41

41

F lora is losing time. Seconds. Minutes. Gone. She has begun to think of them as Dark Spots.

This morning, as she made her coffee and watched the machine whir and spit, she telepathically urged the brown liquid to taste normal. As if her daily ritual of a hot cup has now become a litmus test for her sanity. And when she did finally lift the mug to her lips, she was relieved to enjoy the taste of her coffee black.

But a bit later, Connor approached with a handful of empty sugar packets. "You put all these in your cup?"

Flora swallowed. She had no memory of that. She looked at her hands and rubbed her palms with her fingertips, as if trying to prove to herself that she had control over her own limbs.

Later, she retrieved Iris from her crib and found a small lovey on the mattress beside her, mere inches from her tiny nose. Flora knew she was the last one to put Iris into bed. She also knew she would never leave that blanket in the crib. How many times had she warned Connor about suffocation hazards?

But then, if she didn't put it there, who did?

The more time she loses to the Dark Spots, the more she fears what she will do. Or, rather, what her mother will do with Flora's hands. Flora needs her body back. Her mother is latched to her brain like a leech, slowly sucking the good out of her and replacing it with a swirling, sinister matter.

That's when Flora realizes: she might not have a friend like Belinda, but maybe she doesn't need one. Maybe she can have the real deal—Belinda herself. If the lady really goes to psychic fairs like Jodi said, she won't run from Flora's wild claims. Right?

It's at least worth a try. Flora doesn't have any other ideas.

It is surprisingly easy to find Belinda's phone number. Flora has a first name, an address (her mother's same complex), and a rough age. With the combination of these factors, she finds her mother's friend quickly. The accessibility is both convenient and frightening.

She waits until Connor is on a walk with Iris to enter the number into her phone. With each ring, Flora's heart rate increases. But when an automated machine picks up, her chest sinks. What if this isn't the right number, after all? She has no way of knowing. She talks after the beep anyway.

"Belinda? Hi. Uh, I hope this is Belinda… my name is Flora. My mother was Jodi Martin, you guys lived together. Or, not together together but were neighbors? In the Breakwater Beach complex? I was hoping to talk with you about her. My mom. She—well— please. Please call me back. It's really important." She pauses, then repeats herself another three times and leaves her number. What a rambling mess. She might have just botched her one chance of getting to the truth.

Angry with herself, she scratches the back of her hand with her nails, which are growing more and more brittle by the day. Is that normal? They were so strong during pregnancy.

Before she knows it, she has drawn blood. She looks more closely and realizes the back of her hand is covered in scaly red patches. Her childhood eczema is returning. She inspects the other usual spots between her fingers, in the crease of her elbow, along the soft skin of her underarm. For now, it appears the rash is only on the back of her left hand.

She scratches it aggressively again, unable to stop herself. The itch goes deep, beneath the inflamed patches, down to her bones. It crawls beneath her skin and tickles her from the inside. She is desperate to dig it out.

The front door slams sometime later. When Connor announces his presence, Flora returns to herself. She stares at the knife in her hand, no recollection of how it got there.

Flora rips open the boxes the moment they arrive. As promised, her father sent Jodi's things as soon as he returned home. When Connor asks what they are, Flora shrugs.

"Oh, Dad mentioned he had some of Mom's old stuff, so I offered to look through it before it got thrown away."

He nods, and Flora hates how easy it is to lie to her husband. This is new territory for her. But the fibs slip out naturally, fluid and slimy like slugs that leave a bad taste in her mouth.

when this is all over I'll make it all right

This is what she tells herself to get through the days.

The first box is disorganized, like a junk bag at a garage sale. There are pieces of jewelry—necklaces and rings, mostly. There are many packs of developed film from various decades: baby pictures of Flora, photos from her parents' wedding, snapshots of birthdays and graduations and vacations. There are old cards and letters, as well as a couple of sketchbooks from when Jodi dabbled in art throughout the years.

And then Flora sees something familiar: the worn copy of The Yellow Wallpaper. The same book she saw on the nightstand when her mother was here. And underneath the book is the small baby hat made of soft pink yarn. She has seen these items before, touched them with her own hands in her very own house, but how is that possible if they were in these boxes with her father hundreds of miles away?

Flora knows she is close to something, on the edge of discovery, but not yet seeing the whole picture. It is jumbled within the recesses of her own mind. Like her entire life is a dream that she has just forgotten. It's right there but slipping away with every deliberate effort to reach it.

She rips into the second box. This one is much lighter, and inside she is surprised to find a stack of beautiful handsewn children's dresses. The tiniest is floral patterned with a gathered neckline and no sleeves. One shoulder has a large red-ribbon bow. She fingers the delicate fabrics. Each dress is progressively larger, as if there is one for every year of a child's life. Ten in total. The last one is Flora's favorite. It's a lightweight dress with a faux button placket featuring giant baby-blue buttons. The sleeves are short and puffed, and the pattern is a plaid delicately woven of blues, purples, yellows, and reds.

Flora can't begin to imagine the story behind these dresses. She wonders if her mother made them, but then, she never knew her mom to be a sewer. She never once saw her mend a pair of socks, let alone handcraft an entire dress. Even Flora's Halloween costumes were sewn by her dad, because her mom always claimed he was "so much better at those things."

So if her mother didn't make these, who did?

Flora looks back to the book, the hat, the dresses. Although her hands are full of her mother's things, she feels more disconnected from her than ever. There is so much Flora doesn't understand. A chill climbs up her arms and makes the hairs stand on end. She wonders if she ever really knew her mother at all.

Flora's eyes pop open. That deafening noise again: metal on metal, gears clashing. Like hot tires skidding to a desperate stop on cement.

again it's happening again

Sleep paralysis.

It starts the same as always. Her arms glued to her sides, her chest taut, like plastic wrap pulled over a container so tight that it's a fraction of a moment from ripping. Her breathing is shallow; if she tries to inhale deeply, it catches in the muscle under her heart. No part of her body will move, and she realizes that only her left eye is slowly adjusting to the dark. The right eye is blurry.

She braces herself for the heavy weight of the Night Hag, but it doesn't come.

And then she hears footsteps.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

They are heavy and deliberate. Up the stairs. They get louder as they get closer. The Night Hag is coming. Taking her time.

Beside Flora, Connor sleeps, oblivious.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Down the hallway now.

The footsteps stop right at the moment they would be in front of the nursery. A pause. Watching Iris sleep.

Flora tries to scream, but her lips are glued to one another. Or maybe she doesn't have a mouth at all. Just smooth skin from the bottom of her nose to her chin.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The footsteps start again. The Night Hag is coming for her now. Flora wants to warn Connor, who continues to snore beside her. But, of course, she cannot. She is only a sack of bones and useless muscle, like overworked elastic.

The footsteps get closer. They are in her room. They approach the bed. The Night Hag is only feet away now, though Flora can't turn her head to look.

THUD. THUD.

The Night Hag stops right beside her. Flora knows she is being watched, can feel the gaze ravaging her body, filling her up with shame and filth.

Flora's skin sizzles. It starts at the back of her left hand and travels up her arm, first to her elbow, then to her shoulder. A trail of gasoline lit by a match. She cannot react to the pain, but she can feel it. The worst of both worlds.

It's there again, that deafening gear sound, metal on metal and the echoes of screaming souls.

Just as the familiar heavy weight lands on her body and the sound of rushing water fills her ears, a flicker of movement catches her one good eye. A shadow on the wall. The shadow grows and grows, until it is as tall as the ceiling. Like a shadow puppet made from a child's hands. The creature has long legs and a ginormous head. It's not quite human. It has the head of a hippopotamus.

Taweret

The hippo opens its giant mouth and sucks in air. Wind whips Flora's hair against her cheeks as she lies still, paralyzed. The weight on her chest quickly dissipates, as if the shadow has sucked the Night Hag off Flora. The sucking sound gets louder and louder until WHAP!

The room is back to normal. Flora's body buzzes with circulating blood. She wiggles her fingers and toes.

On the monitor, Iris sleeps, oblivious.