Changeling

Nobody has been up here except me for three months. Save the night ones.

Nobody wants to be up here, in the moun­tains. Not so far away as this. The last car to pass up this dri­ve­way was in the spring. When they took Father away. The neigh­bours checked on me for a few weeks after that. After the news spread through the town like sparks catch­ing on dry, orange needles.

But now, they leave me to myself. Like Father always want­ed. Like I want.

It’s been three months since they took Father away. And I’ve only just now start­ed to feel a lit­tle lone­ly. At first, I got to do all the things he wouldn’t let me when I was a child. Jump on the bed until it broke. Swim in the riv­er, way past the stones he threw in to mark the safe place. I even wan­dered down the hill until I found where the first neigh­bour was. There’s a lit­tle town not far away. I have to go there for food now and then.

I try to stay away though. There are strange peo­ple there. They stare at me as I walk up the aisles of the lit­tle gro­cery store. And one cou­ple tried to make me stay with them, after Father was tak­en away.

I didn’t though. I knew Father wouldn’t like it. And I didn’t like them. It’s a strange thing to sleep around strangers.

As the night starts to fall, the nice orangey pinks melt­ing into the pur­ple between the trees, I like to be up in the tree house that Father built for me, although its half falling down, to watch the night ones come out.

Father said they were bats, but he’s wrong. I’ve seen bats, they fly with the night ones some­times, but there’s some­thing dif­fer­ent. The night ones don’t move the same, their wings are longer, and smoother as they fly.

They like to fly around my head, their leath­ery wings just touch­ing my hair or my clothes. It is not so much like being alone when they are near, their voic­es shriek­ing in the twi­light as they dart between the pines.

I close my eyes and drift off, imag­in­ing that I too, can fly with them. We soar through the trees, dodg­ing the nets set out by spi­ders, wet with dew as we fly down to the riv­er. Here, the water is cool and sweet and the air damp with the night. As I look into the water to drink, I see my own face, fur­ry but unmis­tak­ably mine, before yet again tak­ing wing.

#

I wake in the tree house to the slams of car doors clos­ing. I roll over in my perch to watch a man and woman approach­ing the house. The neigh­bours again. Not the clos­est ones, nor the nicest. Some were very kind after they took father. But these ones want­ed me to stay with them in their snooty house and treat­ed me like I was dirt.

They had rea­sons to want to make me stay with them. I don’t know what they were, but I know they can’t be trusted.

What could they want?

I watch them from the tree as they rap on the screen door. They wait a moment before the man comes back a step to where the woman stands and they confer.

“She prob­a­bly cut and run. She wouldn’t have the mon­ey any­how. If she even knows what is owing on the house.”

The woman shook her head annoyed at her bum­bling hus­band. “We need the cash. Where would she have gone? A rel­a­tive? I don’t think they had any fam­i­ly.” Her eyes searched the trees. “She’s here, some­where. Prob­a­bly watching.”

They start­ed back to their car. “We can just change the locks, kick her out, can’t we? Find a new tenant?”

The hus­band opened the car door. “I don’t know the legal­i­ty. I’ll have to look into it.”

“Nobody is going to care about that up here, Ger­ald. Nobody cares about that girl. Not after what she did to her father. I’ll ask around in town if any­one has seen her. I heard her moth­er had all kinds of jew­ellery. Maybe we can get some of that to make up for our losses.”

Their car turned and rolled down the hill out of sight before I swung down from my hid­ing place.

They want to kick me out of here, the only home I’ve ever known. And take Mamma’s jew­els. They’re just about the only things I have left of Mam­ma, besides the fad­ed blue dress that hangs in the back of Father’s closet.

That and a mem­o­ry. Of a soft warm woman who smelled of cream and pine needles.

I charge back into the house and slam the door shut behind me. Giv­ing it a lock with the old rusty thing we nev­er use either. I step over the spot where Father laid and go rum­mag­ing in the draw­ers in his room for the jewels.

They’re in the back of his draw­ers, wrapped in his worn flan­nel shirts. Mam­ma was rich once, he told me, before she came to live with Father. Father used to be rich too, but they fell on hard times and things just got hard­er when I was born and Mam­ma died.

Their par­ents hadn’t want­ed them to get mar­ried to each oth­er. Some­thing about curs­es, or ill will. But Mam­ma and Father didn’t abide by that.

In a way that Father nev­er quite voiced, I know I am the worst thing that hap­pened to them.

A baby not quite right, that killed my moth­er. My exis­tence forced my par­ents to the moun­tains, far away from their fam­i­lies and the mon­ey. And now they’re both gone. And it’s my fault.

I open the box­es, peer­ing down at the shin­ing dia­monds, sap­phires, rubies. What­ev­er Mam­ma could get out of her old house with. All stowed away, always kept for a worse per­il. A hun­gri­er win­ter, a death­li­er sickness.

The box­es snap back shut with final­i­ty. I slide them into a bag made of one of Mamma’s work dress­es. Stained, sprigged cotton.

I sit at the kitchen table con­tem­plat­ing them long after the sun on anoth­er day hides behind the trees. The night ones come out, call­ing to me in their voices.

I could give the fat woman and Ger­ald the jew­els. Maybe then they would let me stay.

Or I could go.

#

They’re back again. Those nosy neighbours.

I’ve been pack­ing, sort­ing out what food is left in the house. Try­ing to decide what to do. They sneak up the grav­el before I know it, my head buried in the wardrobe sort­ing through the last of Mamma’s clothes.

I’ve got Mamma’s blue dress in my hands, hold­ing it up over my own small frame, won­der­ing if I dare to sul­ly the gar­ment tak­ing it in a bit to fit me. The rap on the door makes my heart lurch into my throat. I throw myself into the wardrobe, lis­ten­ing over the thud­ding of my pulse.

“She’s there. I know she is. Open the door Gerald.”

A key turns in the rusty lock. Of course they have a key. They must own the place. That’s why they keep com­ing back here. Father nev­er told me who owned our house, but I knew it wasn’t us.

I stay in the wardrobe lis­ten­ing, hop­ing they don’t come into the bedroom.

They approach the kitchen table. The jew­ellery. I left it out.

“Look Sher­rie,” Gerald’s gruff voice creaks. “Neck­lace boxes.”

They snap open and shut.

“Take a few. What’s owing. Looks like she’s try­ing to make a run for it.”

Ger­ald makes a hum­ming noise. “Well, now. Sher­rie. We can’t just take…”

“Take these two. And this one, for our trou­ble over the years. We need it more than she does. That mon­ster. You know how we’ve strug­gled, keep­ing them in this place when we could be mak­ing much more, rent­ing it out as a vaca­tion home. We’ll come back soon. She’ll fly the coop and we can rent it out properly.”

The screen door slams behind them. They don’t both­er to lock or close the door. When I hear their car crunch down the grav­el, I unfold myself from the wardrobe. Run­ning back to the kitchen table, I sort through the box­es to see what they’ve tak­en. The best ones. Mamma’s wed­ding pearls. The big green emer­ald pen­dant. And the dia­mond earrings.

I throw the remain­ing box­es in the old sack, wring­ing the fab­ric in my fists. How could they? They’re tak­ing every­thing I own. What my par­ents had left to give me.

I feel the rage come over me. The one my father warned me about. The one that came upon me that day. On Father’s last day. I feel the change, and let myself take wing.

#

My friends find me. The night ones. I flew alone for hours, wait­ing in the trees away from the bright sun­light until the moon, in white sil­ver, appeared, and the night, dark as navy set­tled around me like velvet.

Then we take wing togeth­er. I lead the oth­ers to the house. Their house, Ger­ald and Sherrie.

I am still find­ing myself. The way my wings should work, how to glide along the night breezes like the leaves. They teach me, each tak­ing a turn show­ing me how to stretch my wings.

We perch on a large oak tree, out­side the light­ed win­dow of their din­ing room. I sat through one insipid meal here, that night, when Father was tak­en away. The towns­peo­ple want­ed me out of the house while they cleaned up my home. I stared across at their blank faces, the dull eyes of their son glaz­ing over as he stuffed his mouth with mashed potatoes.

I couldn’t eat a thing. I was full already.

We sim­ply watch. That is all tonight is for. To watch them as they go about their night. And to think of what I might like to do, how I might take back those jew­els, as I let the anger sim­mer in my belly.

#

I wake in the bright, fil­ter­ing sun­light in my tree house.

Did I real­ly fly with the night ones? Am I tru­ly one of them?

My mind strays to that day with Father. The change com­ing over me, as if pre­or­dained. He angered me. Angry with drink, which he wast­ed all our mon­ey on, he blamed me for mother’s death. And I, so hun­gry, so angry, had answered him, becom­ing what I tru­ly am.

Because he was not real­ly my Father, and I’m not so sure that Mam­ma was my moth­er. They birthed me, raised me, and could not under­stand me. Father knew I was not theirs, he knew I was some­thing he could not under­stand, some­thing he feared. But he could not aban­don me either, not with the promis­es he had made to Mamma.

I have nev­er had a true fam­i­ly. Until now.

My sib­lings are among the night ones.

I stretch my arms and blink in the sun­light. The bright­ness hurts my eyes, a light burn­ing sen­sa­tion buzzes over my skin.  I think I would rather crawl down and sleep inside dur­ing the heat of the day.

I rest myself in the famil­iar bed with the thread­bare flo­ral sheets. The tick tick of Mamma’s clock in the main room keeps me awake, until the noise stops, blar­ing­ly loud for its absence. Father used to wind the clock every Sun­day. And now, he isn’t here to do it. I roll over, try­ing to ignore the loud silence.

I am saved from try­ing to sleep by the sounds of the car rolling up the grav­el. They are here again, I know it before I hear the rap on the screen door and their bick­er­ing voic­es. They unlock the door and march in.

“She’s been here alright, look the jew­els have been put away. We should have grabbed them all yesterday.”

The woman rum­mages and search­es through the kitchen cab­i­nets, let­ting plates smash as she shoves them out of the way.

I lay in bed, ter­ri­fied. I should do some­thing, any­thing. I rise from the bed, and put on my slip­pers, buy­ing myself the time of my feet on squeaky boards to clear them out. But they are too absorbed in their search. Or I should say, she is. He is stand­ing by the door, pre­tend­ing he doesn’t see what his wife is doing. I stand in the door­way for a moment, with nei­ther of them look­ing at me, before I final­ly speak.

“What are you look­ing for?”

The man glances at me, near­ly drop­ping his wife’s purse to the shard filled floor. She is still absorbed in the kitchen cab­i­nets and doesn’t hear me until she snaps one closed and looks at where her husband’s atten­tion is directed.

“You’re here huh?” She looks to her hus­band for back up, but his mouth hangs agape. She rests her hands on her hips. “You’re owing in rent. This is your evic­tion notice.”

“I should think the jew­els you took yes­ter­day would be plen­ty for what’s owing in rent.”

The woman glances at her hus­band. “But there’s the dam­age deposit, see? We need more for that. This place is a dump. When your fam­i­ly came here, it was the cutest lit­tle moun­tain cab­in. Now it’s going to take years to get it back to the way it was!”

I sin­cere­ly doubt that. I’ve lived her my whole life, and it looked just the same. And even if they got mon­ey from me, I doubt one dol­lar would go to fix­ing any­thing wrong with the place.

I face off against her, mim­ic­k­ing her hands on hips, wait­ing for her to speak.

She shoots dag­gers at her her husband.

The man sighs and shifts the purse in his hands. “If you tell us where we can get a pair of ear­rings, or some­thing, we can be out of your hair with­out dam­ag­ing the rest of your belongings.”

I stand still, wait­ing for them to leave, hop­ing they will. But they’re just star­ing at me, and I can feel the change sim­mer­ing in my belly.

“Get out!”

They’re still stand­ing there, their mouths hang­ing open.

My hands reach to my hair, grip­ping the roots, try­ing to stop the change through pain. “Get out,” I say again through grit­ted teeth.

“I’m not going any­where until I have…”

“Sheila, remem­ber.” The man holds up a hand to her, urg­ing her to come to him.

They know some­thing hap­pened with Father, even if they don’t know it all. I hear them slink out the screen door and the car doors slam.

I sink to the floor, still grip­ping my hair. I let it go as I let myself curl into a ball on the cracked linoleum. I allow the sobs to heave me, feel the urge to change slow­ly reside

They’ll come back. But I won’t be here. It is time to leave.

#

The night ones come for me as the sun sets. I let the change come over me freely this time, tak­ing wing to join them in the dark­en­ing trees.

We soar back to their house. I’ve decid­ed now. I know what I will do. We perch again in the tree, wait­ing until all the lights go out.

Then, as I see the light in the bed­room dim behind the yel­low cur­tains, I land soft­ly on the grass. They leave the kitchen door open for their teenage son. He’s a typ­i­cal teenage boy, kind of a meat head. I met him at that din­ner, not that we had much to talk about, him and I.

I slip inside padding with still webbed feet over their checked tile. My wings leave me as I climb the stairs. I haunt out­side their bed­room door, listening.

The hus­band snores.

The door opens with­out a creak I spy the two sleep­ing forms, one a great lump, the oth­er a thin line under the patch­work quilt.

The son is still not home when I have fin­ished drink­ing. I look down at the white forms, not even awok­en from their sleep. My mind flash­es to my Father, lying there just as they do.

A hot feel­ing of guilt fills my stom­ach, as warm as the blood I have just consumed.

I stag­ger back from them, disgusted.

I won’t cry this time. It won’t be like it was with Father. I won’t feel despair, be ashamed of what I have done in my anger. This time I meant it. But to be this thing, the crea­ture that drains peo­ple, to kill my par­ents. It is a despi­ca­ble thing to be.

The jew­els. I must take back what is mine, and flee into the night with the oth­ers. They are wait­ing for me.

I rum­mage through their wardrobes, look­ing for the box­es. I find them in a shoe box, hid­den in their wardrobe.

The door down­stairs opens. The son. He climbs the stairs slowly.

He paus­es by his parent’s door. The knob rat­tles as I approach the win­dow, tuck­ing the neck­lace in my pocket.

A head pops through the opened door, and hiss­es, “Mom, did you get more cereal?”

I hold my breath, wait­ing while the change comes over me, my body shrink­ing and my arms turn­ing to wings next to the opened window.

“What the?”

The eyes have adjust­ed, he has spot­ted me. His face turns to the still forms in the bed as I burst through the open­ing of the win­dow and out into the night.

I rejoin the night ones, who have wait­ed for me. We soar into the stars. The flit around me, excit­ed. I fol­low them as they begin to lead, far far away from this lit­tle town.

We arrive as the sky is shin­ing peach in the morn­ing. The night ones tuck them­selves into a lit­tle crack in a stone tow­er. An old castle.

I change as my feet hit a stone floor. I look around as they set­tle them­selves in the rafters, or oth­er change along­side me.

Fanged smiles linger for a moment on their lips as they pass through doors and down stairs. Final­ly, hands grip mine and they pull me with them, into the depths of the castle.

The cool palms of my broth­ers and sis­ters grasp me, lead­ing me fur­ther into out home. I let the bag of jew­els slip from my hands, land­ing with a thud on the stone floor.

They have been wait­ing for me.