“No, Melli, not Joe. Me. I used it on myself.”
“You used a necromancy spell on yourself?”
“I told you. I was dead. Or, at least, I thought I was dead. That’s up for speculation, I guess.”
“H-h-how? What happened?”
She shrugs. “It was complicated, and getting into the details now… it’s not important, right? The point is this: necromancy was supposed to bring back the dead, and something inside me was dead, so it only made sense—theoretically, at least—that it could—would—work.”
“And it did?”
“I think so?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought I was better, that I was healed.”
“And you’re not?”
“I haven’t felt right for the past couple days. I thought maybe it was just all the deepfake bullshit. But now I suspect it’s something else. Something a little more evil.”
“Amy, you’re not making any sense.”
“What if it wasn’t me who was really dead all this time? What if something else was inside me, and that’s what was dead? And when I performed the necromancy spell… it woke up? And it’s just been… I don’t know, biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment to announce its arrival?”
“Something like what?”
“I don’t know. A demon, I guess. Something from another realm. A malevolent spirit of some kind. I think maybe it’s been attached to me all my life, and I fucked up, gave it permission to stretch its legs.”
I reach forward and caress her cheek. “You’re not evil. I would know.”
“Think of the deepfake video Joe made.”
“What about it?”
“Just, like, the concept, you know? Replacing one face over another. Masks over masks. What if I’m the deepfake, and the demon inside me is the real deal? The real me.”
“Amy, I—”
“It has to be why the tongue spell went so wrong. I know, we substituted a dog’s tongue for a cow’s, but still, I mean holy shit, there’s no way what happened should have happened. Unless, the person who conducted the ritual had something hiding inside them, something beyond human. Something…”
“Something what?”
“…something diabolical.”
I snap awake to the sound of Bobby whining about having to pee. I glance around, searching for Amy, but she’s long gone. Was she ever really here? Goddammit, I’m losing my mind. Bobby keeps whining until Mom and Dad wake up. Dad had passed out in the sink basin, the faucet driving into his spine, which he complains about the moment he regains consciousness. His arms knock over various bottles of gels and soaps as he struggles to free himself from the dip.
We scan the bathroom floor. No sign of the snake.
“Do you think it went back outside?” I ask.
“I don’t see it anywhere,” Dad says.
“I think it left,” Bobby says. “It got mad it couldn’t eat any of us so it went back home to pout.”
“Who saw it last?” Mom asks.
“I fell asleep,” I whisper.
“We all fell asleep,” Dad says.
We spend the next minute staring at the empty floor.
“Shit,” Mom says.
“What?” I ask.
“Where did it go?”
“Like you said before. Maybe it went out the way it came.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Bobby holds his crotch, body trembling between us. “I gotta pee I gotta pee I gotta pee.”
“Pee in the tub,” Mom tells him. “It’s not safe.”
“Gross!” I cry out. “No! Do not pee in the tub.”
“I’m gonna pee all over you, Sis!”
“Mom! Don’t let him pee in the tub! Please…”
She sighs. “Okay. Hold on. Just… just hold on.”
She leans over the tub, peering around the bathroom. No snake in sight. “Do you see anything?” she asks Dad.
He hesitates, curses under his breath, then plops down to the floor. He crouches and walks around, scanning the room. Finally, he straightens back up and shakes his head. “It must have left while we were asleep.”
“Can I please pee now?”
Dad approaches the tub and helps Bobby out, who rushes over to the toilet and releases a long pleasurable moan as the urine splashes against the water. “I love peeing,” he sings, “I love peeing, ooooh I love to pee all day and all night…”
“Will you shut up?” I say, still in the tub. No way in hell am I ever getting out of this thing again.
“Watch me shake my booty, Sis! Watch me shake my booty!”
He indeed shakes his booty at me as he pees, no doubt spraying urine all over the floor next to the toilet. Eventually, thank god, the stream comes to an end, and he reaches down to flush.
Then he shrieks and tries to step away from the toilet, only to fall flat on his back.
Holding his wrist against his chest.
Body shaking.
Sobbing hysterically.
The rattlesnake slithers out from behind the toilet.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” someone’s screaming, and I realize it’s all three of us, together, as a family.
Dad grabs Bobby by the shirt collar and drags him across the bathroom. Mom tries to help with his feet, but gets too close to the snake. It’s rising as if to attack again. She steps away, never taking her eyes off the thing. I stay in the bathtub. Sucking on my thumb like I’ve reverted to infancy. Rocking back and forth. Pathetic. Worthless. When the shit hits the fan, this is all the help I can provide.
Mom crouches, maintaining eye contact with the snake, looking like they’re in a surreal Old West flick and they’re about to draw down on each other. Dad watches those kinds of movies all the time when he’s drunk, which is always. Behind her, Bobby’s shrieking off the top of his lungs. Dad’s trying to inspect his wrist but Bobby won’t let go of it with his other hand.
The snake looks pissed and ready to kill anyone who crosses its path.
This isn’t happening this isn’t happening this isn’t happening.
Mom edges to the side, next to the sink, and in one quick motion picks up the trash can, flips it upside down, and brings it over the snake just as it strikes out at her, successfully trapping it inside. Random garbage spills out along the floor, including the empty bottle of mouthwash. For extra effect, she grabs the toilet tank lid and rests it on top of the can, weighing it down against the floor.
She turns away and hurries to Bobby. Dad’s hovering over him, paralyzed with fear. She brushes him away and takes control of the situation, snapping her fingers in front of Bobby’s eyes until he stops screaming and pays attention, confused and afraid but no longer hysterical.
“It got you?” she asks.
Bobby nods, frantic. “Uh-huh.”
“Let me see.”
“It huuuurrrts.”
“Let me see, baby.”
Hesitating, he uncurls his uninjured hand and reveals the bite mark on his left wrist. Even from the bathtub I can spot the two puncture wounds. Thin lines of blood trickle out of them. Mom points at Dad and tells him to give her his belt.
“What? Why?”
“We need to make a tourniquet.”
Dad shakes his head. “No. We need to suck the poison out.”
“What?”
“That’s what they always do in movies. They suck the poison out.”
“…I think we need to prevent the poison from flowing to his heart. Take your belt off.”
“Venom!” Bobby shouts through his sobbing, and they both look down at him, confused. “Snakes have venom, not poison!”
Dad sighs and removes his belt, then hands it over to her. She wraps it around Bobby’s forearm and tightens it into place. The whole time Bobby’s screaming his head off and she’s trying to shush him as motherly as possible. My focus pinballs from my brother to the upside-down trash can across the bathroom. It keeps shaking, and inside the snake’s rattler hasn’t shut up. It doesn’t want us to forget it’s still here, ready to inject its venom into the rest of us the moment we give it a chance.