Because the funny thing about the scratching sound is that it does seem to be getting louder. More insistent. And, there’s another thing. I notice that the closer I get to the scratching sound . . . the louder and more insistent it gets. Like “the cat,” which is obviously not anything more terrifying than a fluffy little feline, seems to know I am on the other side of the wall, getting closer. And . . . the closer I get, the more “the cat” seems to want to come in.
I decide to conduct an experiment. I close the pantry door, walk a few steps into the kitchen, and listen for the scratching. Dimmer. Softer. Slower. Now . . . I walk a few steps closer to the pantry, open the door, and move in toward the scratching sound. . . . Louder. Faster. More frantic.
So.
Somehow this thing, aka “the cat,” on the other side of the wall is aware of me. Aware of my presence. And animated by my presence.
It is here that I make an executive decision:
Go to bed.
If I go upstairs to bed, then I won’t hear the scratching sound and if I don’t hear the scratching sound, then it, quite simply, doesn’t exist. I can always watch Ancient Aliens on my laptop with my headphones on and not a care in the world. Also, if the scratching sound gets worse when I get closer, then it falls to reason that the farther away I get from the sound, the more likely it is to stop.
I am in the middle of telling myself this when the scratching sound abruptly stops. As if whatever the scratching sound was, it read my thoughts and decided to agree with me. Now the house is completely silent.
Okaaaay.
I find myself backing up out of the kitchen, out through the hallway, up the stairs, up the second-floor stairs, and to my humble little bedroom attic abode. I find myself desperately grateful for technology and the lull of my sweet laptop. Before I allow myself to feel anything approximating fear, I snap my headphones into place and get back to the lore of the ancient Sumerians.
But I do have a quick thought.
In the morning, I will check outside, on the other side of the pantry, and then I will see there is nothing there.
Of course, that is only logical.
Chapter 11
There’s a dangerous time in the morning when I wake up, in that moment between dreaming and waking. It’s a time I’ve noticed I can easily think about the thing to never think about back home. You see, my conscious mind is really quite good at squashing down any unwanted thought and burying it under the rug. But my unconscious mind, my dreaming mind, well, that’s where the trouble is.
I came all the way out to the middle of nowhere to not have to think about this thing and, by God, I am going to stick to it.
Maybe if I set an alarm it will wake me up so quickly, so abruptly, that my subconscious mind will be scattered away. Hurried off in a fit of the living. I’ll banish it.
I know. You’d like to know what it is. I understand. But I know what you’d think if you knew about it. I know what you’d think because it’s exactly what I’d think. I’m not immune to it. Believe me, this is better left under the rug.
Just keep it there.
But maybe I can give you the first part. The part I just dreamed about. Maybe the first part is something nice. Something you could believe in. Something you could love.
That part starts, would you believe it, at a carnival. A state fair. The Nebraska State Fair to be exact. Every fall in Lincoln, Nebraska, all the pig owners and pumpkin growers and children’s art classes and roller coasters and Zipper rides and sailing ships rides come into town, set themselves squarely on the meadows outside of town, and wait for the fun to explode.
And, growing up in Nebraska, that is just what you’d do. You would, as a child, look forward to it, ask your folks about it, when is it coming, when is it coming? Then, as a teenager, you would discuss it with your friends. When are we going? Are we all going as a group? The first Friday? Or maybe Saturday? Are we meeting before?
On this particular night, fall of ninth grade, we were all going as a group. Five girls, from Pound Junior High, in it together. Yes, I realize Pound Junior High is an unfortunate name. Believe me, we’ve heard it. Dog Pound. Roof Roof! Bark bark, how is the doggy pound? It’s okay, we’re over it.
The important thing about all of us girls having gone to Pound is that there was another junior high school on our side of town, Irving Junior High, that fed into our soon-to-be high school. Lincoln Southeast High School. Now, Irving Junior High was the rich kid’s junior high. The kids there lived on Sheridan Boulevard and all grew up in what I can only imagine were enormous bedrooms and additional playrooms piled up to the ceiling with toys and video games and a thousand stuffed animals.
It was inevitable that we would hear bits and pieces from Irving, but just enough to keep our curiosity piqued. Now, Pound Junior High had a few upper-middle-class kids but I was not one of them. I grew up with my grandma in a ranch house near the eastern edge of town. Yes, I had a few toys. But there were hardly piles of them. And we went to church a lot. A. LOT. Sometimes my grandma would actually speak at the church, like do that day’s readings from the Bible. So, you know, it was all pretty serious.
We can talk later about why I lived with her. Then you can judge.
At this moment I’m letting you hear about, we’re at the Nebraska State Fair. The sun has gone down and the lights of the Zipper are flying up and down behind my friends, who are all crouched together, whispering excitedly. I dip my head in.
“What? What are you guys talking about?” I whisper.
“They’re there,” my bossy friend Callie replies.
“Who’s there? Where?”
“Right there! Don’t look!” Callie gestures with her head, subtle, and I follow to what looks to be a group of shadows, at the foot of the Zipper.
“Did they see us?” Callie whispers, serious.
“I don’t think so. Who is that, anyway?” I ask.
“Who is that?! Who is that?” Callie looks at me in astonishment. “That is only the only people from Irving Junior High we care about. And that we have to get to like us. Next year. Or we can kiss high school goodbye.”
“Really? Why? Why would we kiss high school goodbye . . . ?”
“There he is. Did he see me?” Callie is practically hyperventilating. But our mutual friend, Sally, placates her.
“No, you’re fine. He didn’t see you,” she soothes.
“Who didn’t see you?” I ask.
Callie rolls her eyes at me. “Zander Haaf.”
I meet this declaration with a stone-cold look of . . . nothing.
“Zander Haaf! You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of Zander Haaf?” She rolls her eyes at me again. Callie rolls her eyes a lot. It’s how she got to be the queen of Pound Junior High.
Sally leans in. “It’s okay, I hadn’t heard of him till last year, either.”
“That’s because you never pay attention.” Callie is somehow getting meaner by the minute. “Is he looking at me now?”
Sally and I look over to the teenage figures entering the Zipper.
“No. They are definitely not paying attention,” I admit.
“They’re just getting on the ride,” Sally adds.
“Fine.” Callie huffs off in the direction of the funnel cakes.
Something about Callie huffing off gets the attention of one of the Zipper guys from Irving. He looks at her. Then looks to where she came from. Then looks at us.