Page 73 of Play Nice

“You’re welcome, Clio. I’m here if you need anything. Call me anytime. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, crossing my heart.

He waits until I’m inside to drive away.

I turn the lights on in the foyer and climb the stairs, then flip the switch in the living room.

Everything is where I left it. Nothing is out of place. No new notes. Though, I didn’t leave out any paper.

“I’m home,” I say. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had.”

I go into the kitchen and get a glass of water. Bring it to the couch. Kick off my shoes.

I could see if Austin is around—back from spending the day at his brother’s.

Or I could sit here and try to communicate with the thing in this house, the thing that everyone in this world who I love and who loves me has told me doesn’t exist, has told me in words or through actions that believing in its existence is a sign of insanity. Is an unforgivable offense.

I pull my legs underneath me, sit propped on my calves.

“Hello,” I say.

Laughter. Low and inauspicious, like the distant rumble of thunder.

Behind me. Coming from the stairs or the hall?

I spin around.

My heart beats with this savage desperation; my eyes are two big fools scanning the room for something they won’t find unless it wants to be found. They search in vain and go desert dry but will not close, not even to blink. They won’t give up because they’re too stupid to accept it’s hopeless, to understand that even if they see what they seek, it won’t be a victory.

So this is what the paranormal does to a person. It separates your mind from your body, severs your logic like a gangrenous limb.

It’s a unique suffering. One that inspires more ridicule than empathy.

I think about Roy but am too proud to call him.

And I have a nagging suspicion he would gather the circus to come here. All the psychics and monster hunters with their glorified toys, with their iPhone cameras, with their sad YouTube channels. I can’t trust that he’d deal with it quietly, that he wouldn’t reveal my belief.

I can’t make a joke of myself. My entire life is built around my image.

I wonder if the demon knows that.

I wonder if I’m giving it too much credit.

Now that it’s quiet, I wonder how I know it’s still here. That it’s watching me. That it’s behind me, standing in front of the fireplace. That no matter how fast I turn around, I won’t see it, because it’s faster. Because it’s not in its body right now.

My shoulders roll back, my posture feigning bravery. I turn around.

The entire house shakes. The ceiling fan starts to spin.

The laughter comes again.

Behind me. Always behind me. No matter where I turn.

“Here’s the thing,” I say, slipping my legs out from under me and planting both feet firmly on the carpet. “I can leave anytime I want. I don’t live here. If you want to play with me, you have to play nice.”

I down my glass of water and start toward the kitchen, wondering if I have it in me to stay here alone tonight.

The sound of scraping stops me.