From: KT1983@Gmail.com
To: TabarLeslie@Yahoo.com
Date: January 3, 2020  11:19 PM
Subject: Week 1 2020

Last year we came so close. I went and checked last night, and I only missed three weeks! We were without power one of those weekends, but even if I give myself a mulligan on that one, I still missed a week in March when I was in Vegas for Jack’s work, and a week in May when we went to New Orleans. Both trips I had my computer with me, so no excuses. This year I plan for perfection: By Sunday each week, you will have a new email from me. Bet on it. This will be my new Friday night routine.

Besides the cold (it’s about 29 degrees right now and the wind is screaming against my window—we might even get a bit of snow Sunday) there’s not much news here. We’re going to start on the downstairs bathroom renovations soon, now that Jack has his end-of-year bonus and Christmas and its pesky obligations—they call these “first world problems”—is out of the way. I’ll have to Facetime you one of these weeks and show you what we’re doing. I can’t figure out how to decorate to match the new tiles and vanity; maybe you’ll have some ideas. You always do.

I guess Wisconsin won a pretty big football game this week, judging by Jack’s screaming—initially in frustration, eventually in elation—so tell dad I said Go Badgers! I know Jack misses going to the games as much as dad does, but at least you moved somewhere warm! We’re less cold than we used to be, I guess (not by much, at the moment).

I almost forgot! We added a new member to the family today, and no, I’m not pregnant. Remember how I said we were going to look into getting a kitten? Well, we got to looking and ended up taking a cat that someone was giving away on Craigslist. She’s a little older and I had to sell Jack on it, but he caved pretty quickly. She seems to have taken a liking to him, and I can see him warming already. They’re probably on the couch together right now; at least that’s how I left them.

It was a young couple giving them away. Said they were sad to see her go (although their faces told a different story, as did the speed at which the woman helped load her toys and litter box into our trunk), but their newborn baby was showing signs of allergies. The orange tabby, who we’ve renamed Butters, was sitting on the couch next to the bundled newborn when we walked in, who seemed to be enjoying the cat’s company, but what do I know? Maybe they just got sick of cleaning the litter box and were worried about being judged. Guess it’s not my business.

Am I a little jealous that Butters seems to have laid claim to Jack instead of me? Maybe. He didn’t even want the darn cat to begin with.

We felt sort of bad renaming her this late in her life (the couple said she was about eight years old), but she had this weird, exotic sounding name. I honestly can’t even remember, just that it sounded like something you’d name a dragon in a fantasy novel (maybe I should have stolen it for the never-to-be-completed manuscript in my desk!), or something a croning old witch might utter over a boiling cauldron while casting a hex on the young, pretty maiden. It fit very well with the couple, the house, the neighborhood—it was all very new-age, hippieish. Very Portland. I guess we’ll have to get used to that if we plan on sticking around.

But it never struck me that cats are attached to their names the way dogs are. How could anyone know? It’s not like they come when you get to calling! What really felt wrong about it was the owners’ request: I talked with the husband while Jack and the wife loaded the carrier into the car. He asked me for two things: that we don’t re-home her again—”Would be very stressful, don’t you think?” he asked—and that we don’t rename her. But how will they ever know? We don’t plan on having them for dinner anytime soon. I did offer to send them pictures from time to time, so I’ll just be careful not to mention her by name.

The husband seemed more sad to see them go. He said that’d be nice, the pictures; the wife said nothing. Maybe it’s a mother’s instinct: the cat was a threat to her baby, so there’s no love lost. I know, I know: How would I know? You tell me, mom. I bet dad would have been a hell of a lot more hesitant to kick Rocky out than you if I’d have been allergic to dogs. Or maybe he would have moved into the garage with him! That sounds more reasonable.

Okay! Think I’ve rambled long enough. Guess my correspondences tend to run away at my fingertips the same as my stories! Sort of reminds me of the journal I kept in middle school, except this one I want you to read!

Talk soon. Love you.
-Kate

From: KT1983@Gmail.com
To: TabarLeslie@Yahoo.com
Date: January 10, 2020  11:48 PM
Subject: Week 2 2020

Hello again,

I’m starting two-for-two this year, a necessity if one wants to go 52-for-52. So far, so good.

I’ve sent your package. It should be there early next week. I took the edibles out of the packaging and shoved them inside one of the coffee bags. The oil cartridges for your pen are in the other. Jack said a guy at work mails cannabis weekly and that’s the way to do it. Apparently the smell of coffee is hard to overcome. It drowns everything else out. I wrote a return address on the box (he said it’s suspicious not to), but it certainly isn’t our address! Worst case it gets confiscated and some lucky mailman or woman gets high on our dime.

If by chance they ask you to sign for it—don’t. Jack said that’s how they get you. But he has about as much knowledge about mailing drugs as I do. I think he heard that in a movie. And I don’t think the Feds are setting up stings for twenty dollars’ worth of edibles and a little CBD oil, but I guess I’d be remiss not to mention it.

You should look into medicinal now that it’s legal in Florida; I know they’ll want your Concealed Carry Permit if you get a med card (because that’s what weed makes you want to do, shoot someone! Not like the perfectly legal speed they’ll prescribe you as Adderall or the opiates people kill for), but maybe you could sacrifice yours so the old man can keep his. How often do you get to the range anyway? I’m sure you could find some college kid to pick it up for you if not. We’re fine mailing it anyway, so actually don’t worry about it.

The weather is mostly the same here. Very dry—none of that Portland rain we were promised. I was expecting Sleepless in Seattle, a pretty mist that covers you with cool kisses, but so far it’s felt more like back home, minus the snow. We did get a light dusting Sunday overnight like they said, but nothing to write home about (yes, that was intentional). I was up late enough to see the grass out front start to turn white, but it was gone by the morning. Apparently the whole city shuts down with even an inch of snow. I’m looking forward to seeing that! We’ll probably be the only ones on the road. (Well, us and the fifteen thousand other transplants who came here from the more wintry reaches of the country.)

Cat update: It appears my initial estimation was correct. Butters fancies Jack. She’s a Daddy’s Girl. She’s pretty sweet—climbing into our bed at night, next to our feet so we end up sleeping all twisted and contorted and wake up with back aches. That’s if we can manage to sleep at all. I’ve never known cats could purr so loud! It’s like trying to sleep while the Predator stalks the front of the bed, wheezing and rattling. At least she’s warm.

We leave the door cracked for her. We didn’t the first night, and fifteen minutes after turning out the lights we heard a soft scratching coming from the hall. God, did that freak me out! Might sound silly, but I’d forgotten about her. You get so used to an empty house.    

So it seems like she waits for us to get into bed before padding up the stairs and into the room. It’s the same every night. I wish you could see it!

Jack and I head upstairs, get ready, close the lights, then crack the door. A minute or two after laying down, we start to hear it. Always from a distance; somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. The first night I could’ve sworn it was a baby crying. I’m sure you know what I’m about to say, but boy did it freak me out. I’d say I’m just a chicken, but Jack was on edge too (not that he’d admit it; I know his face).

“What’s that?” I asked him. “I don’t know,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant but sitting up to hear better. “Gotta be the cat, yeah?” I was about to tell him, Yeah, maybe she found a kid outside and dragged it in from the cold, but then we heard little feet plodding up the stairs. A minute later Butters headbutted her way through the door and gave us a little chirp, one of those half-purr-half-meows they do, and jumped on the bed.

The next night we heard it again. Same deal, soon as we turned the lights out and slid the door almost shut. We weren’t expecting it and it surprised us again. “Gotta be Butters,” he said for the second night in a row. “The heck is she doing?” I asked. “How the hell should I know? You’re the one wanted a damn cat.” He always goes to bed grumpy on Sunday nights. He gets jealous I don’t have to wake up as early and tries to take it out on me. And I laughed when you said I’d marry dad…

I was close to getting up to check, but then it stopped, as abruptly as it started, and we heard our little friend romping her way up the stairs.

And so began our new normal. I tried to sneak out a few nights ago and catch her in the act—see if I could find out what she’s talking about down there, in the dark, and to whom—but it’s like she knows I’m coming. I swear I was as quiet as a mouse, but, I guess that’s a bad metaphor, considering what cats do to mice. I’ve decided to let it be for now. It’s mostly funny, hearing her cry and meow, predictable as thunder following lightning the moment the lights go out, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me a little still. Something about how far away her little cries are. It’s such a lonely sound. One of these days I’ll see what she’s up to.

Other than that, things are the same as they’ve always been. Jack secured a big client, so he’s cheery as hell since Wednesday. The writing is coming, slowly as ever. Which only makes his drumming on his legs and humming under his breath that much more intolerable. (God, when did we become you two?)

I suppose I’ll keep plugging away and hope some magic happens between chapters six and ten, same as it always does.

Until then I have my weekly write-ups. As long as these don’t start to bog down too, I suppose I should be able to keep some of my sanity.

Let me know when you want to have our call. My schedule is pretty open in the middle of the day, early evening for you. “Pick a day, any day,” she said, fanning her calendar.

Love you. Talk soon.
-Kate


From: KT1983@Gmail.com
To: TabarLeslie@Yahoo.com
Date: January 17, 2020  9:48 PM
Subject: Week 3 2020

Hey mom,

Quick one tonight. I have no energy right now. My writing has been rough all week, particularly so tonight. I’ve had days like this before, where every word is a slog, where it feels like I’m reaching into quicksand and rooting around sightlessly in the muck, hoping to catch my fingers on a sentence that sounds half-decent. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a whole week of them in a row—back to back to back to back to back—but I suppose it had to happen one day (and the days before and after, ha-ha). Or maybe the current story just sucks. I don’t want to give up on it, but that’s basically what happened tonight. I got less than one hour into my regular three before closing Microsoft Word, and most of that hour was spent reading the crap from yesterday, rapping my knuckles on the desk, and sighing repeatedly.

Just feeling drained. Maybe I’m coming down with something.

I’ll get straight to what I want to talk about. After a few more nights of listening to Butters do her weird sundowning ritual, I had to see it. It’s hard to explain how such a silly thing could bother you so much, but it sort of got in my head. I needed to see what she was doing down there.

It’s gotten to the point where she’s not just meowing for a few minutes and then coming to bed; the act has grown longer and longer and now goes on for ten, sometimes fifteen minutes. And the cries are getting more frantic; more desperate. Part of my attraction was curiosity, but another part of me felt responsible almost, to check on her and make sure she was okay.

And it’s not just the noise. Things are out of place in the morning. Mostly socks or other articles of clothing that might be left on the couch or chair down there. I Googled it and most people say that’s normal: cats like to pick small things up and carry them around meowing, the way they do with their kittens. Jack laughed it off and started referring to them as, “Butters’s sock babies.” The thing is, it’s almost like the stuff she moves isn’t random. If I found a sock in the living room, a pair of leggings on the couch where she likes to sit, a t-shirt in the kitchen—that’d be one thing. But everything is always in the same spot, in the middle of the rug. The clothes are always arranged in a rough little circle. Like it was done with a purpose. Isn’t that strange?

Tuesday morning I found one of my little sticky note drawings in the center of the circle, surrounded by balled-up socks and a pair of Jack’s boxers. I had done the drawing sitting at the counter and I left it there. I suppose she could have knocked it over and dragged it around for fun, but it wasn’t damaged or wrinkled. Just sitting there, like someone had placed it lightly in the middle of the carpet.   

That night I managed to sneak down and catch her in the act. At least I think I did. Part of my mind is still trying to convince me that I fell asleep and dreamed this whole thing, and as much easier as that would make things, I don’t believe it.

It was easier than I expected. I had socks on; I’ve been perfecting my “quiet walk” all week. When it was time for bed, I shut the lights and slid the door almost shut, same as every night, except I stayed outside the door, my ear trained to the stairs. Standing there in the dark hallway, I tried to soften my breathing, which was surprisingly harsh. I waited maybe five minutes and she started.

The first few are always very loud. These meows are the ones that sound almost like a baby crying. At least they do when they come floating up the stairs and bouncing off the walls. A minute or two later the pitch drops—she switches into those weird, deep, guttural meows, the ones you hear outside your window some nights when a pair of strays are about to get in a fight—and the frequency picks up. The meowing becomes one constant sound with a repeated melody. It’s up and down, the first note of every “MEow” emphasized. 

I stood where I was just a little longer. Being patient was difficult, but I didn’t want to walk in on the beginning. I wanted to catch her in the middle of whatever this was.

Next, after the deep meows—it’s always the same, every night—her voice fades for a moment. You almost think she’s done. That’s when the worst part begins.

The sounds—they’re not quiet meows anymore—become rapid, frantic. They’re so low you can hardly hear them. It sounds like someone small talking downstairs, babbling excitedly. I crossed to the stairs on my toes, goosebumps on my arms and neck.

I got three steps down without making a sound and didn’t dare go any further. From where I sat I could see the living room and the arch to the kitchen on one side, the foyer on the other. Butters came walking from the foyer, on her hindlegs, holding a pair of my socks in her mouth, muttering rapidly from around the cotton.

This is the part where you start to believe what I said earlier about dreaming this. I wish I could believe that as easily as you probably will, or as easy as Jack does.

She was walking upright, mom, on two legs like you or me. I watched as my little orange cat strolled across the room, placed my socks down—completing a small circle of clothing—and stepped inside, talking to herself the whole way. Her voice was quiet and it sounded like a cat’s: high-pitched and scratchy. But I swear it sounded like she was trying to form words her little mouth couldn’t shape.

Once inside the circle, she stood for a bit, her back to me, still babbling. Then she started to sway. It was slow at first, back and forth, forward then back. Then she lifted a back foot—took a step back. She rocked some more. Lifted the other foot and took a step forward. Her forelegs were extended in front of her, paws curled down, making her look like a T-Rex. I watched her continue to sway and two-step. It was like she was dancing.

It was so absurd I found myself stifling a laugh. I don’t want you to misunderstand—I was terrified. I still am in a lot of ways. It was just so terrible. I can’t even explain it, but yet, I wanted to laugh. I think I know what they mean now when they talk about that fine line between comedy and horror. That line is called hysteria. Insanity stands on either side of that line, and I was tottering back and forth. I think part of me wanted to fall over to the funny side, the hysterical giggles. It was either that or the manic screams of true insanity.

I coughed out a laugh; it burst through the palm covering my mouth all at once. She stopped immediately, fell to all fours, and turned to me. We held eyes for a second, and then she hop-trotted up the stairs to me, purring. She chirped and snaked between my legs. Business as usual.

But in that moment when our eyes held, I could almost swear she knew I’d been watching her. I keep playing that moment back. There was something so strange in those few seconds.

I don’t want you to worry about me, but I had to get that out, get it written somewhere. I suppose I should have waited until we talk on Tuesday to tell that story (will make it easier to have me committed now that it’s in writing), but this is how I’ve always felt the most comfortable reorganizing and expressing the crazy jumble of thoughts in my head. I feel a little better already, now that it’s out. It’s on the paper and no longer just in my head, picking at me. Maybe I’ll be able to get back to my book tomorrow. Let’s hope. This creative roadblock is making me testy, and Jack is reacting in kind. Oh, joy.

Love you. Hope on Tuesday I’ll be able to tell it again, this time with a laugh. Because believe you me, I know what the alternative is.

-Kate

From: KT1983@Gmail.com
To: TabarLeslie@Yahoo.com
Date: January 24, 2020  5:31 PM
Subject: Week 4 2020

Everything has gone downhill since Wednesday. I was feeling much better after our call and had even managed to get some writing done that night. I took your advice and put my book away, tucked it into the metaphorical desk that is the My Documents folder. Doing so stuck me with a healthy dose of regret and fear (I worried I’d never see it again and it would go the way of my half-written manuscript, the one in my literal desk, where it’s sat since college), but pulling it up and staring at it every night was only making me hate it, and it certainly wasn’t doing any favors to my mood or mental well-being. I thought maybe getting into the groove of a new story might help the way it has a few times in the past.

When I began writing that night, I made a concerted effort to not control the story. I simply let my mind go where it wanted, which, truthfully, hasn’t been hard lately. My thoughts keep running away from me like I’m a red-headed stepchild covered in sores.

What I ended up with was weird. Scary. Nothing like my normal writing. If I’m being candid, it made me uncomfortable, but there was an undeniable pleasure in closing my laptop on almost three thousand words that night instead of a frustrating hour of re-reading, line editing, and pulling at my hair.

I took your second dose of advice the next day, Wednesday, when Jack got home from work. I was feeling weird but good, both excited and a little bit frightened at the prospect of sitting back down at my computer later that evening. You said if it was still on my mind a week later then it would be better to approach the topic again instead of letting it continue to eat at me.

I’d had to listen to the downstairs ritual all week. It was eating at me.

I told him that I am now completely certain that I did not fall asleep and dream up that awful little display in the living room. He made some passive-aggressive insinuations about me being a creative type, having a very active imagination, etc., but I kept my cool and insisted that I was certain, and eventually he accepted it. Or at least pretended he did to appease me.

Did I Google it? he asked me. I told him yes and there’s not a single other person describing anything like what I saw. There’s gotta be a logical explanation, he said. Maybe Butters is sick? Should we take her to the vet?

You should have seen, mom. The moment that thought entered his brain, his entire face changed. He was concerned; worried sick about his dear cat. Nevermind his frightened wife, the one half-convinced she’s losing her damn mind.

Maybe an old injury? I’ve seen animals walk on their back legs when they’re hurt. Maybe we should ask the old owners? So I at least got something useful from him. I told Jack I’d text them and that calmed him a bit.

He relaxed, threw his tie on the counter, started whistling, asked me what we were doing for dinner. Apparently he was back in a joking mood because he said, “Maybe she’s down here communing with the spirits?”

I told him I wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit. Jack loves to watch horror movies and then try to scare me afterwards, even though he knows I hate that.

I’m serious, he said. Maybe she’s doing a little dance to keep the demons away? Butters was purring and rubbing between his legs at this point, giving me the side-eye. Isn’t that right Butters? he said, picking her up, doing his little cutesy-voice. You’re just trying to keep the devils away while we sleep, yeah?

I lost it, mom. I don’t think I’ve ever flipped out on Jack like that before, but I was just so tired and aggravated. I slammed the pot I was rinsing and screamed. I told him it was his fault I was always so scared, told him that he was lucky he was able to sleep through the night and not be bothered by the scary movies he’d been forced to watch or the nightmares they brought.

Calm down, Kate, he told me. My yelling had scared the cat away. He could tell I was mad, he wasn’t laughing anymore.  Maybe I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. I told him it was his fault I couldn’t concentrate; it was his ideas in my head turning my writing into something closer to Rosemary’s Baby than the YA stuff I should be writing; and how would he like it if I came to his job and fucked up his work? It all boiled over, mom. I should have held back but I just didn’t care. I really didn’t.

I didn’t eat. Eventually he went out and came back with some food, but I ignored him, locked in my office. I was working on my new story and I’d made up my mind that I wasn’t going to sleep in our bed that night with him. He’s always cold without me. Good, I thought, let the cry-baby be cold a night.

I wrote and wrote and wrote, barely conscious of where I was. It was like I’d fallen through the page. I almost thought I could hear a conversation coming from the hallway, but that was secondary.

Suddenly, it was late. I’d been deep in my story for hours; I could hardly remember writing most of what was on the page. Normally that’s a good thing, falling into that “flow state.” Not that night. I felt used, half-empty. I started to read back what I’d written…mom, it was so horrible. Like nothing I’ve ever thought—let alone written—before. I couldn’t take it—those words looking back at me. They weren’t mine. I deleted the whole document and closed my computer. Then I sat on the couch and tried not to cry.

All at once it hit me. What had been so odd about that moment when Butters and I held eyes, right after she noticed me. Her eyes hadn’t been glowing the way cats’ do when you see them in a dark room. They were flat, without shine, as if they were completely black.

I jumped up, wanting to tell Jack. It seemed important he knew right then.

I realized how quiet the house was, noticed the clock. It was almost three in the morning. And Butters hadn’t made a sound.

I opened the door to the hall quietly, feeling like an intruder in my own house. It was silent in the hall. Well, almost. I could hear this faint sound: it was high, like a child’s voice, or a woman’s. Someone whispering.

Our bedroom door was shut. Not cracked. I tried the handle. Locked.

The key was still taped to the top of the frame from when we moved in. I took it down and slipped it into the lock as my hands started sweating. The darkness inside was total, but just enough light crossed the hall from my office that I could see the shape of Jack piled beneath the blankets. And two eyes looking back at me, glowing, from up by his pillow. I turned the light on. It was Butters, curled up back Jack’s head, her little mouth pressed to his ear as if to tell secrets.

I wanted to scream, but I had no voice. It was like one of those awful sleep paralysis nightmares. Instead I turned the light off and backed out, shutting the door behind me. Jack didn’t stir.

I texted the former owners the next morning. No response, so I called a few times. I’m not sure the number even goes anywhere. Burner phone maybe? I still have their address in my texts. Is it crazy that I’m thinking about driving over there? Do you think they’ll take the cat back?

Please help me figure out what to do.
-Kate

From: KT1983@Gmail.com
To: TabarLeslie@Yahoo.com
Date: January 29, 2020  2:18 PM
Subject: Call me

I tried your phone twice just now. You’re probably out to dinner. Hopefully you call before I finish typing this, but in the meantime I need to write this out. It’s all swimming around in my head and I need to organize it and I usually do that best on paper. I feel crazy even thinking what I’m thinking, and seeing it written out might only serve to double the effect, but oh well. Also, I’ve attached a few things for you to look at.

I didn’t drive to their house. That was a dumb idea; they don’t want that thing back. They knew what they were doing. Instead, I looked up the address on Whitepages.com and got their names. David and Tessa Loughty. Luckily it wasn’t Miller or Nelson or something, because I went to Facebook to search for them. Neither had their page set to private.

Both are members of this group on Facebook called Old Oregon. They make posts there and sometimes the page and other people in the group make posts on their walls too.

The people who post there, including David and Tessa, always sign off with different names—weird things, sort of like I said about what they’d named the cat. I thought it might be some big roleplay thing; there’s pictures of them in the woods in robes and hoods. Camping in huge shared tents, standing around massive bonfires. Making fake potions and doing little rituals for fun. That wouldn’t exactly be surprising, given the vibe I got from both of them.

But no one ever smiles in the pictures they post. They don’t seem to break character. I dug deeper.

There is one guy that posts there more than anyone else. Whenever the Old Oregon page itself responds, it’s written the same way, so I think he runs it. He seems to be the leader of their group. They call him ceannaire biotáille. 

He posted a link to a website on Tessa’s page. I clicked it, and I wish I hadn’t. I took a screenshot, which I attached. DO NOT GO THERE.

The page is a simple WordPress website. I recognize the format from when I had Kelly build mine. At first I thought it was an H.P. Lovecraft-type fansite. A place for people to pretend to be a part of this dark world, like the Facebook page. There were links to old texts in strange languages; pictures of symbols like crosses and Xs and concentric circles; instructions on how to perform sacrifices or rituals to bring wealth and success and how to summon what they call Original Inhabitants.

I clicked around, my dread growing with each new page, until I found myself on a deeply buried page with videos. I think I wanted to believe this was all roleplay, harmless fun, despite what my mind was screaming at me. But then I saw the videos and there was no way for me to pretend anymore.

They were so horrible. I will never forget those faces, those screams, that fucking thing.

I left the site. Should have never gone there in the first place.

Back on Facebook there were more links on Tessa’s page, mostly from the same guy, but a few other people from their group also shared some. I clicked on these with trepidation, not wanting to see anymore of what I’d already seen, but needing to know. They were much of the same; strange, amatuer sites with instructions. Some had pictures. Mostly it was huge walls of text explaining how to become taller, or more athletic, or smarter. Weird, quasi-religious praises; manuals of worship. Methods of finding “divine inspiration.” Some seemed more legitimate than others—it’s hard to say how. There were ones that said things like LOL or If You Believe…Those felt like blogs, like kids having fun.

Of all the links on her wall, Tessa only responded to one. This was a plain site with a gray background. Simple HTML layout. Wall of text right down the middle. There was a picture up top—I attached a screenshot of that, too. Have you ever seen anything like it? It almost looks like a Celtic cross but as for those symbols all around it, I’m not sure.

The text was simple. Another summoning ritual. There was no bullshit in the writing here, mom. No “If You Dare,” no smileys, no backlinks to YouTube channels. I almost screenshotted it, but I think the last thing I should do is share it. If I could get the site taken down, I would. Jack might know how, but I’m afraid he won’t help me anymore.

The reason for the ritual is simple: you summon the beast, and it is bound to you for life. It can give you things you could hardly dream of. Power. Wealth. Health. Vitality. It’s not specific. This demon or creature or whatever it is, the page names it. That’s how you gain power over it. I won’t write it. I think you have to say it, but I’m not risking it. You use the name (among other things) to rip it into our world, and once here, to contain it. It’s supposed to attach itself to the nearest living body with “lowest mental exhibition” and stay constrained there. The page is very clear that the spirit won’t like that—that it will seek to deceive and elude you for as long as it is bound—but so long as you know its name, you control it. And while you do, its powers are yours.

Tessa’s one comment on this post was “Can’t wait.” This was from four months ago.

I went back further down her page. Two weeks prior there was a picture of David holding their newborn child. He’s holding her, staring at her with adulation. There is exaltation in his eyes.

The spirit will be bound to the nearest living body with “lowest mental exhibition.” Am I crazy to be thinking this? Who does it feel like I’m not?

But I think there’s something they didn’t account for. “Nearest living body,” not “nearest person.” They forgot about Casper. A few weeks earlier, on Tessa’s page, there’s a picture of an orange cat. It says, “Welcome Casper to our family!” I can recognize that cat no matter what name it goes by.

I went back to the ritual, searched Google for the name of this spirit/demon. There’s a Wikipedia page, an Irish culture site with pages about it. It’s some sort of ancient bog monster. A feminine spirit. Some cultures call it a succubus. It’s supposed to be a Gaelic muse. It gives inspiration to the one it persecutes. It seeks the love of mortals and offers inspiration in exchange for love and devotion of the one it possesses. It feeds on your life until you waste away and even death is not an escape. There are pictures of it on these sites, illustrations of this specter draped in gold and jewels, luring men into swampy marshes. Its name was like something you’d read in a fantasy book. I knew there was a reason that page stood out to me above all the others, and it wasn’t Tessa’s response. I’d never seen it spelled—I only heard David say it the one time—so it took a second.

I had thought Tessa’s attitude had been one of protecting her family that day they told me about their child’s allergies. But she was protecting herself. It wanted her. I think it wants to trade places. It seeks a woman’s body, not a cats. Can you imagine being trapped inside of a cat? Tessa could, I think, so they got rid of the thing before it could win.

Should I say it? I fear I’m too late. It’s a deceiver, the text said. It will work to fool you, to free itself, to take what it wants. What if saying its name opens the door? What am I supposed to do? More than anything I want to get rid of the damn thing, to kill it even, but I know Jack won’t let that happen. We’re not talking much these past few days. He spends all his time in the room with it. I fear that if I try I might fail, and if that happens…I’m not sure what he’d do.

I sound crazy. I wish I was. But I’m not. I need to do something now. Please call me.

From: KT1983@Gmail.com
To: TabarLeslie@Yahoo.com
Date: January 31, 2020  11:04 PM
Subject: Week 5 2020

Hi Mom!

Sorry I couldn’t talk when you called earlier. The writing was flowing and I was worried it might dry up if I took even a second to stop! I managed to get back to my current project yesterday—what a relief that was! I really think I’m turning a corner, and at just the right time.

Even more exciting: Tonight, for the first time in over a decade, I opened my drawer and took my manuscript out. Yes: THE Manuscript. It deserves proper noun status after living in my head this many years—wouldn’t you agree? I don’t know what inspired me; the timing just felt right. I was inspired, feeling excited about it for the first time in years. The solution was quite simple, really. I went back to the beginning and made one key change to my protagonist: everything rolled downhill from there. I think it might end up a tad darker than I imagined all those years ago, but that was so long ago. Why should I feel beholden to the young woman who started the story? She was never able to finish it, after all. I’m not sure it will be a YA story, but if anything it will please Jack; you know how he loves his things that go bump in the night. He even offered to read the beginning (once I finish the updates, of course) and give me his thoughts. Can you imagine? Jack? It’s like pulling teeth to get him to glance over a finished product normally. We seem to be turning a corner as well. I told you when we spoke earlier that things were looking up.

I’m sorry if my last email caused you concern. I think that was just the boiling over of my clogged creative pipes.

We got rid of the cat. I spoke with Jack and he understood. He wanted to open the door and just let it out, but my bleeding heart wouldn’t let me. We dropped it off at a shelter. They put her in a tiny cage in the back—she was being so unfriendly, hissing and scratching at the volunteers—but I suppose that’s better than out in the streets in the middle of winter! I feel so much better now without her around.

Well, we’ve made it through January and I haven’t missed a week! I feel great about my chances at making the whole year. It’s like I could just write and write until my fingers fall off! Truthfully, I’m tempted to hit send right now and get back to work, but I promised Jack I’d wrap it up by eleven so we could watch a movie or something. I told him to get started without me (he falls asleep halfway through anyway, like dad) but he didn’t want to.

I don’t hear anything coming from the tv down there. Maybe he’s sitting around waiting for me. He’s so sweet lately.

I guess I should get going.

Talk soon. Love you.
-Kate