I close my eyes and count the rhythmic tapping of my fingers, struggling to calm down.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
4, 3, 2, 1.
3, 2, 1.
2, 1.
1.
Then repeat.
“Be strong and of good courage, do not fear nor be afraid of them;” I recite softly under my breath, “for the Lord your God, He is the one who goes with you. He will not leave you nor forsake you.”
I can hear my suitor mumbling to himself, his frustrated tone growing steadily quieter as he returns to the fray.
When I open my eyes the partier is gone, but my solitude is short-lived.
There are two rooms here at the end of the hallway: the one we were playing in, and a second bedroom mirroring the first. They are similar in size, and if I had to guess I’d say this other one belongs to Isaiah’s older brother.
He’s not around tonight, but it appears someone else is enjoying the space.
Standing at the center of this dimly lit room is the pale woman, smiling that same crooked grin and silently gazing at me with her vacant white eyes. This is the best look at her I’ve gotten, and as we stand motionless I carefully take her in.
Cadaverous. Eldritch. Puzzling.
“You’re not real,” I find myself announcing. “You’re just … stress.”
To be honest, she doesn’t feel like stress. Now that I’m seeing this woman up close, the idea that she’s just some figment of my imagination is getting much harder to swallow. Previously, her appearances were fraught with movement and shadow, a vague glimpse of something otherworldly.
This moment, however, is as quiet and grounded as it gets. The pale woman has weight in my world, a substance to her form. For the first time, I can fully make out the bizarre length of her fingers, approximately three times as long as any typical human digits. They’re thin and spidery, twitching ever so slightly in the shadows.
The collar around her neck is so tight that it makes me feel like I’m choking, a sturdy iron band that clasps in the middle.
From here I can make out the name tag on her peculiar red work polo. It reads: PACHID.
I know that name, though just barely, the unique title ringing a faint bell in the darkest recesses of my mind. It takes a moment for all of the pieces to add up as I sort through hazy memories of various religious tomes until, suddenly, a spark of recognition becomes a roaring blaze.
Pachid is a demon.
I’m shaking so hard that my teeth are chattering, not just out of fear, but from the gelid sensation that overwhelms my body.
“What do you want?” I ask, the words barely rattling their way from between my lips.
The woman says nothing. She slowly tilts her head to the side, as though this is also her first time really taking me in.
It feels like this moment lasts forever, the two of us just watching each other with genuine curiosity until finally, and without a shred of warning, the pale woman turns and walks directly toward the wall.
Pachid doesn’t slow down as she approaches the barrier, causing a startled gasp to escape my throat when she walks right through it and disappears completely. A faint blue sizzle lies in her wake, flickering with uncanny illumination then disappearing just as soon as it arrived.
Seconds later, the shrieking begins.
I burst back into the truth or dare room to find everyone staring at the closet door in wide-eyed horror. A few loud thumps rumble from within, but the more apparent sounds are a gut-churning cacophony of Parker and Martina screaming in hysterical fear.
It’s only now that I realize this closet is directly behind the wall Pachid just walked through.
The frantically spinning gears of my mind catch and I spring into action, marching in a direct route to the closet door.
“Get them out of there!” I scream.
I reach out to grab the handle, but before I get the chance the door flies open so hard it punches a hole through the wall beside it. I cry out in alarm, jumping back as Martina topples out with a tremendous thump and lands on the floor, her eyes huge and glassy as she stares up at me in a frozen expression of grotesque panic.
There’s something confusing about her pose, and it takes me a moment to realize Martina’s head has been violently twisted in a perfect half rotation. The bones of her neck have shattered, pressing awkwardly against the inside of her skin and threatening to punch through.
Meanwhile, the pale woman is nowhere to be found, but Parker’s complexion is just as pallid as he stands in shock, mumbling to himself while tears stream down his face.
The room erupts in a choir of screams.
4
DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN
When you shuffle off this mortal coil, your senses will likely take their leave one by one. Depending on the way your body meets its end, the exact order of these fading perceptions can vary, but everyone seems to agree on one thing: your hearing goes last.
The final spark in Martina’s awareness was her friends screaming in panic and horror, blubbering over a body that couldn’t feel and eyes that couldn’t see.
I’m supposed to be fine with this because she’s in a better place now. She wasn’t a member of the congregation, but she loved Jesus above all others.
That counts. At least, that’s my take.
Other things I’ve learned:
Around 150,000 people die every day across the globe, Martina being one of them.
Cotard’s syndrome is a rare mental disorder that makes people believe they’re dead.
The Turritopsis dohrnii jellyfish lives forever. As far as science can tell, it’s the only immortal species on record.
I’ve buried myself in death facts, devouring everything I can find on the subject. My behavior is obsessive, and I know it, but it’s better than staring at the wall for hours on end, watching shadows gradually creep across my bedroom as a thousand intrusive questions dance through my mind.
What kind of god would let this happen?
Is Martina really happy now?
Because she certainly didn’t look happy with her head cracked around backward, her spinal column shredded, and her shattered bones rending her flesh like hundreds of tiny knives.
A shudder rolls across my frame as I revisit this terrible image, tears forming at the corners of my eyes that I swiftly wipe away. I dive back into the massive blocks of text on my phone, returning to an article about the burial customs of ancient Greece.
“You okay?” my mother’s voice sounds from the doorway behind me.
I scramble to tuck away my device, which they’ve made clear is for emergencies only. In any other circumstance I’d be receiving a hearty taste of parental discipline, but it appears Lisa has momentarily holstered the whip.
Mom steps onto the wooden porch and stands behind me, gazing across the backyard. There’s not much of a view here, just a huge patch of grass and an abrupt line of trees at the far end, but it’s quiet.
“Wanna go on a walk?” my mother asks.
I don’t, but after sitting inside for two weeks this idea might be the lesser evil.
I glance back at her, struggling to plaster on the most natural expression I can manage. Typically, I’m great at masking, but right now the cracks are simply too profound to maintain.
“Sure,” I offer, my voice wavering slightly.
Right-handed people live an average of three years longer than left-handed people.
I stand up and move past her, making my way into the house as I gather my things. I grab a jacket and pull on my shoes, ready for a temperature drop as the evening settles in around us.