Familiar Spirit

It was wonderful to give in, to relax, to let someone else take over. Like an obedient child, Sarah let Beverly sit her down on the couch. She sat there, her mind like an empty room, and listened to the sounds of activity from the back of the house.

But images pushed in at the edges of her mind, dimly recalled. Suffocation. Burning. Twin fires. Golden eyes. A rat—

Sarah opened her eyes and saw Beverly before her. “What is that,” said Beverly. “On the bedroom floor?”

Sarah shook her head.

“Something painted on the floor,” Beverly said.

Now she saw it; now she remembered.

“A rat,” Sarah said, wondering. “I was up all night fighting a rat. It wasn’t a dream. But I don’t know how—”

Beverly’s expression turned to one of alarm. With the palm of her hand she touched Sarah’s cheeks and forehead. “You’re coming home with me,” she said.

Sarah tensed and drew back. “No.”

“Come on, Sarah. You’re sick. You need someone to look after you.”

“I can’t leave.”

“Of course you can! Why not?”

Sarah shook her head, groping for the reason. She had to stay, she knew that much. Unfinished business. Someone waiting for her. She remembered something else. “The rat,” she said. “It wasn’t just a rat. It was something else, something much more powerful. And it was trying to kill me. Not kill me physically”—she tried to think of the right word, remembering the feeling of being suffocated—“but push me out, destroy my soul. But I hung on. I woke up this morning, I was lying on the kitchen floor, and I was sick.”

“That’s why you’re coming home with me,” Beverly said gently. “Because you’re sick, and I can take care of you. I’ll just get your shoes and we’ll go.”

Sarah shook her head, staring after her friend. She couldn’t leave; she had to stay here. But then, through her confusion, she wondered why—and wondered if the reluctance to leave was even her own. Was it another trick, another trap? Her head ached so she could hardly think.

“Put these on,” Beverly said. Obediently, Sarah accepted a pair of socks and her boots and began to pull them on. She would leave with Beverly, she decided. She had to think, to figure things out. But first she needed to rest—and she could not rest safely here, because the rat might come back for her. She yawned suddenly, hugely, and then smiled wanly at her friend. “I’m glad you came by,” she said. “I guess I do need somebody to take care of me today.”

Beverly helped Sarah to her feet and kept one arm around her as they walked to the door. “Nurse Beverly to the rescue,” she said.

The next morning Sarah was herself again. The fever, confusion, pain and fear had all vanished in the night, and she ate breakfast ravenously, eager to get on with the day. She had lost Monday, and the thought of that made her feel anxious and pressed for time.

“Maybe you should take it easy today,” Beverly said. “Just lie around the house and relax.”

“I don’t have time for that,” Sarah said, spreading jam on an English muffin. “I have to pick up my telephone, go to the bank, do some grocery shopping, decide on my research topic for the Faulkner seminar, finish my paper on sexist language—”

“You’re not going to do yourself any good if you just get sick again,” Beverly said.

“I’m not going to get sick again,” Sarah said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“No more nightmares?”

“Not a one. I dreamed it was summer, and you and Pete and I had a house on an island in the middle of Lake Travis. We got there by swimming through an underwater tunnel that no one else knew about.”

Beverly smiled, and Sarah smiled back, swallowing the last of her eggs. She didn’t want to talk about nightmares—she wanted to forget them. When Beverly had questioned her earlier about her experiences Sunday night, Sarah had pretended not to remember, and had quickly turned the subject. In fact, she remembered strange, unpleasant snatches of a nightmare about a rat with glowing eyes, a supernaturally powerful rat which she had struggled against for her very existence. She wanted to forget it. She remembered how seriously—probably the effect of the fever—she had taken that nightmare, and it embarrassed her to think of the things she had said to Beverly about it, her mad babblings about fighting a rat. But it was excusable —she had not been herself—she had been ill.

“I know what I wanted to ask you,” Beverly said. Sarah met her eyes across the table. “That design painted on your bedroom floor—remember?”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Something else I need to do today. Buy some paint remover and clean it off.”

“What is it?”

Sarah rose and began clearing away the dirty dishes. “It’s called a pentacle. Magicians and witches use them in magic rituals.”

“Ah,” said Beverly. “So old weirdo, the one who used to rent the place, was a witch?”

“I suppose so.”

“And used that pentacle—what? To talk to the devil?”

Sarah shrugged. “To conjure up spirits, I suppose.”

“Leave those,” Beverly said. “I’ll wash them all later. I’ve got to get to class—come on, I’ll drop you off. Do you suppose she was part of a coven?”