Monster in My Closet (4 page)

We changed tactics. My imagination formed a rock-hard wall of crystal encircling me, forming a bubble. Because I could see through it, I didn’t feel like it was closing in.

I felt invincible.

Invincible, but not without some niggling worries. What if I couldn’t sustain my wall? Did I have to think about it all the time to keep it going? How would I know if the protection wasn’t working?

What if everything Andrew was saying was a wheelbarrow full of manure from a flying circus elephant?

His explanation for my problems felt right, though. The changes in me felt true, deep in my gut, and not a result of suggestion or positive thinking. So much of the strangeness in my life fell into place.

“Practice, Zoey,” Andrew said. “Don’t walk out the door in the morning until you put your wall up. Believe it’ll stay put. And fortify it from time to time—take a moment to think about it, feel for flaws, smooth them out. Maintenance will be second nature eventually.” He pressed a plastic bag of herbs in my hand as I gathered my things to go. “Just in case,” he said. “Some days might be hard. I have a feeling you’ve got shit coming your way.”

More good news.

He stood with Milo in his arms, looking worried. Milo made a mewling squeak. I gave the fox’s gigantic ears a rub and hugged them both. “Stop worrying, guys. I’ll be fine. I’ll be by in a few days. With closet-monster baked goods, if he’s still around. Thank you.”

I left the store a little apprehensive, but feeling like a brand-new Zoey. I’d been inside long enough that traffic from the accident had cleared, the sun had burned through the haze in the sky, and high tide had rolled in, washing the air clean. I yanked my yellow beret over my hair and had to hold myself back from skipping to my car.

* * *

The commute from Sausalito to the small beach town of Bolinas gave me time to calm my euphoria to a more natural level. I found myself inspecting my newly constructed, imaginary bubble for cracks and soft spots. I reinforced it wherever I felt the need, feeling both giddy with new knowledge and silly for believing in it.

My cheerful outlook wavered when Maurice met me at the front door. The look of him was still startling, even with foreknowledge. He’d changed to a bright yellow dress shirt and lime-green slacks. The black and white checkered sneakers remained the same. His brow-less, mottled forehead was pulled down in a scowl.

“Thank Betty Crocker you’re home. I’ve been worried sick. Didn’t you get my messages?”

I could feel fault lines forming in my carefully constructed barrier, and his concern seeped through the cracks.
Breathe, Zoey. Patch it up before the dam breaks.
I inhaled through my nose and out through my mouth while being ushered into the kitchen. Maurice muttered to himself while he pushed me into a chair and poured me a glass of pink lemonade.

“I got the cheese and wine,” I said, feeling like a naughty child as I pulled it out of my purse and put it on the table. The cheese was a little sweaty. After digging around for a moment, I located my phone. Five text messages and two voicemails, not all from Maurice.

One text message and two hysterical phone calls were from Sara. The timing of my departure in conjunction with the accident had not gone unnoticed.

I made a quick call to Sara letting her know she could stop worrying. No, I wasn’t in the accident. Yes, I was fine. Sorry I didn’t get the call earlier. I hung up and realized Sara was the easier of the two to placate.

Maurice was staring at me.

“Something else happened, didn’t it,” he said. The certainty in his voice and the fear on his face brought a flash of green eyes, causing me to shiver.

I took a sip of lemonade through a bright orange and green bendy straw. My mouth made a pleased pucker. Not pink lemonade, strawberry lemonade. I held up my glass and peered through the frosty condensation. Chunks of fresh strawberry winked at me.

I sighed. “Yes, something happened. But I’m fine now. Better than fine, I’m great.”

His yellow eyes stared at me across the linoleum table without blinking. He wasn’t going to let it go.

I gave it up like a homecoming queen on prom night. Once I started the story, it burbled out of me until it lay between us on the table, heavy and full of dark omens.

Maurice was agitated and ran a gnarled hand through the few spiky hairs on his head. “Zoey, my gods, that was an incubus. You could have been sucked dry right there on the street.”

He rose from his chair and paced across the tile floor, his shoes squeaking as he walked. I glanced down.

“Did you mop the floor? It’s all…clean.”

“Don’t change the subject, you’re in deep shit.”

I watched him make two more circuits of the kitchen before I grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the chair next to me. The warmth of his pale skin still surprised me. I wondered how long it would take to get used to that.

“He’s gone. I’m fine. Stop pacing, you’re making me queasy.”

Maurice appeared to gather himself for another onslaught, then smoothed his face into a mask of calm. “Incubi are demons, Zo. Very bad. They feed off the emotions, the
energy,
of their victims. They seduce their victims into compliance and drain them until the brain is a shell filled with a gooey center. You’re a helper—an empath. You draw other people’s emotions to you, even with your bubble in place. For an incubus, you’re like an all-you-can-eat buffet with no sneeze guard.

“And now he’s had a taste.”

Chapter Four

Friday’s insanity melted into Saturday, which dawned a fresh kind of crazy. I took a few minutes to rebuild and examine my bubble shield for cracks and chips before poking my toes out from under the duvet. All secure. With an unfamiliar spring in my step and clad in a knee-length, retro Hong Kong Phooey nightshirt, I skipped outside and down my porch steps to get the paper at the end of the drive. Halfway across the lawn I whacked my shin against a protruding growth.

Overnight, a mushroom with a cap the size of a cantaloupe had sprung up out of nowhere. I leaned forward to examine it and was thumped on the side of the head by a rogue dragonfly. The insect chittered at me and grabbed a hank of my hair, yanking me in the direction of the house.

I flapped my hands over my head without effect and took a step backward. The bug let go and flew off.

I blinked. My mind refused to put together what I had observed, and I glanced at the mushroom. It was not alone. A row of fungi grew across my lawn and stretched around the corner of the house. I padded on bare feet, following the curved line. I tracked it until I circled my way back to the front walkway.
No, no, no. I am not seeing what I’m seeing.

I darted my eyes left and right, then took an experimental step across the mushrooms.

Three creatures bombed me, scolding in indecipherable, high-pitched voices. They yanked at my sleeve, my hair, and one made a grab for my lower lip.
No, definitely not dragonflies,
I thought.
I’m on lockdown by fairies.

Waving my arms to shoo them away, I pivoted and stomped up the steps, slamming the door both open and closed. I stood in the living room seething.

Maurice popped his head out of the kitchen. “Zoey! Good morning! Perfect timing. Sit-sit-sit! Breakfast is almost ready. Come have coffee.”

It was difficult to maintain a high level of outrage in the face of such overwhelming cheer. But I tried. I stalked into the kitchen and threw myself in my chair, hoping to have achieved at least a small show of defiance and ire.

“I’m on house arrest. I can’t even get my paper.”

Maurice looked unconcerned. “Paper’s right there, Zo.” He slid a cup of coffee under my nose and pulled the folded newspaper toward me.

“
Fairies
are in my front yard!”

He ignored me. I took a sip of coffee and wondered why everyone always gave me something to drink when I was upset. “Fairy rings, closet monsters, incubi. I quit going to my shrink too soon.”

Maurice snorted and kept working at the stove. So he
was
listening to me; he refused to answer.

I sulked and stared out the window. Mushrooms jiggled on their thick stalks, taunting me. Maurice put a plate of food in front of me, and the smell of something incredible blew into my face. I took a bite and tried not to show my pleasure.

“I’m not going to stay locked up here,” I said with my mouth full. “You can’t—oh my God, did you make these croissants from scratch?” I closed my eyes, savoring the buttery flakes dissolving in my mouth before I swallowed. I opened them again and glared. “I’m not hiding in here, so you can forget it.”

Maurice grinned in the way good cooks do when someone enjoys their food.

“It’s not forever, Zoey. Give it a little while for the ring to set. Then you can come and go as you please.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “A couple hours. The mushrooms will disappear. If you leave now, the ring won’t know you belong. Trust me. It’s a good alarm system. People won’t be able to wander in and out without us knowing about it once it’s set.”

I had the overwhelming feeling that I was being handled. It did not sit well with me. Over the last twenty-four hours I’d been dragged, pushed, guided and manipulated by an incubus, an aura-reading herbalist, a closet monster and several fairies.

“Then what? Bells ring every time a neighbor crosses into the yard for a chat? Sirens go off at three a.m. when a raccoon tries to break into the garbage can?” The food on my plate wasn’t so appealing anymore. I shoved it away and threw my crumpled napkin into the dish. “I can’t live like this. Whatever that guy was, he’s gone. I’m safe. You can’t take over my house like this.” I scraped my chair back and stood up, glaring at Maurice. His calm grated at me and served to piss me off further.

“Zoey, nobody’s taking anything over. You won’t notice the change. Trust me on this. It’s necessary.”

How was I supposed to trust a monster I met yesterday? A monster who couldn’t keep his own marriage together? I opened my mouth to say so, a thing I would have instantly regretted. Hurting people was not in my nature.

The phone rang.

I snatched it up and snarled a greeting. “What?”

“Zoey, baby. How’s my girl this morning?”

“Brad, what the hell do you want?”

“You always were grumpy first thing in the morning. Have some coffee.”

“Not the time, Brad. Spit it out or hang up.” In a small back room in my head, I felt a tiny bit of shock. I didn’t talk to people like this, not even Brad.
Whoa, girl. Ease up. You’re dangerously close to being hateful. Somebody’s feelings could get hurt.

“Ok, I gotcha. You’re on the rag. I’ll speed it up,” he said.

“Hanging up, Brad.”

“No, wait. I wanted to thank you for getting me the extra work yesterday. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What else?”

“Nothing much.” There was a pause. I could hear him breathing while he gathered his nerve to ask me for God only knew what this time. “Well, it wasn’t quite enough to get me through, so maybe, I thought, well, have you got anything else?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“No. Goodbye, Brad.”

“Wait! Could you maybe float me a couple hundred, just for the week?”

My anger level reached the boiling point and the lid blew off. “Get a goddamn job, Brad. Work like the rest of us. Or go bother your parents. Sell your body to science, for all I care. I am not your wife, your girlfriend or your banker. Piss off.” I jammed my finger on the disconnect button, wishing for an old-fashioned receiver to slam.

I dropped my phone on the table and covered my face with shaking hands.
What the hell is wrong with me?

* * *

I spent the next two hours locked in my room—crying, pouting, throwing pillows at the dresser and staring out the window. I made a brief trip to the bathroom to shower, but it didn’t help my mood. At intervals I peeked out the window and saw the mushrooms circling the house gradually diminish until I looked out and saw no sign of them.

I walked through the house and found Maurice on his knobby knees, scrubbing an old stain on the Egyptian throw rug in the living room.

“I’m going out,” I said in a cool voice.

Maurice said nothing. He nodded once and returned to dabbing at the carpet with a damp rag.

I loved my blue convertible VW Bug. Not only was it a sassy fashion statement, but it got great gas mileage. A long drive would help me think, sort through my crowded brain, in peace. I closed the car door and fumbled with the keys.
What is that obnoxious smell? Did something die in here?

I searched between and under the seats for the offender and came up empty. When I opened the glove compartment, the stench of putrefaction and decay assailed my sinuses. My hands flew to my face in a futile attempt to block it out. A small, burlap bag tied with twine sat nestled amidst my collection of extra fast-food napkins, leaving grease stains where it touched the paper. Using as little contact as possible, I pinched the rough fabric between my fingers and lifted it out, dangling it in the air. The reek was unbearable. Surely breathing it in close quarters was unhealthy. It gave off an oily, ominous feel that made me shudder. I couldn’t decide if I should toss it out the window, burn it or scream for help.

A knock on the window made me jump, causing the offensive mystery item to swing against my wrist and brush my skin. I yelped and straightened my arm. At least I hadn’t screamed.

“Son of a bitch,” I said and looked out the window. Maurice’s yellow eyes stared back at me.

I screamed.

I felt like an idiot.

He motioned for me to roll down the window. I ignored him and opened the car door, pushing him out of the way.

“What the hell?” I said.

Maurice grinned down at me. “You have to put that back, Zoey. Aggie made it for you. It’ll ward off bad stuff.”

“It
stinks
.”

“That’ll dissipate. Please put it back, Zo. You need protection whether you think so or not.”

Resigned, I made a face and tossed the thing inside, then slammed the glove compartment shut. As if I didn’t have enough going on, now I’d have to make an appointment to get my car detailed.

I pulled myself out of the car and glared up at the six-foot-tall monster smiling back at me.

“Do I want to know who Aggie is?”

Maurice shrugged. “Just a hag who lives on the other side of the woods. Your mom took care of her when she was sick sometimes. Aggie was glad to help.”

My mother had been a very busy lady.

“I’m going for a walk. No more surprises. I can’t take it.” I turned and stomped away, refusing to look back over my shoulder.

* * *

I plodded through the half mile or so of woods that separated my house from the ocean. I dragged my feet through the leaves and pine needles.

“Buying me off with food. Stinking up my car. Monsters and fairies.” I kicked a rock and watched it roll under a bush. “Hag? Really? Not even a witch. No, I have freakin’ Baba Yaga living down the street.”

I wallowed in my own petulance. I wasn’t in the habit of feeling sorry for myself, but dammit, I deserved a little pity party at this point.

“I’ll suck
you
dry. Stupid incubus.”

Once I stopped grousing and turned my attention to my surroundings, I realized how quiet it was. It could be I’d frightened the wildlife with my stomping and mumbling, but the silence was deeper than anything I could have caused. No birds scolded each other or flew overhead. Squirrels didn’t skip between the trees, tails twitching in Morse code. The breeze was slight and didn’t rustle the leaves as it passed.

My skin grew clammy and I quickened my pace. To the right, I thought I glimpsed something moving in the shadows, and I whipped my head around to catch it. To my left, something large but silent kept pace with me.

I hurried.

Behind me a twig cracked, breaking the silence. Of their own accord, my feet stopped moving and planted themselves in the dirt path. My ears twitched, and I rolled my eyes to view my surroundings without moving my head. Nothing. The forest was still quiet. The only sounds came from the surf in the distance. I took a careful step, my senses alert for the slightest noise or movement as I walked.

And now my imagination has run off and stolen what’s left of my mind.

Two minutes of paranoia later, I broke through the thick stand of conifer and eucalyptus. Dirt and pine needles under my feet gave way to hard-packed earth with sparse, gnarly growths, then dark, pebbly sand. I looked over my shoulder and saw only trees and shadow. No eyes stared at me from the brush. No talons reached to claw off my face. There was no smell of putrid, rotted flesh or wobbly zombies moaning their lust for my brains.

My shoulders loosened, and I turned my back to the empty wood.

The mixture of scents struck me first; the fresh, almost medicinal smell of the eucalyptus trees behind me merged with the salty tang of the bay before me. A powerful, instant spirit-lifter, no matter how many times I walked down this way. I bent and hiked up my green gypsy skirt so I could unlace my purple Doc Martens. I took the opportunity to peer under my arm to the woods behind me. All clear. I really was losing my mind.

I shoved the boots and socks into my bag and made my way down the beach to my favorite rock. My purse made a dull thud as it hit the sand. I gave it a critical eye. I supposed it
did
lack style. Surely it wasn’t that bad. I stepped over it toward the water and faced the Bay. The wind outside the tree cover was much stronger, whipping spray into my face and through my tangling hair. I stood like that, enjoying the emptiness and freedom for several minutes before I felt eyes watching me.

I whipped around and scanned the woods, not sure if I wanted vindication of my suspicions or more proof of my impending insanity. Off to the right, a large shadow moved and stepped into the light. For the first time in my life, I wished I were a badass chick with a crossbow or wicked knife instead of being an emotion-magnet with a fabulous sense of style.

The something from the woods was mostly furry, probably seven feet tall, and grinning at me. Bigfoot? Wendigo? Wolf Man? I bent to the side, eyes still on the creature, and felt around for my purse.

Because that’s how badass chicks take out big hairy monsters. They wallop them with their purses.

The thing took another step forward, still smiling, gave me a big, furry thumbs-up, and disappeared into the trees.

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. I was going to have to kill Maurice, plain and simple. Apparently, he thought I needed a bodyguard in addition to Fairyland home security and voodoo car fresheners.

I slumped on my rock, lost in images of fairy flyswatters and closet-monster strangulation. I picked up a pebble and hurled it at the water, watching in frustration as it fell three feet short of the water and clunked in the sand. What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn’t a violent person. I couldn’t even throw a rock without it looking like a lame, half-hearted toss.

I’d been taking care of myself (and everybody else who came along) for most of my life. After my mom disappeared, Dad had been useless. I’d been eight, but filled the gap as well as I could. My dad wilted after that. I kept him fed and going to work. He loved me, I knew that. But he wasn’t equipped to take care of himself, let alone a motherless daughter. It wasn’t easy on me either, but I was more adaptable.

And now I had a better understanding of why. I’d taken my dad’s grief and loneliness into myself. I understood it better than he did, and I tried to pour love into him. Over the years he became stronger, and the light in his eyes returned for short bursts, but the loss was a permanent scar. His death when I was nineteen had been hard, but I would never forget the relief on his face when he finally stopped fighting and let go.