Chapter 1

Do a dead girl a favor would you?

This is for your own safety so I suppose you'd be doing the both of us a service. Sit where you are, turn off all your coma inducing electronics, and exist in the silence. This won't take long, honest. I do understand the number of withdrawals you'll have to fight off without your precious Twitter or Facebook, I understand. Fight those demons as they come but you need to be very attentive during this much appreciated moment of silence.

If at any point during this exercise you notice a rhythmic or repeated sound occurring over and over and over again, stop reading immediately and get out of your house. I know, it's your home, this wooden castle is what you work sixty hours a week to afford but this is a warning from a victim.

The noise is how it starts.

This is my story.

When I was sixteen, I began to experience a bizarre phenomenon. This may be an over exaggerated phrasing but I did die because of it so I think some level of severity is merited. My family, Mom, Dad, Brother, and Dog, moved into a cookie cutter home surrounded by other cookie cutter homes.

One evening my body wrestled with my mind to ensure that I would not fall asleep peacefully. That single blood riddled wrestling match ended up peaking my senses. I could hear every wicked creak and unsettling pop from the glossed over aged floorboards and the carpeted stairs leading to the heavy oak front door or the unenthusiastic upstairs where we each had our own slowly deteriorating bedrooms. Depends on which way you were going, up or down stairs. Every dull drip from the sink across the hall in my bathroom bellowed though my skull and pinballed inside as if trapped for lack of a place to go.

Somehow through all the random typical house sounds, my ears locked in on a peculiar little thump. It wasn't odd to hear a thump, small or large, but what made this one special was its repetition. Laying there in my weathered bed, the thumping continued very faintly. Restless and unable to focus myself to sleep, I began counting the seconds between each thump.

Thump, count, thump. Sixteen seconds. There was no deviation in time or severity of the thumping. Count to sixteen and you'd get a thump. You could bet your life on it.

Eventually, the counting method worked and my eyelids weighed themselves down with exhaustion to send me on my way into the vast eternity of dreamland.

I awoke the next morning to the sounds of a bustling house and a fussing father. Apparently, the grass was not cut in the very specific way the homeowners association wanted it and they sent him a fine with a stern warning stating, 'Until this problem is resolved you will be fined approximately thirty-five dollars a week until the lawn at this address is cut in the proper crisscross pattern per the contract you signed when purchasing this property.'

He said, "Why don't they just charge us more money each month to live here and higher a landscaping crew to cut all of our lawns? Rebecca Sherman is going to hear about this at the next HOA meeting!"

Stumbling down the stairs while wiping the filth from my eyes and flipping my brown hair to one side attempting to look slightly presentable to the family, there was nothing I could do to hold the chuckles in. Every time my father got worked up, he would turn beat red like his head was the top of a volcano threatening to erupt and destroy everything in its path.

My little brother Jackson was sitting on his knees at the kitchen table. He needed that extra two inches of height to match up to that monstrosity of a table. His cereal bowl had transformed into nothing but off-color milk which he gulped down leaving a ridiculous moustache on his prepubescent face.

It seems the anger meter wasn't just pegged inside our house as mumbled cursing could be heard coming from the open front door.

Our neighbor, the oldest person I've ever seen in my life, chose to put up light green faux wood shutters flanking all his windows. That was pushing the limits but the whispers around town were 'Leave it be, old man Jenkins will be dead by Christmas. We just have to wait it out for four more months.'

That being used as evidence, Mr. Jenkins still received a warning letter informing him of the atrocious shutter infraction but allowing him to continue on with his stable financials as no fees or fines would be addressed to him due to his 'significant age'. Yep, they actually wrote that.

My infuriated father went out to compare letters with old man Jenkins, like men do. They tend to pool together, find the slightest objects of similarity, and complain and threaten the air with raised fists and loud empty voices. This is how things spiral out of control if someone in the group doesn't sneak in some calm words and reasonable logic.

My mother was in an apron cooking ham and eggs, our Saturday morning tradition. Jackson was given a reprieve from the greasy, textured foods as he suffered from irritable bowel syndrome and would literally crap himself at the first inkling of anything most of us take for granted.

"Naomi, how did you sleep sweet girl?" she said.

With a motion of her hand, she offered me eggs and ham to which I nodded in agreement. I wasn't particularly fond of the traditional breakfast foods but a tradition is a tradition.

I said, "I slept like a bear during winter, an electric car with no charge, a penis with no blood."

Messing with my mother by using disgusting or audacious phrasing was my forte. Her face dropped as she peered over at Jackson who was staring inquisitively at me, no doubt wondering why a penis would have blood in it and if it did have blood in it why did that indicate it was awake.

"Don't be crude Naomi. You're so silly but sometimes you take it to the limit, you know?" she said.

Jackson was looking down the front of his pants as my dad entered the house again, a little less frustrated as the smell of delicious ham and eggs punched him in the face.

He said, "What in the world are you doing Jackson?"

"My wee wee has blood in it or is it empty, I'm so confused," he said.

My father made an odd face at him and then twisted it to me, he knew me too well. Before we all sat down for breakfast, my father hesitated and froze where he stood. His arms waved, telling us to be quiet. The entire family, the lot of us, froze with him and waited for permission to get back to living and on with our days.

"Did anyone else hear that? That sound?" he said.

We all looked at one another and shrugged our shoulders.

He said, "It sounded like a mouse...in the house...or a barking spider!"

Suddenly, the aroma of fresh cooked breakfast was beaten to pulp by the noxious gas of his flatulence. His amusement was the only thing that kept the rest of us from getting angry. He had a way about him that allotted his grotesque actions levity in lieu of lash back.

His mention of a sound reminded me of last night, the first night the thumping started. This brand-new noise was not a fear inducing type of sound but it did intrigue the senses and warrant further investigation. Every sixteen seconds and I'm sixteen, coincidence? Probably but I was an easily bored child and was certainly going to figure out where it was coming from, what it meant, and why it chose to begin after we had lived in that house for over a decade.

We all sat down at the table, Jackson still sitting on his knees, and ate our perfectly prepared breakfast. My mother was the last to eat even though she was the one that prepared the meal. We'll have to discuss that later because it shouldn't be like that. Honestly, I don't think my father even noticed. He was a hardworking man that just went with the flow of life unless the

HOA came knocking or started sending letters of noncompliance.

The entire duration of our breakfast sitting, Jackson could be seen glancing down the front of his pants and returning with a wrinkled face trying to figure out things he would learn sooner than later from some random kid at his public school.

"Can I wear my pajamas to school today momma?" he said.

With a light chuckle, my mother shook her head. She was a very loving woman, never letting her stresses or troubles show through her blue eyes. Linda Ericson was the best version of a mom that any child could ever have. She could be waging a war on a barrage of demons in her mind and none of us would ever know.

"No sweetie, jeans and a t-shirt will do just fine for you today," she said.

Jackson crossed his arms and made his angry face. His eyebrows tucked down to his eyes and his lips pressed outward as if he were about to attempt the most awkward kiss ever.

Before he could submit his rebuttal, I heard the noise. The thumping came to me again. After it went off for the second time I began to count. Sixteen seconds. This thumping continued until my brother and I left the house to walk to school.

Tonight would be the beginning of the search for the thumping. I will not rest until it is discovered and explained to my mind.

This was the beginning of the end, not to be cliché, but it was literally the first step on a paved path to the end of my life. "Now that you're there, where everything is known, tell me:

What else lived in that house besides us?"

― Anna Akhmatova, The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova