The baby was finally down. It hiccupped soft cries, emitting from the baby monitor on
the coffee table, but the parents had told Cory this was completely normal, especially on
Halloween night when the doorbell rang on and off.
She turned to Harriet, the family’s resident eight-year-old.
“Well, kiddo, what should we do?”
Harriet shrugged in reply, her eyes on the TV, watching some animated movie Cory
guessed she’d seen a million times.
Cory glanced at her phone, noting the early hour. She had approximately one and a half
hours left of playing child entertainer before bedtime round two. Trick or treaters should peter
out for the rest of the night, and another half hour beyond that, Naomi would arrive. The parents
allowed Harriet to read quietly in bed before sleeping. Cory hoped she tired in less than thirty
minutes because it was awkward trying to bribe kids into keeping secrets from their parents. Not
harmful secrets, of course, but like, here’s an extra dessert if you promise not to tell Mommy and
Daddy that your babysitter’s girlfriend stopped by.
“Want a snack? We could play a board game? A video game?”
Harriet turned, one of her long braids slipping over her shoulder. “There’s a game I
wanna play but my parents won’t let me.”
Cory was wary, but intrigued. She cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Oh yeah? What
game?”
Harriet seemed to mull over the pros and cons of telling Cory before she softly confessed,
“Bloody Mary. Do you know it?”
Cory suppressed a laugh, but she had to admit, a jolt of unease trickled down her spine.
She had played this game a dozen times, though never on Halloween, a night that suggested
these kinds of legends held more weight. Felt more real.
“Of course I know it. How do you know it?”
Harriet turned her body toward Cory but cast her gaze to her lap.
“These girls at school—my friends—they tried it in the bathroom. I—”
“Chickened out,” Cory finished. Elementary school was not long enough ago to forget
that friends never forgot a wuss. Or the teasing that followed.
“Yes.”
“So you want to do it now?”
“Please? My mom says it’s just a silly game and she won’t play. Please?”
Cory couldn’t tell this girl that even at her big age, the idea of Bloody Mary sent ice
through her veins. She pulled in a breath, glanced at the baby monitor and willed baby Henry to
wail. When he didn’t, she looked back to Harriet and said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Harriet was on her feet before Cory finished speaking. She lit up, her smile beaming,
ringing her hands with nervous energy. Cory pushed herself off the couch, shoved her phone into
her back pocket, and swept her arm out before them.
“Lead the way.”
Harriet skipped through the room, down the short hall, and stopped midway. She turned
to face the open bathroom doorway and waited for Cory to catch up
“All right, in ya go.”
Harriet hesitated.
“I’m right here with you,” Cory said, ushering the girl into the half-bath. They had to
press against the toilet to close the door, and once they did, Cory adjusted Harriet so they stood
side by side, looking at their reflection in the mirror. Harriet came up to Cory’s shoulder and
Cory could see, as much as feel, the slight tremble that had taken up residence beneath Harriet’s
skin.
“Just so we’re on the same page,” Cory said, looking at Harriet’s reflection. “You want
me to turn off the light and say the words three times?”
Harriet nodded.
“You say the words.”
“How about we both say the words?”
Harriet looked fearful, but nodded and squeaked out, “Okay.”
“Are you ready?” Cory wanted to get it over with. She was putting on a brave face for the
kid but some fears planted in childhood grow even when left untended.
Harriet nodded. Cory reached for the light switch. Before washing them in darkness, she
reached for Harriet with her other hand. Harriet squeezed and Cory flipped the switch. She
swallowed and coached herself to face the mirror. Just a stupid children’s tale, she told herself.
“Ready?” she whispered.
Harriet squeezed tighter.
“On the count of three,” Cory instructed, then went right into the countdown. “One, two,
three. Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.”
The words came out as one garbled mess and she recognized, as her voice died out, that
Harriet hadn’t joined her. But it was done, and they were fine, and Cory reached for the light
switch again to officially end the game.
A sound blared through the silence.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite get that.”
Cory nearly jumped out of her skin. She flipped the switch and warm light filled the
bathroom.
“Shit,” Cory breathed, slumping against the lavender wall. She slid her phone out of her
back pocket. Her voice command had activated. She tapped out of it and a text from Naomi
appeared.
“Everything okay?” read the text.
Huh, Cory thought. Why wouldn’t it be?
She lowered the phone before replying, intent on getting out of the claustrophobic half-
bath that smelled of bleach. Harriet was giving her a strange look, like she’d swallowed
something that fought the whole way down. Cory realized she probably shouldn’t have agreed to
this in the first place.
“Let’s get out of here,” she suggested, then tugged the door open. She took the lead but
moved slowly so Harriet wasn’t left behind, and when Cory sat in the same spot on the couch,
Harriet hovered behind it.
Cory craned her neck to look at her.
“I’m going to go read,” Harriet said.
Cory climbed back to her feet to accompany Harriet up the stairs, but Harriet scurried
away down the hall with a quick wave. She hoped Harriet wouldn’t wake the baby but it was too
late to caution against it. Glancing at the monitor, she waited for the colored lights to roll down
the line, but the first dot barely flickered.
She remembered she’d ignored Naomi’s text. There were more waiting.
Babe? You okay?
Hey. Your phone goes straight to voicemail.
Hello?
Okay, Cor, idk what game you’re playing but you called me first and didn’t say shit so
now I’m worried.
Pls call me asap or text me back.
I’m coming over.
Cory panicked. She didn’t know what Naomi was talking about. She hadn’t called. It was
too early to come over.
Her touch screen wouldn’t respond. She pressed the buttons to restart and paused. The
time on her display read 7:09, but that couldn’t be. She recalled the wash of relief she’d felt
when she glanced at her phone before entering the bathroom. It had been 7:07, which meant trick
or treating hours were officially over. No more doorbell.
Cory swallowed thickly and continued to power down her phone. The stupid game had
her nerves on end. When her phone cycled back on, the same 7:09 was displayed. She whipped
around, in search of a clock, and took a step toward the kitchen. The microwave displayed the
exact same time as her phone. Cory furrowed her brow.
A crackle echoed through the room.
Cory whirled back to the TV room, her gaze landing on the baby monitor, her heart high
in her throat. She watched the dots of light move, only one or two flickering with the crackle, but
as Cory strode toward the back of the couch, the lights shot all the way to maximum and the
crackle turned to a high frequency feedback. It was ear piercing. Cory vaulted the couch, landing
painfully on one foot. She snatched the device off the coffee table.
The screaming tone continued and the crackling static joined in as Cory flipped the
monitor around, frantically searching for the off switch.
“Cory…”
Cory’s heart thumped in her chest. One heavy, painful beat. She stared at the device in
her hand, certain she’d misheard the hushed, robotic call of her name.
But then it came again. Cory dropped the monitor with a crack. It skittered under the
couch, her name echoing from it, drawn out and growing in volume. Cory trembled, her eyes
wide, until logic settled her. Harriet had gone to bed early, right after their game. Maybe she was
one of those freak kids who likes to fuck with her sitters, which would explain her parents hiring
someone new and seeming incredibly grateful upon Cory’s arrival.
Cory’s terror turned to annoyance, cut with an edge of anger. If the kid woke the baby
just to play a prank…
The monitor died out abruptly, as though confirming Cory’s revelation. She took a deep
breath to steady herself, then made her way down the hall toward the stairs. She paused as she
passed the bathroom. The light within was off and she didn’t remember turning it off, though it
was possible she’d simply forgotten in the chaos of the last few minutes.
Cory mounted the first step and looked into the swelling darkness above. She flicked the
light switch but nothing happened. In a townhome she’d once lived in, the bottom switch never
worked, only the top, and she figured the same could be possible here.
Cory pumped her shoulders up and down like a jock preparing for the start of a game,
then began her ascent into the dark. She nearly let loose a yelp as she passed the window halfway
up and a dark shadow slid across it. Her own shadow, of course, but the mind plays all kinds of
games, especially on Halloween. She had reached her game limit.
The upper switch, thankfully, lit the upstairs hall in warm light. Cory went right to
Harriet’s room. She knocked on the door but received no reply. She reached for the handle and
turned. The doorknob didn’t budge.
“What the fuck?” she whispered. She took a step back and peeked at the bottom of the
door. No light seeped out, so either Harriet was sound asleep—which Cory didn’t believe—or
she was with Henry. Cory shifted gears and walked toward the nursery. The door was ajar, but
she had been prompted to leave it that way. She tried to remember the exact degree to which
she’d left it open and couldn’t recall.
With slow, quiet movements, Cory slid through the crack. She scanned the darkness in
search of an out-of-place shadow, small-human sized. The light pooling in from the hallway
helped illuminate the room in shades of grey. She saw nothing of note. Henry slept soundly on
his back, and Cory stopped for a moment to assure his chest rose and fell.
Satisfied, she turned to leave the room. Something caught her eye in the mirror over the
nursery dresser and she stuttered in her step, doubling back. She blinked, then squinted. What
she saw in the mirror did not make sense. She was alone in the room, except for the baby, but
there was a figure in the mirror. Dark, featureless, but there nonetheless. Cory peeled her eyes away
and scanned the nursery, hoping to discover a hung sweater, a lamp, anything that
explained what she saw in the reflection. With sinking anxiety, Cory turned back to the mirror
and, to her horror, the figure had moved closer. Cory couldn’t hold back the strangled sound that
emitted from her throat.
An iced chill chased down her spine. She hurried out of the nursery. Child responsibilities
be damned, she bypassed Harriet’s room and made for the stairs. Her footsteps were quick but
clumsy, her legs both lead and Jello in turn.
As she approached the staircase, her phone chimed and she scrambled to accept the call.
“Nay? Please, please, come quick.”
“Cory,” came a voice that didn’t belong to Naomi, a voice that sounded like wires
meeting and the crackling fizzle of an untuned radio. “Hellooo, Cory. Welcome, Coryyyy.” The
words dragged out like the caller had to piece together the sounds of many robots to form
coherent words. The effect sent waves of fear through her body with such power, she grew
nauseous. Trying not to let the nausea overtake her, Cory lowered onto the first step. She ended
the call and tapped her contacts icon with desperation. The screen didn’t respond to her touch. A
sob sliced through the silence and Cory realized she was crying.
She lowered the phone, reeling. She needed to get out of the house. She took another step
when the phone, clutched tight in her hand, said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite get that.”
“I didn’t say anything!” Cory shouted, her foot mid-air. She felt a gust from behind. It
wasn’t so much like being pushed; it was a wind that shouldn’t exist blowing shivers rough
across her skin. Cory lost her balance, slammed into the wall, then tumbled down the stairs
headfirst. She landed at the bottom, her shoulder tucked in the crevice of the final step, temple
pressed to the drywall.
Hissing crackles blared from her phone, said, “Oh, but you called for me, Cory.”
Cory shoved off the wall, disoriented. Fear spurred her on. She shoved her phone in her
pocket and pushed wet, sticky strands of hair out of her face as she ran through the hall, past the
bathroom, and skid to a halt when she saw the microwave.
7:09.
A heaviness descended on Cory. A feeling worse than dread, worse than fear. It was akin
to a moment of understanding, like the second before a car crash, the moment oxygen masks
deploy on an aircraft, the settling of the word ‘terminal’ when receiving a diagnosis. Cory
understood that something had shifted beyond her control tonight, and she didn’t know how to
regain it.
She sucked in a shuddering breath. In the kitchen, on the counter, the family’s speaker
device hummed to life. Cory wanted to fold into herself when the famous lines from a beloved
children’s movie blared at full volume. Underneath the track, as Randy Newman crooned about
being miles from bed, Cory heard laughter like white noise. Every hair on her body stood up. Her
head throbbed and, disoriented, she forced her cemented feet to carry her across the room. She
tossed aside a curtain to reveal the sliding glass door that looked out over the backyard. Cory
gasped.
Naomi stood on the dimly lit patio, phone in one hand, the other fist raised as though
halting mid-knock.
“Naomi!” Cory scrambled for the lock. Naomi took a step back from the door, her eyes
round, brows knit in confusion. The light from inside bathed the patio in a yellow glow. Naomi
searched the door, blinking, passing over Cory like she wasn’t there.
Cory tugged on the handle, slapped her open palm against the glass, called her
girlfriend’s name to no avail.
I’ll find something to break the glass, she thought, stepping back. Her focus shifted from
Naomi, running a hand through her dark curls, phone raised to her ear, to Cory’s own reflection.
Her hair was matted with blood seeping from a deep gash at her hairline. It dripped over her face,
down onto her chest, spreading across her shirt, sticking to her skin. Cory gaped, open-mouthed.
In the kitchen, the children’s song looped again.
Cory watched in horror as a shadow emerged from the bathroom behind her. It danced
toward her in jerky flashes of movement, like a film incorrectly spliced.
Not a single muscle responded as the thing approached. Only her eyes tracked it until it
stopped behind her. Her senses overwhelmed with rotting, putrid flesh, a hint of iron. As the
figure breathed over Cory’s shoulder, fogging the glass before them, the music from the speaker
was overtaken by the disembodied, electronic voice.
“A friend,” it said. “In me.”
Cory threw herself against the glass, hammering her fists, wailing. Naomi stood inside
the arc of light, pacing. Cory could hear Naomi’s words but they sounded under water, bloated
and impossible to parse out.
Except for her name.
“Once!” shouted the voice in the speaker. Rancid breath bloomed across her from behind,
as though the shadow figure had spoken.
Cory shook so hard her bones hurt and her head pulsed, propelling blood from the
weeping wound. It oozed down her face. She leaned forward, her forehead pressed to the glass,
smearing the mess of her insides across the surface. Naomi was calling her again and again, calls
that would never come through. When her girlfriend shouted her name once more, her pitch full
of frustration and fear, the voice said, “Twice!”
Cory put both of her palms to the glass and, in a final attempt, screamed her girlfriend’s
name.
Naomi startled, turning her attention directly to Cory. Cory’s heart picked up speed. She
banged on the glass with both hands, a hopeful grin tearing across her face.
“Nay!” she called again, bouncing on her toes, trying to break through the door that
wouldn’t budge.
Naomi’s face contorted in horror. Cory watched helplessly as Naomi took a step back,
lowering her phone.
“No!” Cory cried, blood and tears and snot streaming from her face, dripping into her
open mouth, mingling across her teeth as she cried again. “No! Please!”
But Naomi was turning and running and Cory could do nothing to stop her.
The song started from the top and Cory’s phone rang in her back pocket. The entity was
still there and she couldn’t bring herself to reach back for the phone, to risk touching the thing
that breathed on her. No matter, though. The phone quieted and the crackling echoed from its
speakers.
“So close, so close, not meant to be. We could have been three. She did not call thrice, so
it is you and me. Forever and ever, best friends we shall be.”
When Cory opened her mouth to scream, all that came out was static.
About the Author
K. A. Roy (she/her) is a queer writer who haunts the suburbs of Chicago alongside her family and three cats. Her work has been featured at Malarkey Books, Spindle House, and Black Hare Press. Her first horror novel is on submission. Find her at kayleighroywrites.com.
About the Artist
Yulian Leshuk (they/them) is a current undergraduate senior student at Columbia College Chicago studying illustration and art history. Working both traditionally and digitally, they incorporate themes of Surrealism and Abstraction to depict nuanced emotions and fantastical scenes. They place a strong emphasis on process and materials to engage with art as a layered means of self-expression. Yulian believes art is a form of meditation for both the artist and viewer, and creates works designed to serve as a focal point for self-reflection. You can find them on Instagram and Twitter @solpheria.
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