Demonica (2 page)

2

Revenge

“Do I believe in
what
?”

My mom cast me an incredulous sideways glance without halting her effort to put the groceries away. The woman was a master of multitasking and would never forsake her able and moving limbs while engaged in conversation. Currently, she was balancing canned soup while attempting to stack them in alphabetical order in the pantry.

“Ghosts,” I repeated, crossing my legs innocently. “Do you believe in ‘em?”

I was seated at the barstool of our island countertop, watching Mrs. Martha Binsfeld as she sorted the last of her cans. Anyone observing might have considered me rude not offering to help. In reality, anytime I
did
bother to help, she would simply resort everything. People called my mother obsessive-compulsive jokingly. Bullshit. She was Adrian fucking Monk, Housewife Edition.

“You haven’t been talking with Zoey again, have you?” she asked.

She shot me a stern glance. It was difficult, however, to take seriously any stern expression on her soft face. Like myself, she was a redhead, but her hair was curled into perfect tufts that ended halfway down her neck. She appeared about as threatening as a Raggedy Ann doll. The woman was a walking contradiction, however. She still had a tattoo on her ankle from her college days—a star with a circle of Latin words around it. When I asked my mom about it, she claimed it said:
You only live once
. Yep. YOLO. When I asked my dad about it, he suspected she was probably baked out her mind and brought a Ouija board with her to the tattoo parlor. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t take her seriously.

I rolled my eyes. “Zoey’s my best friend. Of course I’ve been talking to her, and no, that’s not why I’m asking.”

“So why the sudden curiosity?” she asked. She propped her hands on her waist, still holding a block of cheese and a tub of sour cream.

“I dunno,” I said. “Just…curious, I guess. Is that a crime?”

“No, it’s just weird.” My mom returned to her dairy products.

“So…do you? Believe in ghosts, I mean?”

“Well I suppose that depends on what you mean by ‘ghost.’”

My mom was a very intelligent person by anybody’s standards. But god help me if the woman knew how to provide a direct answer to a simple question. “What do you mean, what do
I
mean?”

“Well if you’re asking if I believe in friendly marshmallow-ghosts like Casper, or hunky, romantic Patrick Swayze-ghosts that have to finish their business, then no, I don’t believe in ghosts. But I do believe that when we die, our spirits continue on. And I imagine it might be hard for some spirits to let go of the ones they love. They probably watch them when they need to be watched.”

Oooookaaaaay
. It was obvious my mother was referring to Cate. This was the sort of sappy bullshit answer I expected from her. Not the one I was looking for. “What about spirits you’ve never met before watching you? Like…stalker-watching you?”

Mom didn’t even need to finish putting away the groceries for me to have her undivided attention at this point. “What in god’s name are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said, quick to change the subject. No need to convince my mom that her daughter was a delusional psycho-fuck. If she knew I was seeing handsome disappearing strangers, she would think I needed to see a psychiatrist. And believe you me, my paranoid-as-shit mother
would
take me to a shrink. Even if she had to tranquilize me and drag me there herself. And now, for a quick subject change: “Did you know that Casey is going hunting
tonight
? After dark? Is that even legal? I mean…he said it is, but is it?”

All of these words erupted from my mouth in one unintelligible slur. Had my mother been anyone other than supermom, she probably wouldn’t have understood a word. And even if she didn’t, she was at least good at pretending. “I don’t know, hon. Ask your father.”

My mom tended to stay out of Casey’s business. Really, we all did. Which gave the kid much more freedom than he needed.

I left the kitchen—grateful that my mom did not suspect me of needing special psychiatric attention or shock therapy or a lobotomy or anything—and found my dad in the living room. He was watching an edge-of-your-seat football game on our brand new widescreen HDTV. Literally “edge-of-your-fucking-seat.” Mr. Walter Binsfeld’s butt was barely touching the edge of his tan leather La-Z-Boy.

“Hey, Daddy,” I greeted, hoping at least to achieve eye-contact with the old man. He still had the same burly build of his own early football days, but was now fifty pounds heavier, with every last ounce of it strapped to his gut.

My dad hugged his bowl of popcorn close as opposing teams collided. “Uh-huh?”

“Did you know that Casey is planning on going hunting tonight after dark?”

“That’s great, sweetie. That’s—WHAT! Come on, ref! I mean—seriously! What, are these refs on Oklahoma’s payroll? I can’t believe this!”

Okay, mission failed. Without a second thought, I slumped out of the room and climbed the stairs. Crossing through the hall to my bedroom, I caught sight of Casey with his bedroom door wide open. He was cleaning the barrel of an overly elaborate rifle with a scope. I walked faster and shut my bedroom door behind me.

In a running dive, I belly-flopped onto my bed and screamed into my pillow. As soon as that much-needed outburst was let loose, I rolled onto my back, glaring at the pale green glow-in-the-dark stars adorning my ceiling.

My bedroom had literally not changed in five years. The last time I decorated it, I was eleven. This much was obvious, judging from the Justin Timberlake posters and enough frilly pink on my bed set to choke Hello Kitty.

After seventeen seconds of torturous silence, I slid my cell phone out of my pocket. I scanned through my contact list for the one name that could pull me out of my current state of pre-weekend insanity. Skipping through the entire alphabet, I hit call.

The other line rang only twice before answering. “Sup, bitch,” said a spunky girl on the other end.

“Zoey, I’m losing my mind,” I said.

“Roger that. I’ll be over in a sec,” said Zoey.

“Can we do your place? My house is the root of the problem.”

“Uh-oh, shit’s real. This calls for pedicures. Get your ginger ass over here.”

Resurrecting from my frilly pink grave, I crossed the hall past Casey’s room, through the living room where my dad was cussing out the ref and the entire goddamned state of Oklahoma, and past the kitchen where my mom was mad at work with some dish involving bell peppers. All three individuals seemed relatively oblivious to my petty existence. Exiting the front door, my eyes were immediately assaulted by a flood of Louisiana-green forestation.

We lived on the very outskirts of Villeneuve, smack dab in the middle of Mother Nature. As such, the driveway of our pastel-blue two story ended at a gravel road. Looking both ways like a good pedestrian, I dashed across the road to the eggshell-white house across the street. Zoey and I were past knocking two years ago. I let myself in. I drew the attention of her family’s bulldog, Cookie Monster. He did this sort of pig-snort-thing at me and then rested his bulky head on the carpet. I rushed around the corner to the first bedroom on the left.

“What took you so long?” Zoey lifted her head of black and blue hair from her vast armada of nail polishes lined up on the bedside table.

“Uh…well, I looked both ways before crossing the street,” I said.

“Safety freak. Give me your feet. We’ve got work to do.”

If Zoey’s blue-streaked hair wasn’t a dead giveaway of her personality, her runaway thrift store style was. She was currently wearing a tight Led Zeppelin shirt cut off at her midsection, exposing her belly button ring and the dragonfly tattoo on her lower back. She was also sporting plaid skinny jeans that were meticulously ripped to shreds. Did the girl like to stick out? Chyeah. Like a boner.

Kicking off my shoes, I pulled my socks off inside out and dropped them on the floor. I then hopped on Zoey’s bed and surrendered my feet to her.

“So what seems to be the problem?” she asked in what would have seemed a professional psychiatric manner, had she not been stuffing foam between my toes. Being the hopelessly ticklish person that I am, I could not help but laugh.

“Problemsssss,” I said. “Well, two of them, at least.”

“Which are…?” I could already feel the cold nail polish remover on cotton balls. The girl was a fast worker.

“Number one: Casey has a deathwish.”

Zoey shook her head and
tsked
discouragingly. “Of all the wishes to have. And to kill a godlike body like that?” She licked her glossy lips with a daydreamy smile.

Zoey’s had a thing for my brother since before Cate. Since we were all in elementary school, really. Zoey is also a big, fat chicken and has probably spoken half-a-dozen whole sentences to him in her entire life. The day that she actually flirted with Casey would be the day that Keanu Reeves wins an Honorary Academy Award for Who The Fuck Knows What. After the initial shock of the Cate tragedy, she tried to be devastated, but there was no hiding the glow of excitement in her eyes. Ever since then, her fetish with my brother has grown beyond ridiculous.

I cleared my throat and raised a second finger. “Number two: I’m being stalked by a sexy ghost.”

By some miracle of pedicure artistry, Zoey had already finished removing my old nail polish and was fast at work on my right big toe when her head perked up at this announcement. “You’re being what by a what?”

“
Stalked
by a
ghost
. And, for the record, he’s way hotter than my brother.”

“Okay, one…” said Zoey, lifting her finger at me. “That’s impossible. B: you’re crazy. Three: that’s impossible.”

“One, B, three?”

“Hey, you’re claiming to be stalked by the ghost of Hollister past,” said Zoey. “And how am I even supposed to take you seriously when you keep laughing?”

“Hey, I’m ticklish! Sue me!”

She was right though. I wasn’t making a very believable case for myself. Rolling my head back on the mattress, I sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

“May I ask why you think
this guy is a ghost and he’s stalking you?” I could feel her already at work on my left foot.

“Well, it all started when Casey and I were having lunch at that Italian joint on State Street.”

“Mmm, Leonardo’s. I love that place.”

“Meh, it’s alright.”

“Psh! Anorexics have no taste in good Italian.”

My eyes went wide, and my mouth sputtered open. “I am
not
—!”

“Go on, tell your story,” said Zoey. “You and your sex-god brother were having fabulous Italian at Leonardo’s and…?”

“And then I saw him. Outside the window. The
real
sex god, and he was staring at me. And then I look away for one second, and he’s gone.”

This time Zoey rolled her eyes back at me. “That doesn’t mean he’s a ghost, Monica. And if this guy was really a sex god, he was probably checking out his reflection in the glass,
not
stalking you. I think I see your brother looking at me all the time, but ten bucks says he doesn’t even know my name. And I’ve been to your house a billion times! It’s just those cute guy eyes, Monica. They always look like they’re looking at us because we
want
them to look at us.”

“But it happened twice. And the second time, he was across the street.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Zoey, groaning her exasperation. “Maybe you’re schizophrenic, and he’s a product of your deranged ginger mind. But a ghost? Seriously?”

She had a point. Of all the many explanations for what I had seen earlier this afternoon, ghosts were definitely not on the more plausible end of the spectrum.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m going crazy.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you for years, darling.” Dotting my pinky toe one last time with her nail polish brush, she sat up straight and threw her hands in the air. “Voilà! Now don’t get too turned on when I blow on your toes.”

Before I could respond, she was blowing, making deliberate raspberry sounds in the process.

“Blow, don’t spit, please,” I said.

“What was that? I just heard spit. Okay!”

She continued to blow obnoxiously on my toes for a few seconds longer. At least if I was literally crazy, Zoey would still be good company. With a final huff, she sat back up.

“Alright, my dear. Are you ready to witness sheer pedicure artistry?”

Propping myself upright on my elbows, I flicked my toes up. What I witnessed was sheer pedicure anarchy. My right toenails were painted white, black, white, black, white. My left had no discernible pattern at all: yellow, purple, green, red, and blue. It was almost a headache looking at my feet for too long.

“Wow, Zoey, I…wow,” I said. I was struggling for appropriate words, and then finally spat out my immediate reaction. “Is there a name for what you just did to my toenails?”

“I like to call it art,” said Zoey.

“Really? Huh. Because I was thinking my left foot looks like a bag of Skittles, and my right foot looks like a piano.”

“Well that’s the beautiful thing about art. Everyone is entitled to their own interpretation.”

“Yeah, thanks, Picasso.”

“Anytime,” said Zoey. “So, future sister-in-law…tell me about this death wish my future husband has.”

I plopped myself back down on the bed, nauseated by a wave of my earlier frustration. “He thinks it’s a good idea to go hunting at night.”

“At night?”

“Tonight,” I said. “Says he’s been planning it for a month.”

Zoey’s lips pressed into a straight line. “That’s weird. What’s so special about tonight?”

“I don’t know. Probably his way of saying I can’t talk him out of it.” I turned my head to the side, meeting my best friend’s gaze. “Am I really that predictable?”

“Only when you’re trying to be a goody-goody sister. Which is all the time.”

“I’m not a goody-goody. Why does everybody suddenly think I’m so fucking nice? I mean…fuck. I swear like fucking Eric Cartman.”

“Hey. I’ll have you know that potty mouths are some of the nicest people I know. I think it’s like a psychological release or something. Let’s people see the world clearly so they can follow Jesus and shit.”