My client is bleeding again. It oozes through the pores on her forehead, tiny pinpricks of red, like freckles, before it spreads downward between her eyes and the bridge of her nose, then outward toward her cheeks until her entire face becomes red and splotchy. Before long, her features will change. Her jawline will harden, the muscles and tendons in her arms and legs will lengthen, hard keratins will jut out of her skin, and tiny knobs will protrude from her back. But the worst part will be the eyes, hard, yellow, and merciless eyes that slice through you like a knife.
I bolt up from the chair and yell at everybody to get out. There are seven guests, mostly friends I’ve known since college. I invited them over for pizza and beer and to listen to music. Since I started working with Caroline, I haven’t had anybody over. I haven’t gone out or done anything except waste time on social media and look after Caroline. My first night to myself and she ruined it.
“Come on, everybody out. Party’s over.”
My friends look at me like I’m crazy. They don’t notice Caroline transforming right in front of them. That’s how it usually happens. Nobody knows what’s going on until it’s too late. Thank God they have me.
“Come on,” I say, then stomp into the foyer to grab coats and jackets from the coat rack and thrust them into their arms. They are still puzzled, still confused, still oblivious.
“What the f––?” Raython says as I shove his fleece into his arms. He balances the coat while trying not to spill his pizza and beer. He pulls me a look, again like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
“I’ll explain later. Just go, please.”
Murmurs of anger and confusion and heavy footfalls trampling into the foyer resound through the house, masking Caroline’s soft moans. As soon as the front door slams shut, I race over to her and try to get her to her feet. She looks up at me, her face now completely red and oily, and smiles dumbly.
“Did you take your pills?” I say, though stupidly I know she hadn’t. She never does what she promises. “Did you?” I shout.
“They make me googly.”
Her head droops and her chin presses against her clavicle, which is now hardening and growing more prominently beneath the thin fabric of her off-the-shoulder blouse. Her hair has thinned, and become more raggedy, like she hadn’t washed it in weeks. The transformation happens so quickly, yet it takes hours before completion. I have enough time, just enough to stop it maybe.
“Come on, Care, stay with me.”
I manage to get her to her feet, though she feels like a ton in my arms. She’s bony, and not very tall. With her white blouse, she wears a pair of tight jeans and canvas shoes. She looks so normal that if you saw her walking down the street you’d never know the terror she was capable of.
Her bones make popping sounds when she walks. She’s heavy and fragile all at once. “You were supposed to take your pill,” I shout.
She swivels her head to look at me. Her eyes are still brown, but they are starting to lighten into a frightening translucence. “You know they never work.”
I press my lips tight because I can’t argue against this. We tricked her psychiatrist into prescribing Paxil and Celexa, hoping they might suppress some of the emotional triggers that start the transformation, but instead, all they do is make her more tired and irritable. But we have noticed some positive results. She doesn’t transform as much as she used to. It’s been three months since her last transformation. But she hates taking the meds. They make her tired. She will sleep for hours in her room, covered in blankets, and rarely eats anything more than beef broth and toast. You can’t blame me if I prefer those quiet hours when she’s out of her gourd. So the fact that she did not take her meds on the night of my party, the one night I had to myself, makes me want to hit her. But there is no fighting her; she will always win.
“I ruined your party, didn’t I?” I guide her up the steps, one awful, frustrating step at a time. “I ruin everything for you, don’t I?”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I get her to her room, clean her up as best I can, then get her into bed. The process is a long and slow one, so I’m hoping that if I give her the meds now we might be able to stop it in its tracks. Or, if push comes to shove, slow it down. I go into the small bathroom in her room and rifle through the medicine cabinet. The two sepia-colored vials containing her pills stand neatly on the second shelf, one next to the other, their white capsules peeking promisingly through the amber plastic. I grab both vials, fill up a glass of water from the tap, then dampen the washcloth I cleaned her with again. As I squeeze out the excess, the white porcelain sink turns pink with blood.
Returning to her bedside, I give her the pills she takes without arguing, then pull up a chair and dab her forehead and cheeks with the damp cloth. Each time I wipe away the blood, her pores fill up again and her skin turns red.
She looks at me. “You know they don’t work.”
“Let’s just see, all right.” I dab at the blood again.
“It was the boys. That was what triggered it. Their smell, always their smell––very musty, funky, you know? I can’t help it. You know that. I can’t help what I am. You shouldn’t have invited them, Aisha. That was your mistake. You don’t need them anyway.”
I don’t say anything.
“The pills won’t work. I only take them because it makes you feel better.”
“Screw you,” I say at last. “You think I’m here ’cause I want to be.”
She shrugs. “You’re here ’cause Nana paid you to be.”
“Damn straight.”
“But that’s not the only reason why you’re here.”
I fruitlessly dab the blood away, then sigh. She’s right. The pills won’t do a damn thing. She will transform and become the horrible thing I was paid to protect the world from. To keep an eye on. Always the mule and never the driver.
“I’m gonna have to lock you in the attic.”
She smiles wistfully. “I know. But,” she pauses, her voice growing faint, “just stay with me here for a little bit. Please? Just stay with me.” She leans her head on my shoulder. She’s like a brat sometimes, unaware of how awful she can be.
I started working for Caroline three years ago, first to care for her grandmother who was infirm and suffering from dementia, and then for Caroline herself, whom her Nana, during her rare moments of lucidity, begged me to look after her once she died. I won’t lie. A huge part of it was the money. Her Nana had married into some money and when her husband died he left her a substantial sum which she didn’t do much with except let go to seed in the bank. After she died, Caroline’s Nana left the money to her and codified that I was to look after Caroline and her fortune. I was left some of that money too, so that was why I stayed even after I found out why Caroline needed looking after (it wasn’t because of what I originally thought, that she was mentally challenged, just a little slow, and needed some assisted care). “You don’t have to be scared of her,” her grandmother told me cryptically before she died. “If you’re good to her, she won’t hurt you.” I didn’t know what she meant at the time. I thought she was just losing it. If I knew what I was getting myself into, I would have gotten the hell out of there. I wouldn’t have been dazzled by the coins they dangled in my face. I wouldn’t be in this trap right now.
After a while, she asks me if I’m mad. I am. Mad as hell. Mad enough to scream and holler and knock things off shelves like they do in the movies. But instead, I shake my head and tell her I’m not. She rests her head on my shoulder again and begins to breathe shallowly. We stay like this for a long time until I notice that her features are hardening, turning gray. I’ve never seen her in her final incarnation. I usually get her to the attic before that, and whatever hellish thing she becomes stays only in my imagination. The eyes, the first time I saw them––that was enough! She doesn’t seem to mind me seeing her in that state. She’ll delay the point of going to the attic as long as possible, to make sure I see bits and pieces of her transformation, hoping I guess that I will see her as she really is. And for what? To become complicit? To become her accomplice? Her ally? She doesn’t care what that might do to me. When she is like this, she doesn’t care about anything. Except feeding.
I shake her awake and then get her out of bed. “Come on,” I say.
She lets me guide her to the attic. She’s heavy in my arms and she struggles to walk. Her legs have bent backward at the knees, and she walks like a chicken or goose, taking one slow step after the next.
I pull down the ladder into the attic, then help her climb each rung. She grasps them and lets out a little moan. From below, I can already see where her body is reshaping its form. Her clothes begin to sag on her as her upper body and waist grow slimmer, longer, bent. I can see the nubs on her back straining against the thin fabric of her blouse.
I climb inside the attic behind her. It’s dark. The only light is the moonshine glowing in the one window up front and falling in a soft rectangle against the wood-beamed floor. A light bulb dangles from the slanted roof, and all I have to do is pull on the string to see the horror developing in front of me. But I don’t dare, and she doesn’t ask. She prefers the dark. I hear her lying down on the pallet that we already arranged up here, moaning and turning restlessly. I go back downstairs and get bowls of fresh water and raw chicken, then tell her that I will be downstairs if she needs me. It’s a weird thing to say, but I find myself saying it every time. If she needs me, I’ll be downstairs. She doesn’t say anything but moans quietly to herself.
I leave the attic, then bolt the door with a long wooden beam.
The next hour I spend cleaning up, throwing away paper plates, washing cups, sweeping, and wiping counters. The couch cushion is stained with sauce, so I clean that up as best I can, then turn over the cushion to hide the wet spot. Once I finish, I shower, get into my jammies, go to my room, and surf social media sites on my phone. I put in headphones to block out the noise. I can already hear it––the shuffling, the heavy footsteps, the flapping of wings.
“She won’t ever hurt you if you’re nice to her,” her Nana said. All I’ve ever been was nice to her, and what did that get me?
Sometime during the night I fall asleep. I wake up with a jolt, pull the buds from my ears, and lift my eyes to the ceiling. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Maybe the drugs helped after all.
Yawning, I turn off the light, pull the bed sheets up to my chin, and nod off.
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up again, screaming as if somebody had stabbed me in the heart. I bolt up to the noise of glass falling, shattering, and heavy, violent noises above. My heart sinks. “No,” I mutter, then jump out of bed and run to the window.
In the dark outside, beyond the trees in the front yard, a shadow floats above the houses, its large wings flapping against the wind.
“No,” I cry, then race to the attic and yank on the overhead bulb string, flooding the bare attic with light. The pallet in the corner is empty. The window is broken. Jagged pieces of glass stick up out of the frame. Down below, more glass on the cement walk glints in the moonlight. I can still see her in the distance, winging her way somewhere. She is on the hunt.
“You shouldn’t have invited them.”
Cursing to myself, I run back downstairs, put on my shoes, grab my phone, keys, and coat, and head outdoors.
Never, never has anything like this happened before. Not all the time I looked after her. She always obeyed. Always stayed put. Why the hell now?
I tear out of the driveway and head in the direction I saw her flying. I don’t know where she’s going or what she intends to do, though my head is full of nasty ideas.
I peer through the windshield at the sky above, hoping to get a glimpse of her. When I do, flying in the southerly direction, I slam on the pedal and follow.
The streets are nearly empty, but once I hit the main thoroughfare, I run into traffic. The street light turns red at an intersection and I skid to a stop and keep my eyes on the sky and the street lamp, waiting for it to turn green and pounding my hands on the wheel with each long second. Caroline continues in the same direction south, a shadow in the sky lit up by city lights growing smaller and smaller.
“Come on,” I groan. When the light finally turns green, I step on the pedal and continue south.
I look in the spot where I last saw her, but now she’s gone.
My heart pounds. Sweat pours down my forehead. My whole body is shaking. And I can taste metal in my mouth. It’s nearly midnight. What the hell am I doing?
“Come on, where you at?”
In the distance, through the glare of city lights, I pick up on her again, a dark figure moving clumsily in the air, wings flapping, flapping. Not an airplane. Not a helicopter. I breathe out heavily, partly relieved, but still petrified. What happens when I reach her? What will I do? I shake my head. I can’t even think.
But as I keep my eyes glued on her, it hits me like a two-by-four where she’s going. Raython lives seven miles in the direction she’s headed.
“You shouldn’t have invited them.”
“Oh, God,” I murmur, feeling myself sink into the car seat.
I reach for my phone and call Raython. The end of his line buzzes and buzzes, but I get no answer. “Come on, Ray. Pick up,” I scream. The line buzzes another minute. I’m about to hang up and call again when I get an answer.
“Raython––”
“The number you dialed is unavailable at this moment…”
“Damn!”
I toss the phone on the seat and keep driving.
My eyes never leave the dark blot in the sky, flapping, flapping.
I grip the wheel and keep my eyes on the road. I enter a residential area. Houses lit up by porch lights but shuttered in darkness inside. Nobody knows the horror that’s going on in their midst. I breathe heavily through my nose as I scan the sky again, then jump when my phone buzzes. I quickly grab it and answer. Raython’s tired voice appears on the other end.
“Yeah?”
“Raython? This Aisha. Where you at?”
“Home.”
“Do me a fav––”
“I was sleeping.”
“Okay, but do me––”
“I got work tomorrow…what is it?”
“Lock your doors and windows.”
“What?”
I peer out the windshield again. The blot circles around an area lined by tall trees that bend in the wind. She is flying over the local park. It’s a big park, with a creek flowing through it, a children’s play area up front, next to the tennis court, and beyond, several baseball fields, and another line of eucalyptus trees that separates the park from an apartment complex. I’ve been to that park countless times. During the day, it’s fairly busy with joggers, dog walkers, and pickle ball players, but at this hour, it’s empty. Or maybe not.
“Lock your door and windows tight. And don’t answer it for nobody. You hear? No matter what happens––”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“Ray––”
I hear the other voice, faint, distant, and female. “Just do what I say, okay?”
“Okay, okay––”
“I’ll explain later.”
I hear a deep sigh, then another “okay” before he hangs up. I don’t know if he took me seriously, but as I glance back at the gray blot in the sky, my heart catches again. It dips below the tree line. She isn’t after Raython––he lives another two miles from the park. But she’s picked up a scent and she’s on the hunt.
Slamming my foot on the pedal, I speed past the stop sign at a thoroughfare and race toward the park.
Once I get there, I screech to a halt, climb out, and race up a path that leads into the park. On one side, there is a large playground in a sunken sandpit, its metal glinting softly in the streetlamps marking the way. The other side is lined with trees and thick underbrush. The night is noisy with the steady gurgling of water flowing out of a culvert and the wind blowing through the foliage. The rattling leaves sound like they’re screaming.
But the trees aren’t screaming!
As I enter the park, two young people run toward me and round the bend, screaming for their lives. They’re older teens, wearing hooded parkas and backpacks.
They race past me into the street, still screaming as if their lives depend on it.
My heart lurches.
Another scream comes from inside the park. But this one is bloodcurdling, terrifying.
My feet are frozen to the pavement, but when another scream cuts through the rustling trees and then falls silent, I get into gear and run. When I reach the large grassy area in front, with its pines and picnic benches along the edges and baseball fields toward the rear, I skid to a stop and widen my eyes in horror. There she is, in the middle of the field, behind a slight incline.
Caroline.
My mind doesn’t register what I see. Huge wings half-folded, drooping breasts, feathered belly, enormous talons gripping, clasping a body underneath it, ripping, shredding flesh, muscles, sinews. A coarse, hard face, locks flowing in the wind. The smell of blood. Heavy. My mind shuts down.
The wind screams.
I run back to my car, my mind focused on the only thing it allows me to remember, the only thing of her in this incarnation I have ever seen––the eyes, yellow, glowing, fierce, malevolent.
Evil.
The last time I saw those eyes was by accident. She had gone up to the attic without saying anything to me. It was the first time she went under the transformation while she was under my care and she didn’t want me to know why she needed so much looking after (it was the only time since working for her that she thought about anyone but herself, though I’m sure she did it more out of embarrassment). I cleaned up downstairs and got ready for bed when I heard the knocking upstairs, the moans, the fluttering of wings. Thinking a bird or a raccoon had gotten inside, I went up to the attic and asked Caroline what was going on. When I didn’t get an answer, I pushed the door inward and stuck my head through the threshold, I looked around the dark attic, and saw those two eyes staring back at me!
“You don’t have to be scared of her. She won’t hurt you if you’re nice to her.”
I jump back into the car and gun the motor.
The sound of flapping wings echoes over the treetops and head toward my car. Beyond the side window, a shadow inches across the pavement and flutters over the windshield. I slam my foot on the pedal and peel back onto the street.
I drive blindly past stop signs, nearly colliding with other cars, all the while keeping my eyes peeled to the sky. The shadow darkens the windshield, two wings flapping across the glass. I lean forward and catch a glimpse of her.
My heart is screaming in my ears and I can barely grip the wheel. I’m shaking so badly I’m scared I’ll wrap this car around a streetlamp.
But somehow I manage my way home.
By the time I fit the key into the lock, I hear her fierce, hawk-like cry and, startled, glance over my shoulder to see her winging over the rooftops toward me.
I push open the door, run inside, and lock it. Remembering the attic and the broken window, I race upstairs to bolt the entrance. By the time I reach the second floor, I can hear her on the rooftop, talons scratching, wings fluttering, and a heavy pounding. She’s trying to get back into the house through the attic window.
I shut the attic door, lock myself inside my bedroom, and crawl into bed. She makes such a huge racket that I know she will wake the entire neighborhood. I sit trembling in bed, waiting to hear the distant scream of sirens, but there are no sirens. Nobody will save me.
The next morning I wake up with iron in my mouth and the sun blasting through my windows and falling across my face. Birds sing in the tree outside. A car rumbles past. The world doesn’t seem any less normal than it was before.
I sit up and listen for more sounds. Scarier, less familiar sounds. But all I hear are people starting their day as if nothing happened. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe last night was a dream. Maybe. But the memory of what happened is still there like a sour taste in the back of my mouth. When I pull back the sheets and notice I am still wearing the coat and street clothes from last night, I realize that last night was no dream. It was a nightmare.
Climbing out of bed, I step into the quiet hallway, fresh with morning sunlight, and go over to the attic. The door is still bolted tight. The transformation is likely over. Caroline got what she wanted.
There’s moaning and shifting inside. Something about it sounds normal, familiar. Human.
I pull the bar of wood out of its latch, slowly push open the door, and peek my head through. Light falls through the broken window. Shards of glass scattered on the floor glint in the sunshine. Among them are feathers and blood. The bowls of water and raw meat are still untouched, though flies buzz around them and the rotting chicken stinks like hell. The string to the overhead lightbulb dangles and swings softly. Nearby in the corner, Caroline, naked and drenched in blood, trembles on the pallet. She shoots her gaze in my direction, then throws an arm toward me.
“Help me.”
I freeze just inside the threshold of the attic door.
She drills her intense eyes into me. “Help me, Aisha.” When I don’t move, she repeats her plea, this time more forcefully, firmly, in control. “Help me.”
I enter the attic, remove my coat, and throw it around her shoulders. As I help her to her feet, she leans against me and begins to tremble. Her wet and stringy hair falls into my face. Her breath is hot and rank.
We climb down the steps and enter the hallway. She looks wildly around her as if she doesn’t know where she is, then turns her bulging eyes to me. For a second, she looks afraid, but then a little smile appears on her lips. She squeezes my arm.
“Aisha,” she murmurs and smiles. I look down at her hand. One finger squeezes tight into my skin. It is long and shaped like a black, smooth, and sharp talon. I look up at her again, horror-stricken. “Don’t worry, Aisha,” she murmurs as she rests her head on my shoulder. “I’ll never let you go.”
My heart fills with dread once more.
