Familiar Spirit

She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t crack up, and she wouldn’t run away. If Brian didn’t want her as she was, she would learn to live without him. She didn’t need him, and she was proud of it. She refused to cringe and crawl and cry for anyone. She was going home.

Anger was a fine thing, invigorating, powerful, more intoxicating than drink. It fueled her all the way back to the house and kept her from stopping to think about it. Sarah didn’t see the cat anywhere as she stomped up the steps and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

“All right,” she said loudly. “I’m back. I’m not scared of you.”

Behind her, the telephone rang.

Sarah’s throat tightened with panic, although she didn’t understand why, and she whirled around. Then she realized: the telephone was still unconnected. Not only that, but it was not even plugged in. It was still inside the bright orange and brown plastic bag where she had dropped it on the kitchen floor.

It rang again.

As she stared at it, she saw the bag vibrate slightly with the sound. Sarah moistened her lips and looked around. Then she bent down and took the telephone out of the bag. She stared at the bright red plastic, feeling the vibrations shake her hand, hearing the bell ring. How could this be a delusion, when it felt so real? Finally, she lifted the receiver and held it to her ear. She did not speak. A distant, windy, rushing sound met her ear. And then a voice.

“Sarah.”

The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. It was a deep, dead voice, without emotion, yet not mechanical.

“Sarah.”

Sarah could not reply. She could scarcely breathe.

“I am so glad you have come back, Sarah. I have been waiting for you.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am. You have felt me inside you. You have come back for me, to give yourself up to me.”

“I have not,” Sarah said loudly. “You can’t have me.”

“I can. I shall. I will. One way or another, Sarah, I will have you.”

The intimacy of that inhuman voice, buzzing in her ear, was unbearable. Sarah slammed the receiver back into the cradle, shuddering violently. Then she put the telephone down on the floor and stared at it, waiting, almost daring it to ring again. But nothing happened.

She couldn’t stop shaking. The sound of that dreadful voice in her ear . . . She wanted to run away. But although she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life, she was also as angry as she had ever been. She was damned if she would let that thing, whatever it was, drive her out of her house. She had managed to hold on to her self throughout its monstrous attacks, and she would go on doing so until it gave up.

Suddenly she swooped down and picked up the receiver again.

“You’re scared,” she said loudly into it. “You know you’ve met your match . . . so you’re just trying to scare me off. Well, I’m not leaving. I’ll make you leave instead!”

The telephone was dead plastic in her hand: there was nothing there at all. A little embarrassed by her outburst, Sarah put the receiver gently back. Then she found the jack in the wall by the bedroom door, and plugged the telephone in. If it rang now, she thought, it would seem more normal.

Sarah wondered what she should do. She was primed and ready for battle, the adrenaline pumping away, and she didn’t know what to do with so much energy in the suddenly still and empty house.

Then, through the door, Sarah caught sight of the figure painted on the bedroom floor, and remembered that she had bought a jar of paint remover. A good first step towards exorcising the house might be to erase this mocking reminder. She settled down on the floor and began to scrub at the paint fiercely.

It took nearly two hours, but Sarah finally erased the design. When she stood to appraise her work, she became aware of the ache at the back of her neck, the soreness in her arms, the stiffness of her legs. She switched on the overhead light, realizing for the first time that the room had grown dark with the onset of evening. It was time for dinner, time to go out . . .

Sarah felt a rush of loneliness that almost overwhelmed her. She was not going out; she had no one to spend her evening with. The thought of cooking for herself and eating a meal alone took away her appetite. She missed Brian acutely. She didn’t want to go out, she didn’t want conversation, or sex, or comfort, or encouragement—all she wanted was his physical presence. She wanted the comfort of habit and routine, another presence in the house from whom she could draw wordless, emotional support. It was that very aspect of living with Brian that she had never appreciated, that she had struggled to pull away from.