’s something in the shower, behind the curtain. It’s about to reveal itself. It’s—

I spin around, reach out and grab the curtain, yank it back. I’m too rough with it, and the rod dislodges, almost smacking me in the head as it comes down. The shower is empty.

There’s this heavy, animal panting. It fills the bathroom. It’s…me. It’s me. I’m the thing making these ugly sounds. Sounds I’ve never made before. Sounds of panic. Of fear.

I hold a palm flat to my chest and feel my heart thump against it. Again and again and again and again.

My phone rings in the living room.

I manage a long, deep inhale. Exhale. Another breath. I shake out my limbs, roll my shoulders back, and open the bathroom door.

It’s dark.

The lights are off.

“Really?” I ask through a clenched jaw. I sound like Leda. Is this what it’s like to be her? To walk around with all this tension and anxiety? Just a giant knot of dread.

Maybe Daphne’s right. Maybe I am too tough on her.

I feel around for the switch and flip it back on. The hall illuminates.

My phone stops ringing. Whoever was calling, I missed it.

I shuffle over to the couch, turning on lights as I go. I search for my phone in the abyss between the cushions. When I eventually find it, I have a missed call and text from Daphne on our sister thread.

We need to sit down and talk about everything. I made us reservations. Saturday in Manhattan. Mandatory.

Leda responds with Okay .

I give both messages a thumbs-up, the most passive-aggressive response I can think of.

But truth be told, this works out great for me. I want this sit-down. I need it.

Until then, it’s just me in this house. Waiting.

With the book.

More paper cuts.