Buckeye, Texas—May 20th
Amy'd only been to Sherry's house a few hundred times...this year. So her four cylinder Escort should be able to find it on its own. But somehow she missed the driveway. She swung a U-turn on FM 2025 and turned down Sherry's long windy drive. Weeping willows lined both sides. Drooping branches swept across Amy's car as if to say hello.
In front of the trailer, Sherry reclined in a red and beige lawn chair. Pink floral pajama pants and a white tank hung loose on her emaciated body. Her dark, long hair clashed with her pale skin and sunken cheeks. She bounced Jennie, her two-year-old, on one knee. The toddler giggled while grasping at a broken piece of plaid webbing that had separated from the plastic frame of the chair.
As Amy traversed the lumpy yard, Sherry waved, a joint between her fingers.
From the back of the trailer, five Rottweiler's rounded the corner. Barking, foaming at the mouth, Rusty, Dusty, Busty, Mutton and Puff-daddy surrounded Amy. She patted each one on the head before pushing her way through, careful to avoid the craters the dogs had dug into the dirt, dirt that probably once hosted a lush, green lawn.
"How goes the potty training?" Amy asked.
Sherry rolled her eyes. "Sucks."
"She's only two. Give it time."
Sherry shrugged. "You're looking better."
"Ten days. Ten whole days." No more night terrors. No more sleepless nights. No more zombie medications.
No more tears.
Sherry put her joint out on the plastic arm of the chair. "Then why are you here?"
"I got to be sure."
Sherry scooped up her daughter and headed toward the trailer. The screen door squeaked in protest and Amy followed her inside. Sherry buckled Jennie into a high chair. With her daughter entertained by a handful of Cheerios scattered on the tray, Sherry sat in one of the metal folding chairs surrounding the table.
Amy sat across from her and offered her hand, palm up. The sticky table-top nearly glued her arm down.
Cold, slender fingers grasped Amy's wrist. The fingers of other hand traced along Amy's palm. Slowly. Meticulously. Amy remained motionless, holding her breath, and prayed that Sherry would find no bad vibes in her reading.
But the slow frown curling Sherry's lips caused Amy's heart to sink. Sherry's brows lowered and a look of bewilderment seized her face. With a gasp, she let go of Amy, snatching her hand away. She cradled it against her chest as if she'd been burned. "Go!"
"Goodness! Is it that bad?"
"Leave and don't ever come here again."
"I don't understand." But Amy stood.
Sherry plucked her daughter from the highchair. She stepped backward, toward the living room. "I said leave."
Amy dug into her purse for her wallet.
"Keep your twenty bucks," Sherry screamed, "and get the hell out!"
When Amy refused to leave Sherry's trailer without an explanation, Sherry had spilled all. She called 'It' demonic and extremely powerful. 'It' had given Amy the night terrors that fateful week only ten days ago and 'It' was not gone.
Amy stood at her kitchen sink, refilled her glass with water and guzzled it empty.
The 'It' that had given her the night terrors for seven straight days, the night terrors that she thought had ended ten days ago, the night terrors that had made her violently ill to her stomach, the night terrors that stole sleep from her night after night after night, for seven darn days.
The visions had disturbed her rest in vague segments: a pair of panthers tore flesh from some helpless creature. A giant scorpion poisoned thousands of faceless children with its lethal stinger. A demon-witch, who kept men chained to a cave wall, cast spells, bringing chaos and destruction. Tornados several miles wide accompanied by a catastrophic earthquake crumbled the Earth like a rotten pecan. Fire consumed ancient woodlands. Ice, thick as the trunk of a century-old elm, buried the earth's deserts.
At least Shane, her live-in boyfriend of four years, had been home and not hundreds of miles away on the rig in Pecos.
First night of the nightmares Amy had woken four times, bawling and crying into her pillow. Shane had dragged her from the bed and cooked her favorite, homemade mac 'n' cheese. In the early hours of the morning they had finished eating and she was beginning to feel calmer. Shane teased about screwing the nightmares from her pretty head.
And that was exactly what he'd done.
Amy smiled at the memory. Her face flushed, but this time not from the Texas heat.
She leaned over the sink and dribbled water on the back of her head.
Maybe everybody in town was right about Sherry. She was a fake and a liar. After all, it had been ten whole days since the nightmares and she didn't feel any presence around her, dark or otherwise. Sherry just wanted Amy's money.
But Sherry had refused Amy's twenty spot.
Damn.
Amy shook her long, blond strands and straightened. She scooped her wet hair and draped it down her back. Flipping around, she lifted her chin and glanced at the refrigerator. Stuck to the center of the door was a picture of her and Shane at Galveston beach.
Shane wasn't due home for days but maybe he could come home early. Amy pushed off the sink. She took a step toward her purse hanging on the back of the chair. She'd call and explain what happened at Sherry's. He'd have to understand.
That's when she saw the rodent. Right smack dab in the middle of her tiled kitchen floor.
Dead.
Bloody.
Headless.
Freya! That darn cat.
Hands on her cheeks, she closed her eyes. Sherry was right. A very dark energy had latched onto her. Bad things were happening. No wonder Sherry wanted her to leave so badly, so quickly.
Amy was no good to be around. She was a menace. This poor rodent gruesomely, senselessly murdered. Oh this wretched spirit. Why wouldn't it leave her alone?
What was the 'It' that was haunting her? And what had she done to deserve it?
She snatched the spray bottle from under the sink. Two parts water, one part lemon juice. One big fat onion marinating at the bottom. Dashing down her hall, she sprayed the walls, around the bathroom door, bedroom door, linen closet and the wood floors.
Amy sprayed the curtains in the living room, the sofa and the recliner.
Returning to the kitchen, she set the bottle on the table. She grabbed a thick stack of paper towels and scooped up the rat.
The rodent's spirit would haunt her. She'd read about it many times. People and animals with untimely deaths haunted their place of demise.
The poor rat would need a proper burial. Buried whole. With its head.
She stood on her porch and scanned the grass for any sign of the missing head.
Sacred Oaks forest bordered the property. The spooky woods seemed unnaturally quiet.
The woodland reserve harbored many secrets that some believed to be ancient evils. Others, like Shane, swore the stories were nothing more than rumors that lonely, old biddies cooked up.
At twenty-three, Amy was too young to call herself an old biddy but she believed those tales to be a lot more than folklore. Her heart told her so and if she learned anything from her aunt it was to trust her own instincts.
A quiet voice inside her head told her she was being irrational and maybe even a bit looney. Her Aunt Carol had drilled craziness into her head since she was a little bitty girl. For over a decade, Aunt Carol had been a permanent resident of El Paso Psychiatric Center. And for a whole year, Amy had lived in a neighboring wing.
While most fourteen-year-old girls spent their time gossiping and painting their nails, Amy spent her time talking to ghosts. She was fourteen when she started hearing Vicky's voice in her head...three years after Vicky's death. And by seventeen, Amy's mom had had enough. So she booked Amy a room at the psych ward...with her aunt.
Some families had to deal with hereditary diabetes or high blood pressure, but Amy had inherited the crazy bug.
Amy was released five years ago, deemed sane and fit to return to normal society. And she was determined never to return. She wasn't crazy.
Not crazy.
A mantra she repeated daily. If only to convince herself, if nobody else.
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