“So you did this ritual?” Mom asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We passed out at one point, inside the circle.”
“What circle?”
“We made a circle out of salt. You know. For protection.”
“Oh,” Mom says.
Dad points at my arm. “Is that why you came home with a band-aid?”
I hold up my arm again, showing off the cut they’d long forgotten about until now. It’s practically completely healed at this point, which worries me, because what does that mean for how much time has passed since the initial puncture? “The spell required a merging of blood.”
“Jesus Christ.” He laughs crazily. “You can’t be fuckin’ serious about any of this.”
I nod at the bathtub, at what it holds. “Why would I lie?”
He stops laughing.
“When we woke up, nothing was different. We were both just… really tired. And it’d started raining. I asked Amy if it was gone and she didn’t know. She had a headache and she felt sick to her stomach but she didn’t know. It was raining so hard outside and I wanted to stay at her house but she said she needed to be alone, that I had to leave immediately, and I couldn’t stop crying because she’d never acted so distant before, so… so… so mean. She actually shoved me through the front door. Said I needed to go immediately. Why would she do that? Why would she treat me like that after everything I did to help her?” I lick my lips again, just like my father, and continue before either of them have a chance to speak. “I ran home in the rain. Halfway here she texted me and apologized. She said she had to go to the bathroom and was embarrassed, that the spell must have affected her stomach funny. But I didn’t believe her. It was obvious she was lying. I tried calling but she wouldn’t answer the phone and it kept raining harder and harder and suddenly the tornado warnings kept popping up on my screen and I was freaking out, so I rushed the rest of the way home and you guys were all waiting for me in the living room, waiting to scream at me for not answering your dumb phone calls. Well now you guys know why I wasn’t answering your fucking phone calls. I had much more important things going on. More important than any of you will ever understand. And I still don’t know if she’s okay. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead or what and there’s nothing I can do to fix things because we’re trapped in a goddamn fucking bathroom and now Bobby’s dead and it’s all my fault, the ritual did this, I know it did, it said it would destroy everything and that’s exactly what it’s doing. It’s going to kill us all. Bobby was only the first to go.”
Mom scoots closer, reaching out. “Oh, honey, that sounds like just a coincidence, you didn’t—”
“You’re right,” Dad says, stone serious. We both turn toward him, caught off guard. “If that’s true, what you said,” he licks his lips, “why didn’t you say anything before?”
“I-I-I was afraid.”
“Brave enough to destroy the world, but too chickenshit to own up to it, huh?”
“What?”
“Robert—”
“—I want you to look in that tub. I want you to look at your dead brother. Do you smell that? That’s his body, decomposing. Rotting. And it’s all because of you and your voodoo bitch girlfriend. I hope your fun little time on the internet was worth it. You’ve murdered your entire family because of it. The whole goddamn world, maybe.”
I burst out crying and back up against the door, then slide down to my butt, holding my legs like, somehow, they’ll protect me from his words. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”
Mom stares at Dad, too shocked to even say anything for a moment. “Speak like that to my daughter again and I’ll slit your throat.”
He grins. “I look forward to the day.”
Something catches my eye on the floor next to the bottom of the sink counter. Almost hidden by shadows cast by the cabinet doors. I pick up the bottle and stare through tears at the NyQuil label. It’s maybe three-fourths full. Amy would have had a field day with something like this.
Nighttime Relief the label promises, only I read it as Nightmare Relief instead, and that sounds pretty good right about now.
“What are you doing?” Mom asks.
“Sleeping,” I whisper, unscrewing the white cap and raising it to my lips.
“Be careful with that,” she tells me. “Only a little swig.”
“Okay, Mom,” I reply, and start chugging.
By the time she wrestles the bottle from my grasp there’s nothing left inside it.
Five minutes later I can’t keep my head up.
Mom’s slapping me awake and I’m laughing because I can’t feel her hand and I can’t feel my cheek and I don’t know why she’s even bothering. I try telling her she’d have better luck slapping Bobby awake but I can’t move my face, so how is it I’m laughing? Except it isn’t my mother slapping me. It’s Dad, and he’s not slapping, he’s punching, and his hand’s drenched in my blood and it wasn’t me laughing either, it was Dad the whole time, cackling and howling and screaming with laughter. I bite my tongue off and swallow it before he can steal it from me.
Someone’s tickling my feet and my legs but when I look down there is nobody there and I try to scratch it but the sensation isn’t external, it’s deep inside my flesh and there’s no escape, and I wish I wish I wish I didn’t have legs and I wish I wish I wish I didn’t have flesh and I wish I wish I wish I could invert my flesh inside out and rub my nerves against the floor like a dog satisfying a deep itch like a dog like a dog like a dog like Spot Spot Spot who’s back Spot from the dead Spot from the grave Spot who is not a dog Spot who is not a man Spot who is a thing a thing a thing with no tongue I have your tongue Spot I have your tongue and I would eat it again if I could for I am the hunter of tongues and you are nothing Spot you aren’t even Spot not really but I know who you are you cannot deceive me you motherfucker I know exactly who you are do you hear me?
“Do you hear me?” Mom’s asking, somewhere far from here, somewhere impossible. “Mel, do you hear me?” But I can’t respond. I have no tongue. I have no teeth. My lips are absent from my face and my face is absent from my skull and I am bones and I am ash and I am everything and I am nothing.
Bones creaking like twigs snapping in the night. Mom’s above me and behind her are shadows and I can’t understand why her skin is so bright, like it’s glowing, like she’s an insect caught in the galaxy, in the void of nothingness, and her bones are creak-creak-creaking, every time she moves her knees or elbows or neck, and she isn’t alone, she’s holding Bobby tight against her chest, chest against chest, and she’s side-stepping around the bathroom, moving with such grace it’s almost like they’re floating, and they’re dancing, dancing, dancing, but there’s no music playing there’s nothing the only sound is the creaking of bones, the creaking of bones, the creaking of bones, and Bobby’s dead and decomposing and half a skeleton and his head keeps flopping every time our mother moves. Maggots fling out of his mouth and ears and eyes and vanish in the shadows. They’re dancing just like they used to when he was alive, but now he’s dead and nothing has changed, nothing ever changes. Somewhere in the darkness behind them, out of sight, Dad is screaming for me to let him use the flashlight on my phone, but it’s too late, he’s already lost it.
Together we’re united in the circle of salt, wide enough to inhabit both our bodies, Amy and I, face to face, stripped of all clothing, maintaining eye contact like it’s the last time we’ll ever see each other. She slips a bronzed ring over her finger and it’s so big it nearly slides back off. The insignia on the ring is beautiful and fascinating. Two winged creatures with exposed breasts levitating above a fountain, also looking each other in the eyes, much like Amy and I are doing, will never stop doing, staring like they love each other more than anything else the universe could possibly offer them, like they would do anything humanly possible and beyond to offer protection and prove their devout affection. I ask Amy about the ring and she tells me it’s the seventh talisman from the Black Pullet. I ask where she got it from and she shakes her head, tells me some secrets aren’t meant to be revealed and, before I can say anything else, she leans forward and kisses me for the last time and I tell her I love her. She retrieves a knife from outside the circle and punctures my flesh before I can protest. “Now me,” she says. “Make me bleed.” I press the blade against her arm and trace over an old scar. Blood drips down our flesh. We scoot closer so our limbs are locked around each other, forming a perfect Gordian knot in the center of the circle and, in my ear, Amy’s whispering an incantation that makes me feel instantly at peace. Please god don’t let this moment ever end. Please god please god please god.