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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