Sarah felt calm and relaxed as she drove home. Her mind was on her Faulkner seminar, and she was trying to think of something new to say about Southern Gothic as she parked the car behind her house. It wasn’t until she had walked up the steps and into the kitchen that the horrible memories came back to her in a rush.
She knew despair, and impatience with her own foolishness, as she realized that she had walked right back into the trap.
Sarah turned, dropping the shopping bags she carried, and ran, not even closing the doors behind her, stumbling down the short flight of steps and just managing not to fall. She clutched the door handle on her car and stopped, heart racing. She swallowed hard, feeling the sweat of fear drying on her skin, and turned slowly and looked back at the house, feeling the fear dying away.
The old wooden door hung on its hinges, still swaying slightly in the breeze of her passing. Nothing waited for her there, Sarah told herself. No cat with glowing eyes, no evil, supernatural rat, no diabolical spirit. Because such things didn’t exist.
She could remember, now, what she had been afraid of—she could recall quite clearly the thoughts and fears that had led to her earlier flight from the house. But she didn’t believe in evil spirits, nor in witchcraft. She had always been certain that people who believed that demons possessed them were simply crazy. So did that mean she was crazy?
Two unsavory alternatives. Either she was crazy, or there was a demon in the house. Either way, Sarah knew she didn’t want to go back in the house and risk a repetition of what had happened to her before. She was afraid to go into the house.
’Fraidy cat.
There had been a time when Sarah was the only kid in her neighborhood who dared to walk through the cemetery after dark. Who dared go up and look in the window of the witch house. But Sarah hadn’t been afraid, then, because she didn’t believe in ghosts or witches.
Did she now, a grown woman in broad daylight?
Depressed, frightened, and self-doubting, Sarah got back in the car. She could always spend the night with the Marchants again. But she knew neither of them would be home now, so she decided to go to the library where, if she could manage to concentrate, she might get some work done.
On campus she was lucky enough to find a parking space within a few blocks of the library. She had just switched off the engine when she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure, and her heart played yo-yo. Yes, it was Brian, and that slight figure by his side must be Melanie. She had dark hair nearly to her waist, and a little pointed face that gazed adoringly up at Brian. Not wanting to have to speak to them, Sarah stayed in the car.
As Sarah watched, a big black bird—one of the grackles which infested the campus—suddenly left its perch on a parking meter. Giving its characteristic, water-gurgling cry, it flapped heavily and clumsily away, about on a level with Melanie’s head, although nowhere near her. But too near, obviously, for Melanie, who let out a wild cry, dropped her books, and threw her arms protectively over her head.
Brian responded immediately, pulling Melanie into the shelter of his arms. Sarah could see his lips moving and knew he must be speaking to her soothingly.
I could scream all night and you’d never come rescue me, Sarah thought. Her stomach churned bitterly, and then the misery she felt turned to self-loathing. Was that it? A trick played by her subconscious? This sudden fear of evil spirits a ploy to make her weak and trembling . . . and in desperate need of Brian? If her problems were even bigger than Melanie’s, would he come rushing back to save her from herself?
No.
Anger rose in her, anger at herself and at Brian, and at the demonic nightmares which had been tormenting her.
She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t crack up, and she wouldn’t run away. If Brian didn’t want her as she was, she would learn to live without him. She didn’t need him, and she was proud of it. She refused to cringe and crawl and cry for anyone. She was going home.
Anger was a fine thing, invigorating, powerful, more intoxicating than drink. It fueled her all the way back to the house and kept her from stopping to think about it. Sarah didn’t see the cat anywhere as she stomped up the steps and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
“All right,” she said loudly. “I’m back. I’m not scared of you.”
Behind her, the telephone rang.
Sarah’s throat tightened with panic, although she didn’t understand why, and she whirled around. Then she realized: the telephone was still unconnected. Not only that, but it was not even plugged in. It was still inside the bright orange and brown plastic bag where she had dropped it on the kitchen floor.
It rang again.
As she stared at it, she saw the bag vibrate slightly with the sound. Sarah moistened her lips and looked around. Then she bent down and took the telephone out of the bag. She stared at the bright red plastic, feeling the vibrations shake her hand, hearing the bell ring. How could this be a delusion, when it felt so real? Finally, she lifted the receiver and held it to her ear. She did not speak. A distant, windy, rushing sound met her ear. And then a voice.
“Sarah.”
The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. It was a deep, dead voice, without emotion, yet not mechanical.
“Sarah.”
Sarah could not reply. She could scarcely breathe.
“I am so glad you have come back, Sarah. I have been waiting for you.”
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am. You have felt me inside you. You have come back for me, to give yourself up to me.”
“I have not,” Sarah said loudly. “You can’t have me.”
“I can. I shall. I will. One way or another, Sarah, I will have you.”
The intimacy of that inhuman voice, buzzing in her ear, was unbearable. Sarah slammed the receiver back into the cradle, shuddering violently. Then she put the telephone down on the floor and stared at it, waiting, almost daring it to ring again. But nothing happened.
She couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of that dreadful voice in her ear . . . She wanted to run away. But although she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life, she was also as angry as she had ever been. She was damned if she would let that thing, whatever it was, drive her out of her house. She had managed to hold on to her self throughout its monstrous attacks, and she would go on doing so until it gave up.
Suddenly she swooped down and picked up the receiver again.
“You’re scared,” she said loudly into it. “You know you’ve met your match . . . so you’re just trying to scare me off. Well, I’m not leaving. I’ll make you leave instead!”
The telephone was dead plastic in her hand: there was nothing there at all. A little embarrassed by her outburst, Sarah put the receiver gently back. Then she found the jack in the wall by the bedroom door, and plugged the telephone in. If it rang now, she thought, it would seem more normal.
Sarah wondered what she should do. She was primed and ready for battle, the adrenaline pumping away, and she didn’t know what to do with so much energy in the suddenly still and empty house.
Then, through the door, Sarah caught sight of the figure painted on the bedroom floor, and remembered that she had bought a jar of paint remover. A good first step towards exorcising the house might be to erase this mocking reminder. She settled down on the floor and began to scrub at the paint fiercely.