ninety-six : possession

Will had finally started drifting off when a sharp knock at the door pulled him back to the 70’s wallpaper of his motel room. He shuffled to the door and looked through the brass-rimmed peephole. A middle aged woman stood in the flickering light outside. She wore a name tag, the same as the woman at the motels reception desk. Diane. He flicked on the light and opened the door.

‘Yes?’

The woman didn’t respond. Instead she stared with clouded eyes, swaying slightly. She appeared not to be looking at Will, but through him, at some point in space far ahead.  Wispy curls of blonde hair were matted to her forehead, where a thin veil of sweat reflected the blue light of the bug zapper. She swayed again. Is she drunk? Will took a step forward. 

 ’Are you okay?’ 

Almost on cue, the woman crumpled at the knees and hit the tile walkway. Her face connected with the ground with an echoing crack, and Will rushed to help her to her feet. But she was heavy, and moving her was awkward. She’s a dead weight. Will shook off the unwelcome thought and pulled hard on her shoulder, finally managing to roll her onto one side. Her nose was crushed, but there was no blood except for where her skin had grazed on the ground. Her eyes were still wide open, unblinking.

 ’Diane?’ Will shook the womans shoulders gently, trying to wake her up. He held two fingers against her throat, checking for a pulse. Nothing. He held his hand in front of her mouth, checking for breath. Still nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh shit. He stood and took a step back, trying to remember anything at all about how to perform CPR. How many ribs am I supposed to count? How many compressions in-between breaths? He stood, wide eyed and frozen in the flickering blue of the bug light. What am I meant to do if I hear something crack? 

There were three zaps before he moved again. Two moths and a spider.  

He darted back into the room, and seconds later was back in the doorway with his phone in his hand. Before he had dialled the first number something hit him hard in the chest, and he flew backwards through the door. He hit the wall, and with the impact all the air rushed out of his lungs. His eyes watered as his mouth moved, trying to breathe air that suddenly felt sharp and solid. His lungs felt too small, and full of needles. His vision blurred. He thought he saw Diane being dragged by her hair into the room as if on an invisible rope. 

The door slammed shut, and he tried to sit up, too see, but an unseen foot crunched into his shoulder and he fell back, hitting his head on the metal bed frame. Sharp pain shot down his spine and radiated from the back of his head. A hot, sticky mess of blood dribbled down his neck, and his hair stuck to his scalp in dark waves. Finally gasping some air, he called out for help, but the sound was barely audible.

He felt a hand pin him to the ground, pushing down hard on his collarbone while five cold fingers pressed something over his mouth. If anyone had been watching he appeared to be struggling against no-one, gagging on air. His nostrils filled with a bitter burning, and he felt the cold, dry hands move to his arms, holding him down. He began to feel weak. A dim memory played in the corners of his mind. He tried again to call out, but one of the hands moved back over his mouth and held it closed. Red marks like fingers slowly appeared on his face as he squirmed helplessly. His head filled with a loud buzzing, like distant powerlines, and at first he thought it was the bug zapper outside, but it grew, steadily getting louder and louder, buzzing in one long, continuous stream of noise, buzzing buzzing. His whole body felt numb, pins and needles kicked in, and he jerked around on the carpet. A caught fish on a river bank. A fish in a frypan. Spitter spatter, fish cooked in batter. 

His eyesight dissolved around the edges, plunging him into tunnel vision as his heart-rate increased, stuttering like a poorly tuned radio. His arms grew heavy. Whoever was holding him down felt his struggling cease, and loosened their grip. After a few seconds, they let go completely. The buzzing in his head grew louder still. It pulsed in his skull and he felt like he might be sick. He tried to yell again, but his tongue felt as though it had suddenly grown too big for his mouth. His eyes rolled frantically back and forth, trying to see where the person had gone. He couldn’t see anything, and it occurred to him then that he didn’t even know if it had been a man or a woman. How could I not have seen anyone?

Suddenly, without thinking, he stood up like a puppet being pulled from above. His stomach lurched as his legs started to shift forward on their own, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He tried to stop, to yell out, but his mouth could barely move and all he could manage was burst of low whimpers. He walked toward the door, over Diane’s body. He felt the snap of her fingers under his feet.

Outside, in the parking lot he caught his reflection in a car windscreen. His eyes were screaming. That isn’t me.

This one’s for Sydney. A belated birthday present, of sorts. I would take more time and write something better, but it took me three weeks to write anything at all, and for that I apologise. I’ve been working a lot—not that that’s an excuse. I need to find a way to stop my dayjob from interfering with my writing.