Sunday, February 18, 2018

021818b


The girl downstairs


I hear them, down there, knocking on the floor. Mom says pay them no mind, its not my business, and they only want attention. They'll hold you if they can, she says, suck you in if they can. It's why we paint the floor.

I picked a bit of paint loose under my bed. Another kid slept down there, under me. She had a bear, he stayed on her bed. She drew pictures, just like me, made puzzles, threw balls (her mom yelled, just like mine), stole her mom's makeup, sat on her bed to draw her face, checked it in a mirror. An oval one in a pink plastic frame.

That's when she saw me.

She stared at me long enough to be sure she was seeing my eye, my cheek, my nose, but I didn't know it. I was looking at her. Then she twisted her head around really fast. I jerked back, but she'd seen me. I put a bit of fabric with a book on it over the spot where I had peeled back the paint, but she had seen me.

Every time I moved the book, and moved the scrap, she was waiting. Staring fixedly at the clear spot in her ceiling where I lived. She didn't tell her parents. I was her secret like she was mine. I didn't tell my parents. I couldn't admit that I'd been caught because I peeled back the paint and looked through the hole. I don't know what they would have done. I didn't want to know. They might've sent me Outside. Nothing was Outside. Not since it happened. Whatever it was. It happened in the old times, when my parents were young, and I wasn't anything. And since then, Outside was noplace.

I kept busy with my things. I made both of my puzzles. I invented board games and played them. My stuffed cat was my opponent, but he never won. I practiced juggling, read my books, told myself stories, but it didn't matter what I did. She was always there.

I didn't have to look. But I did have to. I don't know how to explain it. Maybe it was because she had already caught my eye, that first time. But all I could do was think of her. I imagined what she was doing. Eating breakfast. Going to school. Putting together puzzles in her room with one eye on the corner of her ceiling. Puffing that little bit of hair out of her face. Choosing between the red sneakers and the green ones.

I asked my teacher about it.

“What do you mean, 'How do they catch you?'” Mrs. Johnson asked me. “They bewitch you by looking in your eyes. You can't ever see them, but if you do, don't look them in the eyes.”

“I know,” I said, “but how do they do that? If I look Charlie in the eyes, he doesn't get bewitched.” Everybody laughed. Charlie was scarcely ever even awake: how could he be bewitched?! She tried to explain, but she used a lot of words I don't know. It boiled down to the idea that they had some kind of magic power, which they used for evil. If they looked you in the eye they could make you do what they wanted, and they never wanted anything good.

That night, I crawled under my bed. It was so dark I couldn't see anything. Very quietly, I moved the book. I was reaching for the scrap of fabric, all that was left of my favorite plaid shirt that I wore when I was little, when I heard my mother at the door.

“Pat? Are you awake? It's way past your bedtime.” I heard my doorknob turn. I shoved the book under my bed and dove under the covers so fast! I got settled just as she opened the door. I knew I couldn't make her believe I was asleep. “Something woke me up. I was trying to get back to sleep.”

She kissed my forehead. “Alright dear. Close your eyes, breathe deeply and slowly. Think quiet thoughts. You'll be asleep in no time.” She closed the door behind her as she left the room.

Right. I was as awake as I had ever been in my life. I lay there rigidly, unmoving, for hours. It seemed like hours. I was sweating, my muscles started cramping. I had to move. I slid out from under the blanket and stuck my head under the bed. There was a faint glow from the spot where I had removed the paint. The book and scrap of fabric must have slid farther under the bed. I crawled over to the hole. I saw a face and a light, pressed almost right up against the underside of the floor. She was singing. I couldn't hear her, but I knew she was singing. The last thing I remember: her eyes and her moving lips, singing.


Now I'm in her room. I know it's her room, because of the color of the walls, even though everything has been removed. She isn't here. There is no one in the house. No one in this house under the floor. There is no corner of the ceiling where the paint isn't there. The ceiling is all white and solid. Bang as hard as I want, yell as loud as I can. Nothing. The house is stripped of furniture, of all other belongings too. There's nothing but a table knife lying on the floor where the dishwasher used to be. I pick up the knife and go into my room. I climb up on the built-in shelves and scrape at the ceiling, but it is as hard and unyielding as diamond. This communication between worlds can only be done from above. Okay then. I will go down. I will start in the middle, scraping away at the painted floor. Praying that somebody is living underneath. It is either that or go outside, and I'm not ready for that. I don't know if I will ever be ready for that.

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