Block Party #2
If I really focus—and if they catch the light just right—I can see pink flecks of Eddie’s dust still floating around me, swirling and churning as I move through it.
I can only imagine how far it has already radiated out from this building, covering the farm.
Now that Eddie’s breached his human form, his pheromones are free to spread with even more potency, sliding under doors and spilling through cracked windows. The flakes are everywhere.
I notice myself approaching in the reflection of the exit doors, and for the briefest moment my heart leaps at the sight of this frightening monster. This is the first time I’ve seen myself since the blood clouded my eyes, and I almost forgot the extent of my work.
My face is caked with dark red, the blood smudged and smeared across me like I’ve been dipped in a vat of the stuff and left out to dry.
It streaks through my long hair, darkening the natural ginger tone and creating a sloppy mass of long wet strands.
The missing piece of scalp up front gives my hairline a strange, uneven angle, and this asymmetry is offset even more by the massive opening in my opposite cheek; an eerie, permanent half smile through which the faint glint of a few blood-stained teeth are visible.
The crimson liquid doesn’t stay confined to my head, either, spilling down my chest and soaking my clothes.
But as shocking as this all is, my hesitation is minimal. I don’t have time to dwell, and certainly no interest in wallowing in regret. There are more important things to worry about.
The way I move feels larger now, as though my aura has expanded into that of a hulking beast. My confidence has always felt sleek and hidden, a great white in the water, but now it rumbles and sways with weight and heft, more ferocious than ever.
One small thing about the shark metaphor always bothered me.
Thanks to a steady diet of Marlo’s nature TikToks, I’ve learned that sharks don’t care much for their young.
The mothers give birth and then immediately leave, a tough-love approach that seems to have worked out in the long run, but doesn’t quite jibe with my personal taste.
Maybe a shark isn’t my apex predator aesthetic after all.
Maybe I’m a bear—a furious, monstrous mother ready to tear out someone’s throat with my claws.
I slam through the gift shop door, letting loose a furious, unbridled roar that fills the night.
* * *
Tires screech as I swerve into my driveway and come to an abrupt stop. I throw the Porsche into park and leap from my seat, sprinting up the walk and bursting through the front door.
“Marlo! Noah!” I scream. “We gotta go!”
I don’t hesitate, stomping through the entryway and into the wide-open living area.
To my right is the kitchen and to my left is the pool, with its gracefully undulating, turquoise glow.
This singular source of light illuminates the darkness, and on a typical night I’d probably find the scene incredibly peaceful.
Right now, however, it feels eldritch and otherworldly.
I glance at a clock in the kitchen as I pass, its digital screen reading a little before four am The night is almost over.
My office is down the hallway and to the right, a room I appreciate having but rarely use in any practical sense.
I shoot most of my fit check videos in the bedroom.
Instead, this part of the house has become a general storage area for Marlo’s toys, much to my frustration, and it just so happens to be the place where we keep our extra swimming supplies.
I head inside and throw open the closet, yanking out a small box of Marlo’s nose plugs, the plastic clips she places over her bridge when swimming. I think back to a few days ago when I complained about these things, sickened by my words.
Now, these clips might just save my daughter’s life.
“Let’s go!” I call over my shoulder, stuffing a handful of clips into my pocket.
I turn around to find Noah standing in the office doorway, an aluminum baseball bat raised high and ready to strike.
“Stop right there!” he shouts.
“Fuck you, we gotta go,” I snap, refusing to slow down as I march toward him.
“Stop right fucking there!” Noah shrieks again, preparing to swing.
His cry is so intense, so emotionally raw that it finally halts me in my tracks. I raise my hands in a gesture of good faith, trying to calm him down. “Whoa, whoa. What the hell are you doing?”
“Who are you?” Noah snarls.
I can feel my body reject this question, the faintest scoff escaping my lungs. I scrunch my face up a bit, ignoring the sting as my fresh wounds stretch and adjust against each other.
“It’s me, Poppy.”
Noah stares daggers into me, a complete dismissal of my claim that holds steady for five long seconds until, suddenly, I catch his head cock the slightest bit. His weapon dips and his brows lift, utter shock rippling across his face.
“Oh my God,” Noah gasps. “Who did this to you?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I did it to myself?”
Noah seems perplexed by this answer.
“And what if I told you Eddie Michaels started it?” I continue.
“Poppy, what the hell are you talking about?”
Before I can respond, I hear another voice pipe up from behind Noah, a familiar tone that melts my heart just as quickly as it floods me with dread. “Mom?”
My first instinct is an unexpected one. Despite fighting all evening to reunite with my daughter, I find myself immediately turning away from her. I look down and to the side, struggling to somehow blend in with the shadows around me.
“Everything’s okay, sweetie,” I assure her. “We just need to get out of here. I’ll explain more once we’re on the road.”
“Why do you sound like that?”
I hadn’t even noticed the change in my voice, but between this question and Noah’s confusion it suddenly occurs to me just how ragged my throat is. All the screaming this evening has taken its toll on my speech, not to mention the new dimensions of my left cheek and my plugged-up sinuses.
“It’s been a long night,” I reply, reaching into my pocket and pulling out two of the nose clips.
I hand one of the clips to Noah, then crouch down before Marlo. I’m still turning my head awkwardly to the side, unable to face my daughter directly, but I catch a glimpse of her eyes widening. She offers no words, but her terrified expression says it all as she takes me in.
“Put this on your nose and don’t take it off for anything,” I instruct, loud enough for them both to hear me. “Do you understand?”
Marlo nods, still gobsmacked by my appearance but somehow willing to roll with it. She places the nose clip snugly over her bridge.
“I’m … I’m so glad you had these,” I tell her, my voice wavering as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. “I’m sorry I told you to stop using them.”
Noah steps up behind me. “Poppy, I think we should call the police. You’re really hurt.”
I stand, turning to face him. “I’m fine—I mean, I’m not fine, but—you just need to listen to me, okay?” I stammer. “Eddie Michaels … he’s a zombie.”
“The singer?” Noah clarifies.
I nod.
“A zombie,” he repeats back to me, a devastating flatness to his tone.
“Well, he’s actually a giant bug,” I sputter. “Like, a parasite or something, and he’s been around for hundreds of years—almost two thousand, actually—just working his way through my family tree. His species has these pheromones, right? Like, mind control.”
“Right,” Noah replies.
Marlo chimes in from behind me. “Mom, I’m scared.”
“Don’t be scared, sweetie,” I shout, a little too loud.
Noah is backing away, one hand raised like he’s trying to calm a bucking horse. I notice now that the clip isn’t on his nose.
“Hey!” I snap, growling with enough ferocity to stop Noah in his tracks. “If you don’t put on that clip then he’ll control you, and if he controls you, then you’re a danger to Marlo. So how about you put that on, or I’ll cut your nose off of your fucking face.”
Finally, Noah places the clip over his nose.
“Adorbs,” I say, nodding. “Now let’s get—”
My words cut short as I notice something floating through the air, a single rosy speck lilting through my office, barely visible in the dim light. My gaze follows this fuchsia particle on its haphazard journey, watching as it bobs and weaves.
“What is it?” Noah asks, noting the solemn change in my hacked-up expression.
As the particle drifts past me my eyes catch sight of a few more, the flock expanding.
“He’s here,” I murmur. “Go. Now.”
I push past Noah, returning to the kitchen and den area to find that the whole place is swamped with a horrible pink haze, shimmering flecks of bubblegum dust overwhelming everything.
I keep moving, focused on the door ahead, but halfway through the room I suddenly realize Noah and Marlo aren’t following me. When I turn back around, I find them right where I left them, awestruck by the rosy mist.
“What is it?” Marlo asks.
“Sweetie, do not take off your clip!” I snap.
My words erupt with such ferocity that Marlo steps back.
“I’m so sorry,” I quickly add, struggling to course correct. “It’s just … this is really important. I don’t wanna frighten you, but I need you to stay focused, okay? Someone is coming to hurt us. This cloud is part of it, so whatever you do, keep the clips on.”
Marlo considers this, then nods.
“Alright, for real this time,” I instruct. “Follow me.”
“Mom,” Marlo murmurs, still frozen. Her gaze has drifted over my shoulder and she wears an expression of genuine shock. “What’s that?”
My blood runs cold. I turn my head, charting her sight line through our floor-to-ceiling windows and into the courtyard. The pink cloud gives my pool’s turquoise glow a strange, sickening tint, and this new hue casts upward along the outer walls.