The Waking Moon

Chapter Fourteen

I was surprised to find the door unlocked. I was usually good at remembering to lock it behind me, especially when I would be at home alone. But it had been a draining day, and I’d had a lot on my mind. I wondered if Dad had gotten to Laramie okay, and whether or not it was too late to call him.

It was very dark inside. I felt around for the lamp beside the door, but when I pulled the chord, nothing happened. It seemed like everything was going to pot without Mom around. I blindly made my way to the kitchen, where I knew the overhead light would work. I was halfway there when I heard a noise behind me, like a foot brushing slowly over the carpet. It was followed by a low, almost whispered, voice singing.

“’Oh my ma ma ma ma little girl….’”

I screamed. Without thinking, I rushed forward, running for the kitchen. But something underfoot sent me careening to the ground, and I realized that the couch pillows had been scattered across the floor.

The voice came up behind me, close and menacing. “’You’re hydro-headed, you’re my little pearl…’”

I scrambled to my feet, but a large, cold hand grabbed my ankle, and yanked it so hard I felt my knee pop. I came crashing back to the floor, kicking and screaming until I slipped from his grip. Numb with adrenaline, I got to my feet and lunged blindly into the darkness. Behind me I could hear the voice still singing, unhurried, amused.

“’…You make me crazy, do unthinkable things…”

I made my way through the dark kitchen and into the hallway. When my fingers fell on the handle to the basement door, I threw it open and rushed onto the stairs. Immediately, I lost my footing and tumbled loudly to the bottom. But there was no time to feel pain. I got to feet and rushed frantically into the blackness, just beginning to realize how stupid I’d been. I’d run myself straight into a dead end, and now all I could do was hide.

I stumbled through a maze of junk, years of things the family didn’t use anymore but didn’t have the heart to give away. No one had been down there in ages, and the whole room smelled of musty oblivion. Heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs, taking their time. And then there was the horrible song again.

“‘I love your ratter-tatter-battered broken wings, I love your ratter-tatter-battered broken wings…”

I scrambled behind a stack of boxes and ducked my head between my knees. My heart pounded in my ears. What did he want? I heard the stiff click of the light switch, but nothing happened. The bulbs had been blown out for years. But the intruder had come prepared. The beam of his flashlight slid patiently over everything in the room.

“‘Little creature, my black-eyed teacher…”

I held my breath, willing myself to disappear. The flashlight caught forgotten patio chairs and abandoned boxes of Barbies in its beam. It caught plastic plants and old band instruments, diorama boxes and grown up gag gifts. I knew it was just a question of time before it found me. Desperate, I groped around for something I could use to defend myself. I slipped my fingers into the open flaps of cardboard boxes, pushing through cobwebs, searching. Suddenly I felt something heavy and familiar—Judy’s old volleyball trophy, which I had held in my hands many times while alone, waving at my reflection in the mirror, pretending it was an Oscar. I pulled it quietly from the box and gripped it tightly.

“Hope you don’t drown, lord, before I reach ya…..” The singing voice was increasingly smug, certain of victory. “Hope you don’t drown before I reach ya…”  

I peeked out again. The intruder was standing a few feet away, facing a tower of old physics books. I got to my feet and raised the trophy over my head, praying I’d have the strength to hit hard.

“…Oh, my ma ma ma ma little girl….”

I swung the trophy through the air with both hands, slamming it into the back of his head with a squishy thud. He staggered forward and the flashlight fell from his hands. I lunged for it and spun around, casting light on his young, hardened face, his strong jaw and angry eyes. I gaped in horror. There was a trophy-shaped crater gouged into the back of his shaved head. Pink-colored fingers of flesh curled into the bloodless gash, which had the look of grainy, wet clay. He turned and glared at me, his fingers probing the damage.

“You bitch!” he bellowed.

The next thing I knew, I was pinned to the ground. His body was unnaturally heavy, and there was no way to struggle under his crushing weight. He lowered his mouth to mine, his lips like sand-covered silly putty. Horrified, I recognized the sensation immediately. The gentle tug at the breath, the straining, slowly giving way to a rushing torrent. The air, the energy being forced from my body, rushing out of my mouth and into his.

Then tunnel closing in. And then the nothing.