The Becoming

His head and arms and chest were heavy with the weight of a deep sleep. Strange scents entered his nose: those that compiled another person’s life. He was laying on a lumpy mattress under a thick layer of blankets. His crotch and legs were damp and the jean material stuck to him. When was the last time he’d wet himself? He kicked the covers away, there were at least three layers, and discovered he’d been laying in his shoes. Across the small room were two doors, one he guessed was a closet by its narrowness. The wall before his feet had a large window inlaid at what would be head level if he were standing, the blinds were drawn. Next to him was a night stand where a lone glass of water stood. He made to reach for it but found that his hands were bound by a plastic tie. He tested the resistance and succeeded in nothing more than marking up his wrists. His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow. He needed that water. He sat up, bent over the nightstand and sipped from the glass like a crane. He was only able to take a few gulps before the water level was so low he couldn’t even dip his tongue. He held the glass by his teeth and tipped it sideways. A bit of water slid into his mouth before slipping away. The glass fell on the tabletop and rolled down to the carpet. Water hemorrhaged across the surface and dripped along the sides.

“No,” he whispered, closing his eyes and tightening every muscle in his body. He dropped his head and waited for reprimand. Every quiet second left unbroken made his anxiety worse. Just do it, he thought. Just come in here already.

Then someone did enter.

He couldn’t face them. He thought of Grandma. And of the way the light filled his room on summer mornings. And how the kitchen always smelled of something being baked. He thought of the old love seat he sat on to watch her shows, her raspy voice narrating the back story for the concerned faces that appeared. Why had he let her suffer for so long before he’d gotten up. Maybe if he’d gotten her water when she first called to him or had the foresight to place a cup beside her before he went down to sleep, she wouldn’t have had such a bad fit. He would have never heard the strange voice on the phone, “touch her,” and he would have never crossed the street to be forever trapped in this strange house-he was certain he was in the Dodson’s house.

A hand locked around one of his arms. The boy jumped. This was it. Tears came to the surface. His dry throat contracted. His lips twitched. He heard plastic snapping and felt cold metal against his forearm. He hoped that Grandma would be okay without him. He hoped she at least knew he died trying to help her. More plastic snapped. The note grew hot in his pocket. He focused on what it looked like. The grid of creases from the amount of times he’d folded and unfolded it. What was written down in a scratchy hand, the way he and his classmates write, not like how Grandma writes. He’d never get to know what the words meant but he’d spend his last few moments trying anyway.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?”

The boy opened his eyes. It was the girl. His hands fell to his sides, thin pain radiated from where the plastic had been. “Wh-what’r you going to do?”

“Get you out of here. Why’d you make all that noise. I just got him to fall asleep.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

The boy understood and said so with a nod.

“We have to go, now. But you’ve got to be quiet. You can’t shout for help, you can’t knock anything over. Understand? If he hears you…” she grabbed his hand and pulled him along, “come on.”

A television came from one of the row of shut doors to his left. Anne pulled at his hand. ‘Come on’ she mouthed. They crept down the hallway. The boy cringed each time they passed one of the shut doors. The television was hidden away in the last room. Running across the floor and underneath the gap at the bottom of the door was a reddish colored, fleshy looking cord. He only saw it for a moment before Anne’s back disappeared from his peripherals and looked up to see where she’d gone. Anne had taken a large step past the door and over the cord as if the are was electrified. The boy took too long to ponder her strange movement and stepped on a loose floor board. The house squeaked in defiance. They froze. An artificial voice came through the thick wood, it was the kind of tone used in drug commercials. The boy caught a snatch of a sentence: “itchy red skin”.

“I don’t think he heard us,” Anne said. “Be careful.”

The boy was. He took extra caution with his other foot.

When they entered the living room she let go of his hand and turned around. Although he was certain she wasn’t older than him, she held the appearance of someone much older, had a look in her face that he’d seen on many adults when they didn’t know that he was watching. “You live across the street, right?” she asked.

The boy nodded,

“The one with the bench on the porch?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, no.” She put a hand to her mouth.

“What?”

“I saw one of those things...going into your house.”

“What things?”

“You know,” she pointed behind the boy’s shoulder, “that.”

“What is it?”

“It’s too much to say. You should run away, now. They can’t go very far.”

“I have to help my grandma.”

She grabbed him by the shoulders. She was sweating and breathing hard. Her gaze was so probing he felt like she was digging around in his stomach. “She’s not your grandma anymore. She’ll do things to you. Things you don’t want to do. Do you understand?”

The boy shook his head, trying not to cry. He felt stupid and pathetic crying for a second time in front of a girl but he couldn’t help it. Nothing made sense and the more she said, the worse he felt. “I have to help,” the boy said.

“Anne, sweetheart,” Mr. Dodson said. Anne shook at the sound of his voice. “Just go. Run away from here. Keep going. Don’t talk to anyone. GO.”

“Daughter, sweet daughter.”

“Why don’t you leave?”

Anne chewed her lip. She glanced over the boy’s shoulder towards the hallway. “He’s got my mom in there. I can’t leave her.”

“I can’t leave my grandma.”

“Oh, darling. Oh daughter of mine.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She hugged him. She smelled of sweet shampoo and a pleasant mustiness. “But listen, if she’s got, if she has one of those things on her, don’t listen to her, not a single word. Kill her if you have to, just don’t listen to what she says.”

“I can’t k-”

“It’s ruuuude to keep me waiting.”