Chapter 6 Lying Eyes #2
Here’s the thing about hallucinating demons: It’s not fucking normal.
And yet when I catch another glimpse of one from my office window several hours later, I only briefly startle before shaking my head and refocusing on the emails I need to send.
The demon is standing some yards away near the main road, wearing a suit, with horns that spiral high into the air.
For a moment I lean forward, looking at its sharp, fang-like teeth, my heart beating so hard I fear I may have a cardiac event.
A car trundles by it, slow and close enough to notice the demon, but it doesn’t stop in alarm.
The demon looks right at me, mouth opened wide in what I think might be a laugh, and raises a hand in greeting.
I force my eyes onto the screen. I don’t have time for a nervous breakdown, for hallucinating demons.
I have an inbox full of emails from volunteers explaining why they haven’t shown up for a shift in a while, and I need to focus on sifting through them.
When I look out of my window after five slow-crawling minutes, the demon is still there.
He seems to be… scribbling in a notepad?
I scrub at my eyes. The demon disappears.
I slump back in my chair. Could I have a brain tumor?
No, that’s last month’s Grey’s Anatomy binge talking.
I would have a headache or something. Before I can freak myself out too much, I have my phone in my hand and Aai on speed dial. She picks up on the second ring.
“Are you okay?” she asks immediately.
“I think so.” I close my eyes, and the demon man dances behind them. “I feel like I’m seeing things, Aai. Do you think I’m dying of a brain tumor?”
I can almost hear Aai roll her eyes. “What are you seeing?”
“Demons?” I phrase it as a question because I want to sound less crazy, but I know it probably isn’t helping.
“You’ve always had a really strong imagination,” Aai says. “You used to hunt for demons as a kid, remember?”
I blush even though nobody else can hear her. “Okay, but I’m an adult now, and I’m seeing demons in suits, with big horns and teeth…”
“Did you sleep well last night?” Aai asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure you’re not dozing off at work?”
“… No.”
“What’s more likely? Seeing monsters because you’ve let yourself get extremely tired or having a brain tumor?”
I want to tell her that she should take me more seriously, because I’m too embarrassed to admit she’s probably right, but I’m also too fucking tired to argue. “Okay.”
“You need to meditate more, baccha. Have you been saying Om every night?”
“No.”
“You should pray. Don’t argue—it doesn’t have to be religious. The words are meditative, they’ll help you relax.”
Her advice makes me snort. It’s a perennial favorite of Aai’s: If I start praying, my life will finally improve. “I’ve tried that, it doesn’t work for me.”
“Try to imagine some balloons, filled with worries, popping one by one.”
“Yeah.”
“Call me from the train,” Aai says, sounding distracted. I’m interrupting her day with my stupid neediness. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Thanks.” I hear three beeps on the other end and look back out the window, seeing only the expanse of parking lot, scattered trees, and, beyond that, the road. There’s nobody there. It’s all in my head.
I get to my feet, though it feels like moving through molasses.
On my way out, I Google whether hallucinating demons is a common sleep-deprivation symptom.
The front of the clinic is empty and dark.
A shape moves in the corner of my eye, above my phone screen.
I scream, then clamp my mouth shut, letting out an alarmed squeak.
“Sorry! Sorry!” It’s a familiar voice.
The lights come back on, and I see Aaron hunched over, like he’s trying to make himself small.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“I thought I would save some energy, since we’re done with the patient list. I didn’t mean—sorry.”
“Where’s Diane?”
“In the back, helping with something.”
“Closing the front is her job,” I say. “What if someone came as a walk-in?”
“We don’t—”
“You might not see walk-ins, but Dr. Levy stays late sometimes just in case.”
“I didn’t think—”
“Clearly.” I should probably stop interrupting him, but I have no desire to conduct a conversation. Instead, I glance at my phone and skim the top results of my search.
Signs that your insomnia might be more serious than you think
Prevalence of supernatural hallucinations in sleep deprivation
DEMONS ARE REAL!
My phone pings. Aai sent me a meditation video. When I look up, Aaron is gone.
I go to sleep early, and wake up from a dreamless sleep feeling not refreshed, but something close to it.
Hopefully, my relaxing Saturday plans will give my brain the rest it needs to get back on track.
I’m planning to pick up a shift escorting patients at the Planned Parenthood in Aurora, something I always look forward to.
After today, I won’t be able to return until after Forty Days is over, since our clinic will need me every Saturday.
Like other Planned Parenthoods, this one is massive and better funded than our clinic, but because no good deed goes unpunished, it’s also a bigger target: When people think about abortion, they think about Planned Parenthood.
Their workers are doxxed, their neighbors are canvassed, their websites are flooded and hacked and crashed—all supported by the web of untraceable money fueling the anti-choice movement.
A few years ago, antis managed to buy up the land across from the Aurora Planned Parenthood and built a crisis pregnancy center there.
They put up signs that read, “Pregnant? We can help!” and “Free ultrasounds!” and “Pregnancy clinic this way!” to redirect patients.
The unfortunate few who have accidentally ended up there have told us afterward how terrible it was.
How they learned the clinic didn’t have a doctor.
How the ultrasound techs didn’t have formal training.
How everyone addressed them as “mom” and “mommy.” Their stories drive me, and every time I go down there I look forward to it—it feels like I’m marching into battle, a battle I can win.
I’m sure the actual workers at the clinic feel a lot like I do, always one wrong move away from ruin.
But while I’m in Aurora, I’m just a cog in the machine with one simple task.
It may be hard, but I know I can do it. I can feel useful.
All the volunteers are veterans of escorting, so when I climb into the carpool and explain our newly expanded horde of protesters, I immediately gain four offers of help.
When we arrive, I make eye contact with Steve, who shoots me an angry scowl.
I wave. We’ve been doing this dance for years.
Four of the other antis link arms and walk into the road, creating a blockage for people trying to get to the neighboring Jewel-Osco supermarket.
I sigh and step forward to tell the would-be shoppers that they can circle around the parking lot to the store, when I stop cold.
The man in the first car—there’s something not quite right about him.
A feeling of wrongness prickles up my spine, oddly reminiscent of Thursday evening and the man at the door.
“Ms. Kulkarni,” he says through the open window. “You have something very valuable, and I am prepared to pay its worth.”
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“You are seeing things, aren’t you? You are not crazy, merely in possession of a gift. If you—”
“Move along!” Jeff calls from behind me. The man in the car jerks.
“Murdering bitch, get out of my way!” he shouts, but his voice sounds different than it did before. He’s just another angry anti. I take a step back and collide with someone.
“It’s just me,” Jeff says. “Why are the antis blocking their own cars? We should go inside and ask the staff what they want us to do about it.” With great effort I nod, focusing on the familiar face. “Did he know you?” Jeff continues. “Or was that just the usual babble?”
“Never met him. He was just… proselytizing.”
Jeff shakes his head. “Half these people could benefit from therapy.”
“Only half?” I joke with a shaky laugh.
It is only when Jeff turns away that I internalize that he saw it too, just as Aai saw the man outside my apartment. It’s not all in my head. I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the approach of a mother and her young son. The antis immediately start yelling at the little boy.
“Your mommy’s going to kill your brother!”
“Your mommy’s going to kill you!”
I push down my inner turmoil and run forward to usher them onto clinic property.
Seeing the boy start to cry, I hit play on my Spotify escorting playlist. Taylor Swift starts singing “Shake It Off.” The mother gives me a hesitant smile, and I sing along, doing a little dance for the boy while positioning myself between him and the antis.
“Home, Mama!” the boy cries. He stops abruptly, and I worry he’s about to bolt. “I want to go home.”
The woman sighs. “Come on, baby, just a little bit farther and we’ll be safe inside.”
“Don’t go in!” a protester shouts on their megaphone. “They tear off baby arms and legs in there!”
“Don’t let me go in!” the kid wails as he grabs ahold of my leg. “Mama, I like my arms!”
The woman is clearly starting to freak out, so I gently pull the kid’s arms away from my body to try to move him toward shelter. He just burrows farther into my fleece sweatpants.
“Maybe we should go,” his mom says, and I feel a jolt of panic.
“C’mon, kiddo,” I whisper. “It’s going to be fine. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Please forget about this, I silently beg. Kids have short attention spans, right? I feel something warm rush through the hand that’s touching his arm, and I immediately let go, worried I’m gripping too hard.
With a dazed look in his eye, the boy blinks up at me and asks, “Where am I? Where’s my mom?”
“I’m right here, baby. Ready to go inside?” she responds.
“Who’s yelling?” he asks. His eyes are blank.
“Some bad people. Don’t worry about it,” his mom says.
“I like this song!” he declares, and I take the opportunity to usher them forward.
Pretty soon we’re on clinic property and the boy is dancing, shaking his little arms and twirling.
“Thank you,” his mom whispers. “He usually never lets things go. I was just going to give up.”
“No problem. He probably got overwhelmed,” I say. But my hand is still burning. “He’s so sweet.”
“His father is… we have to leave. Can’t do that with a baby.”
Patients often confide in me, try to explain why they’re here. I’m honored by their trust, even as I wish they didn’t feel compelled to offer a justification.
“We’re here to help. If you leave during my shift, we’ll have a dance party walking out, too.”
I’m rewarded by a laugh from the boy. I wish it was always this easy, but I can’t shake the unsettled feeling building within me. Please forget, I said in my head, and the boy forgot.