AMY STEPS THROUGH THE DOOR. She sees nothing but spots as her eyes adjust from banana-colored sunlight to sodden blackness. Her lungs fill with stale, bitter air and another, more corrupt odor. The little girl takes a step back. Her green eyes go wide with confusion. She reaches out her hand, but she is suddenly afraid. He's still my friend, isn't he? She tries to smile. "Ruh--Rags?" she says in a tiny voice. The sour air snatches her voice from her lips, chokes it wetly and drops it to the ground, unheard.
She looks around. She hates it when he hides from her. She hates it when he pops out and scares her. She opens her mouth to call to him, louder this time.
"Rags!" Her voice is squeaky with fear.
"Yes, baby," he says from the darkness. She frowns. His voice sounds funny, like he has a mouthful of oatmeal.
"Yes, my angel, my precious."
He steps liquidly from a shadow, and she can see him kneel down and open his arms to her. It's all right. He still loves me. He does.
She runs to him. "Baby!" he laughs. "Oh little love?" He brushes the hair from her face, cupping her cheek in his hand, and his skin feels slimy. Her insides squirm. He must have been playing in the pool again. Yucchy. She pulls back and tries to look into his eyes. They are flat and cold, like the eyes of the sharks at Sea World.
That's 'cause it's so dark. He doesn't look like that.
He is picking her up, holding her way up in the air so she can fly, and a pale ray of light from the filthy window strikes his face.
She screams. She begins to struggle, pounding at his hands with her tiny fists.
"It's true! It's true! It's true!" she cries, her voice thin and high. "What Virginia said is true! You're not real! You're a monster!"
His body is shaking. He's crying. I made Rags cry. Amy goes limp, suddenly unsure. She bites her lower lip, tentatively puts her small hand on his chest. "I'm sorry, Rags, I didn't mean?"
He spins her around, tossing her in the air, and light gleams on his long pointed teeth as he laughs.
"I am real, angel. I'm more real than Virginia or anyone else you know. You're going to be real, too, my sweet one, my baby bride?"
And his face is shifting, moving sluggishly like the scum on the surface of the pool, and the little girl's soft features twist in fear because his mouth is too big, and something moves inside it like worms and his fingers are growing longer, flowing through the pink chiffon of her Sunday dress and gripping her skin like the spongy pads of a tree frog?
With a squeal, she kicks out wildly with her hard, black little Mary Jane shoes. They connect with Rags' face and sink in, and it feels like stepping in deep, cold mud. He shrieks and drops her.
She is running. She slips on the black mold that feeds on the ancient carpet and falls to one knee. Squish. Cold wet seeps through her pretty dress and her white tights and onto her shivering skin. She scrabbles desperately for a moment, the slick soles of her shoes refusing to grip. She can hear him right behind her.
She is on her feet again, running, running. Tears stream down Amy's face as she tries to find the door. She blinks and wipes her eyes. It's so dark. Wet moss brushes her neck and she yelps and jerks away, hitting her head on a wall. She can smell him. Sobbing, she ducks around a corner and runs down the hall. Her heart leaps. Ahead of her the room widens; She can see the looming twist of the staircase. The red stained glass in the front door winks at her like a dragon's eye. She runs as fast as her short legs will carry her. She is going to make it.
He laughs right next to her ear.
Suddenly she realizes that he is playing a game with her, that he can catch her any time.
Her shoe strikes something hard. She pitches forward, grabbing at the banister of the spiral staircase. Her fist closes on moss and she lands heavily on her chest. Squish. Gasping, she rolls over and scoots backward across the slimy floor. Her back presses against the door. She grabs for the doorknob and twists, but her hands are wet with slime and she just can't grip it and he is right behind her right behind her. She turns and looks up at him. Laughing softly, he reaches for her with long, ropy arms. Her bladder lets go. She doesn't want to see him any more, so she covers her eyes as he bends over her.
It has to be a bad dream oh please it just has to
* * * *
Whether or not it happened that way, that was the way she remembered it, but only in her darkest nightmares. Mercifully, she didn't remember the rest.
After a while, she didn't remember it at all.
* * * *
)
Suppose your most terrifying dreams were actually memories. Suppose the monster that haunted your nightmares was your dearest childhood friend. A presence from Amy's forgotten past is intruding into her reality and the lives of her friends, terrifying, maiming, killing. For her? A handsome Voodoo priest may hold the secret to Amy's possession by spirits of the past, in this story of childhood betrayed, love lost, and secrets rediscovered. A novel of horror and the power of love by the author of Vermifuge.
