Page 52 of Cackle

“What the fuck?” I mutter in spite of myself. “What the fuck? What the fuck . . . ?”

“I thought you liked spiders,” she says.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what’s happening.

“Do you understand?” she asks. “I would never hurt you. Never. I don’t like to hurt anyone. Well, unless they deserve it.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

“I’m not telling you, darling. I’m showing you. This is who I am,” she says. “What I am.”

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Does it matter to you? If I’m . . . different?”

“Different from what, Sophie? Different how?”

“There are many misconceptions,” she says. “I won’t say the word.”

In the light, I can clearly see her vulnerability, same as the other day in the diner. The way she leans, the wideness of her eyes, the straight line of her mouth—it’s all desperation. She’s not a threat to me. She’s pleading with me.

“The boy is fine,” she says. “He won’t bother you anymore. Maybe it was a bit theatrical. But he was rotten.”

The disconnect returns, the weightlessness. Like I’m on the steep drop of a roller coaster.

“I’m sorry,” I say, a nervous laughter escaping from somewhere inside me. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“I cursed him,” she says. “For you. I cursed them all. They won’t bother you anymore. They’ll be good students.”

“What do you mean, you cursed them?”

She takes a deep breath and smooths her hair. Then she says, “If you keep asking these questions, I will answer them. But before you do, search yourself to see if you already know. Or if you even really want to.”

All I want is to be out of this moment, out of this deeply unsettling conversation. I want fun Sophie to come back. I want to eat chicken and drink rum and forget about my problems. The last thing I want is any new ones. I have more than enough already.

I’ll concede there is something dark going on here. I wasn’t wrong to entertain the idea of the supernatural.

I hear the echo of Sam’s voice in my head, his response when I told him about the spider. He said, That’s not possible.

But it happened. It wasn’t just possible; it happened. I saw it. I witnessed it.

Things are possible. All kinds of things.

The spider is in Sophie’s lap, and she’s stroking its head with her pinkie.

All kinds of strange, crazy, fucked-up, incredible things.

“Now,” she says, “are you hungry? Should I put the chicken in?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“I just need to warm him. He’s already cooked,” she says, turning the oven on. “Don’t worry. Won’t be dry.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s not really worrying me right now. With what just happened. Not worried about dry chicken.”

She laughs. A head-back, hearty laugh. It stops abruptly. “You still want to be my friend?”

I don’t have to think about it. The answer is already there waiting patiently on my tongue.