Between Screams and Silence

Chapter 5: Screams

Brenda is crying again. But it's a distant, muffled cry, like it's coming from under water.

Still dazed from sleep, I slip out from under the bedspread and follow the sound of her cries through the darkened house. Pushing on the door of the den, I wait there for a moment, blinking at the flickering screen of the television set. Rheemus has turned the volume down low but I can still hear the shrill beep as the static fuzz fills the screen.

Rheemus himself is passed out in his armchair, head back, mouth open, snoring foghorn-loud and completely oblivious to Brenda's cries in the basket beside him. He always was a deep-sleeper. I watch the baby for a moment as she kicks out, wriggling. Padding across the floor, I reach down and pick her up. Brenda settles against my chest but my eyes are drawn back to the screen, where the snowy static is forming shapes, distorted unidentifiable shapes, and the beep has been replaced by a white noise that sounds like whispers. I blink again before leaving the room, hearing the dull click of the den door closing when I'm already halfway up the stairs.

Up in the bedroom, I change Brenda's diaper, clean her up and change her into a fresh suit before laying her in the bassinet. She cries as soon as I set her down, but it's like she's under water again, or maybe I am, because I can't hear her as she wails. I can just see her little mouth open wide, angry pink gums on show.

I can hear the whispering though.

The white noise from the television set has followed me upstairs, only now I can make it out more clearly as I hear my name whispered over and over again, cold breath brushing against my ear. I focus only on the voice and tune out everything else like it's all just static. The voice is hypnotic, alluring, yet repulsive, awful, like the touch of a thousand bugs crawling over my skin and I can't stop listening. I want to listen. I need to listen.

Somewhere inside, I'm vaguely aware that the lamp on the dresser is flickering, the bulb blinking on and off, on and off, on and off. Somewhere inside, I'm vaguely aware that Brenda is crying bad now. Somewhere inside, I know I should pick her up and hold her to my chest, but I'm frozen, my whole body rigid, my fingers gripping the edge of the bassinet like claws.

I remember then. Remember a room darker than this. I remember the whispering and the screeching and the things that slithered and crawled inside the cabinet. I remember the thing that slithered and crawled inside of me. I remember Mr. Faustus hissing and screaming, high-pitched, almost like a child's scream.

Blink. Whisper. Scream. Silence.

And I'm hungry. Hungry like I haven't eaten in weeks. A trickle of drool dribbles from the corner of my mouth and snakes down my chin as I look down and I do pick her up then, just as the door bursts open and Rheemus stumbles in, shaking off his slumber.

"Kath, what is it? Is everything okay?"

I press my nose gently against Brenda's soft downy hair and inhale her scent. She smells sweeter than peach cobbler. Sweeter than apple pie even. So beautifully sweet.

"Oh yes," I say, as I turn to face him, smiling as I cradle the baby in my arms. "Everything is just fine, darlin'. Everything is just perfect."