by Stephanie Knapp
I first hear about it from the children down the street.
“Hey! Hey, Miss!”
They run up to me (three of them, girls) with their soft, urgent panting spewing nanoparticles all down Fern Street. Early on during the plague, I gave them a wide berth, and them me. Now, I slip my tee across the bridge of my nose. They read the signal and nearly topple each other trying to stop.
“You shouldn’t go out after dark tonight,” the tall one shouts.
“Or tomorrow,” the little one adds.
Raw excitement in their eyes. It feels like the first weeks of the plague again, back when hope and news erupted in warm geysers every so often. Back when ‘Are you ok?’ and ‘Do you need anything?’ texts still pinged back and forth between friends. Back when love was still gestating in my heart.
“Yeah, but we’ve only seen it at night, so really just don’t go out after dark.”
“‘We’ haven’t seen it,” the tall one corrects. Marin saw it.
The littlest one beams. The one with ropey hair twists in jealousy. They can’t see the incredulity stretching over my mouth, but they can see it in my squint. I start to ask what ‘it’ is, but they turn as if they’ve choreographed the whole thing and stream away before I can triage any questions.
*
One morning.
Give me one morning when I wake up clear-eyed, solid-skinned.
If that’s too much, give me back those first moments when I don’t instinctively feel for the vacancy.
*
The woman who lives next door’s TV volume has increased in proportion to her loneliness. Her NCIS stories are bloody, but also clean, their terror safely contained within an electronic rectangle. She talks loudly too, sharing the girls’ rumor with neighbors. Their ‘it’ has evolved into a figure of medium height and indeterminate gender. The woman believes that if she leaves her car doors unlocked, ‘it’ won’t break any windows. The artist in the teal apartments agrees. The veteran down the block offers to check in on her at 10 p.m. every night. The gay couple from the renovated shotgun nervously fall prey to racism and guess that ‘it’ is a prowler from Central City.
I hop on NextDoor: five alleged sightings. Many want police, but others argue against it because of the plague and/or political concerns. Eventually, they agree that if the prowler does something truly destructive, authorities are to be immediately notified.
*
I am far beyond daylight’s reach, feeling for the familiar caverns, numb hands tracing the peninsulas of exit wounds.
I say your name in the darkness. It echoes on the street below.
An anger so desperate arises in me that it has a taste – anise and iron.
Even in my bed, there is gravel beneath my feet.
*
The internet is stuffed with “plague visions” – encounters with ghosts and deities and past lives. Is this because we are being ripped apart, or because we simply cannot stand the graveyards of our own houses?
I see odd balls of twigs bound up with Spanish moss and beads dotting neighbors’ porches. Some hang from banisters with yarn, some are crudely taped to the mullions.
“What is that?” I ask the girls. “The thing you’re making there.”
The one with ropey hair flicks a ‘lock over her shoulder. “Spirit sphere.”
The girls dip the newest creation into a bowl of yellow glitter that hardly binds to the moss.
“It’d stay on better if you wet it,” I offer.
“It’s ten dollars,” the one with the ‘locks says.
Their hands keep busy, their eyes never venture above my waist. There’s a new hardness in them. This pleases and distresses me.
“It came onto your porch,” the small one says. “It went to the window and then went inside.”
“It did not,” I say.
“Did so,” they reply in unison.
I walk away, then double back. “Make me one.”
“One what?”
“One of the charms. They’re wards, right? To keep it away?”
“It won’t work for you,” the littlest one whispers.
The one with ‘locks pinches her, then thrusts her open hand towards me. “Ten dollars,” she demands.
*
The creature’s moans are a nightly chant, so far removed from attractiveness that you must, simply must, forgive its mother.
I see its naked back hunching over a discarded bike, dull grey skin absorbing the streetlight’s halogen.
You’re not one of us, I try to shout, but my throat is simply another opening in my body.
*
My ‘spirit sphere’ dangles limply on the front railing, its moss unraveled. Crude, hot pink X’s have mysteriously appeared all over my porch.
The landlord is going to be furious.
The neighbors have stopped coming out. The streets have fewer and fewer pedestrians.
I hear whispers from behind an azalea when I walk past, then a sharp pain between my shoulders.
There’s a fiery volley of SSSSHHHHHHs and then silence as I spin around. The mud clump lies beside my foot.
“It’s not my fault,” I yell to the girls, knowing that it very much is. I begin a strict sleep hygiene regime: no Netflix after 9, no alcohol. The creature sightings continue anyway.
*
Blood flows forward and backward, regardless of generation.
Go here, I telegraph to the creature – creation – in an effort to exile it.
From my bed, I trace my elbow to show the river, jag over my belly like it’s City Park.
This is where you should be.
I indicate a mole on my thigh (your house), dig my nail into the flesh to make my point.
*
Morning brings upended trash cans and a scab. It’s time to end the creature’s torment. Ours.
At dusk, I make a chain of clover flowers, arrange it in a heart on the sidewalk.
I leave a saucer of milk and plate of ribs on the front steps. The humidity is its own blanket. I lay supine, close my eyes.
“Come home,” I plead.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephanie Knapp is a writer living in New Orleans. She was born and raised in the Missouri Ozarks, and has a huge thing for underdogs, subcultures, and franglais. Recently Stephanie has been a resident at Hambidge and a finalist and semi-finalist in the Wisdom-Faulkner writing competition. She’s a member of the Peauxdunque Writer’s Alliance, and reads for the Peauxdunque Review. When not working in the French schools or writing, she’s probably making too many desserts.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Jordan C Brun grew up in Detroit and started his career at 14 – once he found out he could be paid for drawing, he was hooked – studying at Michigan State University (BFA), Eastern Michigan University (MA), and Savannah College of Art and Design (MA).
Jordan illustrates with a combination of satirical wit and dark humor, using a mix of traditional media and digital alterations. He lives in Salt Lake City with his wife and two children, where he teaches art, illustrates, and serves on the Salt Lake County Arts and Culture Advisory Board. He can be found on the web at www.JordanCBrun.com