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40

F lora stands in the Paranormal and Supernatural section of the library. It's small and slightly hidden in its own corner behind the cookbooks and travel catalogues. Mixed in with the ghost stories are books about magic and witchcraft. She almost feels like she's breaking a rule by standing here; she keeps looking over her shoulder to see if anyone is watching.

She is terrified of her twitching eye. Of what it means. She needs answers now. Every twitch is like another tick of the clock. Time is running out.

Flora turns her attention to the books. Maybe they hold the clues she needs. There are three loosely packed shelves of spines that bear words like "divination" and "haunted" and "mythological." Her fingers feel the books, some old and ripped, others newer with a sleek finish. She lands on a collection of photographs, a large volume that looks like a coffee table tome. But when she opens it, she realizes only a very morbid human would have this book on display.

The photos are from the late 1800s and early 1900s. Flora gets stuck on a black-and-white picture that features a group of eight people, all staring straight at the camera. They wear an assortment of dark fabric robes with light-colored scarves or neck pieces. Every one of them wears the same pointed hat, like a cone on top of their heads, that is decorated with devil horns and the moon and stars. But the most haunting part of all is what they wear on their faces.

Every one of them sports a different mask, each more horrifying than the next. There's the plain white mask that covers the entire face, with only small slits for eyes and huge, dark, painted-on lips. Two of the masks feature bushy mustaches that look like bristles torn from a broom, obscuring and, in one case, disappearing the mouth completely. The worst one is a white mask with pockmarks, like it is half-melted, as if the person poured a bucket of hot wax on his head. Two thick, uneven eyebrows lay atop the eyes, which are cut large enough for the wearer's actual eyeballs to show through. And the mouth is upturned in a wide, gaping grin.

She thinks of her childhood sleep paralysis, the nights of torment lying in bed immovable. Her body tenses, as if it can right now feel the crushing weight of the haunting Night Hag. She has never seen the Night Hag's face, but she imagines it would probably look like this.

She flips through the pages and finds more of the same. There is little context for the photos, only the year in which they were taken and, in some cases, a location. Flora reads that people often dressed like ghouls on Halloween in order to trick the actual ghosts into thinking they were one of them, hoping they'd be spared. The thought tickles her spine.

"Looking for anything in particular?"

The voice startles Flora, and she drops the book. A hand reaches down and retrieves it for her. It belongs to a librarian she saw behind the reception desk earlier.

"Thanks," Flora says, returning the book to its spot on the shelf. She has seen enough of those photographs.

"Interesting section, isn't it?" the woman asks. She's a petite woman with gray hair and rich brown eyes.

"Uh, yeah…" Flora looks around, trying to decipher whether the children's story hour is over. How long has she been standing here?

"Okay, well, let me know if you need anything," the woman says and starts to walk away.

"Oh—" Flora stops her with her voice. "I was hoping to find something about birth tusks?" The woman stares at her blankly. "My dad, he got one at an Egyptian museum. It was supposed to ward off evil spirits or something? I mean, a long time ago, obviously."

The librarian thinks. "Do you know what time period?"

Flora wracks her brain. Her father mentioned that, didn't he? She chews her lip until she tastes blood. "Oh!" she exclaims. "Middle Kingdom?"

The librarian nods, looking toward the shelves and scanning the spines. She grabs a book about Middle Empire magic. "There might be something in here."

Flora smiles. "Thanks."

The woman walks away as Flora adjusts Iris, who has fallen asleep in the carrier with her neck at an awkward angle. Flora turns Iris's head, exposing her red cheek, warm from body heat, and the action is met with a loud protest. "Shhh," Flora coos as she rocks back and forth. She must admit that holding her baby feels right. Natural. She has missed this. Even if she has to continuously check that Iris hasn't suffocated in the folds of Flora's sweater.

Flora carries the book to a nearby table. She can't bring it home; Connor would have too many questions. She flips quickly through pages of figurines, bronze statuettes, carved bricks. There are passages on white magic versus black magic, descriptions of deities, photos of protective totems for tombs. Finally, she sees it: the apotropaic wand made from a hippo's tooth. A picture of a birth tusk, similar to hers but more curved, with a higher arch and sharper end. The caption says these were used to draw a circle around the area where a woman was to give birth or nurse her infant. Inscribed on the wand are nine magical figures, including Taweret, the goddess of childbirth. Her image is striking, even disturbing. She has the body of a woman with the giant head of a hippopotamus.

Flora's breath catches in her throat as she continues to read.

Taweret didn't only assist with birth. Apparently, she also helped with rebirth. She cleansed and purified the dead to aid in the process of their resurrection.

Flora pries her eyes from the page. She inspects her hands, the scrubbed fingertips, the dark under her nails. She feels her hair, brittle and stiff in its unbrushed state. She tastes the stale remnants of sickly-sweet coffee on her breath. Her eyelid spasms.

resurrection of the dead

So it's true: her mother is gaining more and more control of Flora's body. It's one thing to be tormented by thoughts and twisted ideas; it's another thing entirely to act on those thoughts. If Flora doesn't figure out how to purge herself of her mother, something terrible will happen to Iris.

no I'll kill myself before I let anything happen to her

And then what? Leave Iris motherless?

She looks again at the photos of the hippo goddess and arched birth tusk.

She has to find it. She has to find that thing and get it out of her house.

Flora is out the automatic sliding door of the library with a singular focus and doesn't even feel the blast of cold air as she and Iris barrel toward the car.

But then—out of nowhere—a face in her face. Red and raw and peeling, reminiscent of those horrible images in the book, the masks and pointy hats. She can't help it, she screams right there in the library parking lot.

A voice responds to her outburst. "Oh my God! Are you okay ?"

Flora steps back and assesses, the high-pitched voice squealing with familiarity. And then she blinks and the world comes into focus.

Wanda. It's only Wanda.

"Your face," Flora says, pointing to Wanda's skin, horrified.

"Oh, I got a chemical peel! I'm just so tired of the age spots, you know?" When Flora doesn't respond, Wanda asks, "But, eek, does it really look that bad?" She laughs, likely expecting Flora to respond with some kind of oh no you just startled me is all.

But Flora does not. Instead, she stares and imagines wrapping her fingers around Wanda's neck, joining them in the back against the top of her spine, pressing until Wanda's eyes POP out of their sockets like a plushy toy.

Wanda shifts her weight between her feet, uncomfortable with the silence. "Seriously, though, are you okay? You don't look like yourself." She doesn't expand on Flora's haggard appearance. Her weight shifts again as she tries to fill the awkward silence. "Any bad clogs lately?" she asks in a congenial voice as she points to Flora's breasts. "Just because, last time, you know—"

oh God she thinks we're friends

"I stopped breastfeeding," Flora says. "We're using formula now."

Suddenly, Wanda's shoulders relax. "Ohh," she says, as if she has finally found the solution to a tough calculus equation. "My sister-in-law went through that. She got super sad when she stopped breastfeeding. Is that what's going on? Has the transition been rough?"

Flora looks at Wanda blankly. Then, without another word, she heads in the direction of the lot.

where did I park the car

She has to get home.

"Uh, okay?" Wanda says, her voice getting smaller as Flora walks farther away. "Bye, I guess?"

Flora raises her arm in response, something that resembles a wave. But really, she is batting away her nosy neighbor like she would a gnat in her ear. The last thing she needs is another pair of eyes on her.

weaning depression

term

1. depression that can occur after a lactating individual stops producing milk; a result of psychological stress and hormonal fluctuations

2. can we catch a fucking break already?!