Familiar Spirit

It was filled, as always in term time, with crowds of students. Sarah knew it might have been cheaper to do her shopping in one of the malls, or among the strips of discount stores in North Austin, but going to The Drag was a treat she gave herself. She felt comfortable there, at home wandering among the colorful crowds, her senses tickled by smells from the eggroll and barbecue stands, the music of street musicians, the vivid displays in shop windows and on the temporary stalls of vendors selling pottery, cheap clothing, wooden toys, jewelry and leather belts and bags. Sarah let herself be seduced by her favorite bookstore, emerging after half an hour’s browsing with a package under her arm; she tried on rings she knew she couldn’t buy; she ate lunch in a vegetarian cafe, one of the vantage points for people-watching; she paused to talk with a couple of acquaintances; and she even managed to buy a few of the things on her shopping list.

Sarah felt calm and relaxed as she drove home. Her mind was on her Faulkner seminar, and she was trying to think of something new to say about Southern Gothic as she parked the car behind her house. It wasn’t until she had walked up the steps and into the kitchen that the horrible memories came back to her in a rush.

She knew despair, and impatience with her own foolishness, as she realized that she had walked right back into the trap.

Sarah turned, dropping the shopping bags she carried, and ran, not even closing the doors behind her, stumbling down the short flight of steps and just managing not to fall. She clutched the door handle on her car and stopped, heart racing. She swallowed hard, feeling the sweat of fear drying on her skin, and turned slowly and looked back at the house, feeling the fear dying away.

The old wooden door hung on its hinges, still swaying slightly in the breeze of her passing. Nothing waited for her there, Sarah told herself. No cat with glowing eyes, no evil, supernatural rat, no diabolical spirit. Because such things didn’t exist.

She could remember, now, what she had been afraid of—she could recall quite clearly the thoughts and fears that had led to her earlier flight from the house. But she didn’t believe in evil spirits, nor in witchcraft. She had always been certain that people who believed that demons possessed them were simply crazy. So did that mean she was crazy?

Two unsavory alternatives. Either she was crazy, or there was a demon in the house. Either way, Sarah knew she didn’t want to go back in the house and risk a repetition of what had happened to her before. She was afraid to go into the house.

’Fraidy cat.

There had been a time when Sarah was the only kid in her neighborhood who dared to walk through the cemetery after dark. Who dared go up and look in the window of the witch house. But Sarah hadn’t been afraid, then, because she didn’t believe in ghosts or witches.

Did she now, a grown woman in broad daylight?

Depressed, frightened, and self-doubting, Sarah got back in the car. She could always spend the night with the Mar­chants again. But she knew neither of them would be home now, so she decided to go to the library where, if she could manage to concentrate, she might get some work done.

On campus she was lucky enough to find a parking space within a few blocks of the library. She had just switched off the engine when she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure, and her heart played yo-yo. Yes, it was Brian, and that slight figure by his side must be Melanie. She had dark hair nearly to her waist, and a little pointed face that gazed adoringly up at Brian. Not wanting to have to speak to them, Sarah stayed in the car.

As Sarah watched, a big black bird—one of the grackles which infested the campus—suddenly left its perch on a parking meter. Giving its characteristic, water-gurgling cry, it flapped heavily and clumsily away, about on a level with Melanie’s head, although nowhere near her. But too near, obviously, for Melanie, who let out a wild cry, dropped her books, and threw her arms protectively over her head.

Brian responded immediately, pulling Melanie into the shelter of his arms. Sarah could see his lips moving and knew he must be speaking to her soothingly.

I could scream all night and you’d never come rescue me, Sarah thought. Her stomach churned bitterly, and then the misery she felt turned to self-loathing. Was that it? A trick played by her subconscious? This sudden fear of evil spirits a ploy to make her weak and trembling . . . and in desperate need of Brian? If her problems were even bigger than Melanie’s, would he come rushing back to save her from herself?

No.

Anger rose in her, anger at herself and at Brian, and at the demonic nightmares which had been tormenting her.