Wicked Child

That night, I dreamt I was walking barefoot down a dirt road. The sun was just starting to go down, and I thought it was odd that I couldn’t hear any birds or the usual noises one would hear at that time of day. I could only hear the sound of my feet on the cool damp earth. Suddenly, I found myself standing in the middle of a marsh. I don’t remember ever reaching the end of the trail.

A gnat lands on my arm. I swat it away. Then another one appears, and another. Soon an army of gnats is swarming me. The buzzing fills my ears and grows increasingly louder until I can no longer bear it. I’m spinning in circles, swatting in every direction, desperately trying to escape their capture and then…silence. I open my eyes to see they've vanished. It is then that I notice something in the water. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a body.

A woman face down in the murky water, pale peeling skin, matted black hair coated in blood and leaves. The smell of rotting flesh fills my nostrils and my eyes tear at the stench. I want to run but I can’t move. It's like I’ve been bolted to the ground. I hear buzzing again, it’s the gnats. They’ve returned, but this time not for me. As they fly towards the water, the body bobs up and down slightly before slowly turning over to reveal a face. A face that I recognize.

Mrs. Daniels. She lives in a white brick house down the road surrounded by rose bushes and small wooden crosses. It’s the only house in town that doesn’t look old and slightly abandoned. She’s the kind of woman who isn’t very bright, or very pretty, not particularly extraordinary in any way. But she’s the pastor’s wife and, in a small Christian town like this, that makes you royalty.

One by one, the gnats begin to land on her body, covering her like a cloak. They fill her mouth, her ears, and burrow into her skin. On the other side of the water, the tall grass parts to reveal a car that’s wrecked and damaged. Mrs. Daniel's lifeless eyes slowly started to turn towards me. Her mouth, still filled with gnats, opens unnaturally wide, releasing a piercing scream.

I quickly sat up in bed, my breathing heavy. I look at the clock. It’s 7:18 am. I take in my surroundings. The sun has spilled underneath the lace curtains, giving the room a warm glow. There was silence except for the faint sound of sizzling bacon from the kitchen downstairs.

Why would I have such a dark dream and why was it about Mrs. Daniels of all people? I did not see her very often. I mostly saw her at Sunday service or occasionally around town. Usually with her son, who I also don’t see often with him being in elementary, and me starting 8th grade once the summer ends. I make my way out of bed. “It was just a dream” I whispered to myself.

“It’s not real.”

Breakfast is small and simple as always. Two boiled eggs, three slices of bacon, and only a half cup of orange juice. Mother says that we should eat in small portions so as to avoid the sin of gluttony. She doesn’t know that sometimes I walk past her cracked bedroom door to see her standing in front of the mirror, pinching her stomach and thighs.

“Did you say your prayers last night?” She says before forking a piece of boiled egg into her mouth.

“Yes but… I had the weirdest dream.”

She pauses. “What do you mean by weird?”

I told her about the dream. About Mrs. Daniels, the body, the gnats, the smell of rotting flesh, the damaged car. Her expression is neutral, but there’s a shift in her eyes that I can’t name. After I’m done there’s a brief, heavy silence.

“The devil has gotten into you.” She’s unnaturally still. I’m unsure of how to respond, so I say nothing.

“Only a child tempted by the devil would have a dream so horrid.”

“Mother, it was just a dream.”

“God would not give such a demonic dream to a devout and faithful servant! Those dreams are for the wicked!”

Just then the doorbell rings. Mother pauses to regain her composure and then leaves to open the door. From the kitchen, I see a woman. I recognize her as someone from the church. She had obviously been crying, and I could sense she had bad news before she even spoke. Yesterday afternoon Mrs. Daniels went out to pick up groceries for supper and didn’t return. Her husband, Pastor Mike, called the police. They found her but it was too late.

Time slows, and I feel as if I’ve stepped outside my body. Everything is a blur and I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation.

Driving home...crash…car skids off…road…tumbles down…hill…towards…the marsh…body…crashes through… front window…lands…in water…great loss…funeral…Saturday…Lord bless her soul.

My dream. It came true. The marsh, the damaged car, Mrs. Daniels in the water. Everything I dreamt actually happened.

Mother says her goodbyes and condolences before shutting the door. She stands there, hand still on the doorknob. The next moment she’s in the kitchen, towering over me, eyes bulging out of her head.

“You evil wicked child!” She grabs my hair and yanks me out of my seat and onto the floor.

“I will not allow a witch to live under my roof!”

She’s dragging me across the floor now.

“Wicked child…evil child…defiler…servant of Satan.”

She’s dragging me towards the warrior room. A small linen closet with a painting of Jesus and bible pages on the walls. Anytime I was “wicked", which could be as simple as forgetting to pray over my food before eating. I was sent to the warrior room to read scripture and purify myself with the words of Christ.

I’m screaming now. I tell her to stop, I tell her she’s crazy. But to her my anger is just proof that there’s a demon inside of me that needs to get out.

“You will stay here until you have been freed from Satan’s grasp!”

She slams the door shut before locking me in. I lay on the floor, a heartbeat in my head where my hair was grabbed. I don’t cry. I’ve already shed many tears in this room over the years. I’ve spent hours on my knees looking up at the painting of my savior. Asking if he could make my mother kind. He never answered.

Images from the dream flash into my mind. While I was in bed dreaming about her, she was all alone, in a marsh, rotting. I had predicted her death. But what does this mean? I dream about death and then it happens? Will there be more dreams like this? Is this a blessing or a curse? I can’t tell. I waited to see if mother would open the door, but she never came. The floor is cold, but sleep eventually finds me and the torment continues.

I can see a church house down the road. It’s Pastor Mike’s church, located at the edge of town. There are cornfields on both sides of the road that stretch for miles. I began walking. Minutes go by and yet the church still remains down the road. I’m not getting any closer. A crow screeches from behind me. I turned to look, but I didn’t see any birds. When I turn back around, the front door of the church is before me.

The door slowly creaks open on its own. The church is empty except for an open casket on the other side of the room. As I walk closer, I see Mrs. Daniel’s corpse. She lays there peacefully. Next to the casket is a stand with a large framed photo. It shows Mrs. Daniels in her front yard. She’s smiling and soft curls frame her face. A big change from the bloody matted mess of hair I saw just a few nights ago. This must be her funeral.

Just then, the back door of the church opens. I hesitate, afraid of what I’ll see on the other side. Then slowly I walked through the door.

I hear creaking noises from above and looked up to see a man tumbling over the railing of the balcony. I quickly moved away just in time. He hits the ground right where I was standing. A beer bottle rolls out of his hands. I stare at his face in horror. I know this man.

It’s Rodney the town drunk. An overweight middle aged construction worker who still lives with his mother. I’ve seen him around town a few times, usually drunk, cursing like a sailor, and trying to convince people that the aliens are coming to kill us all. The church piano starts playing from inside. The sound grows louder and louder. I watch in terror as his blood pools around my feet.

I woke up panting. I had another tragic dream. I sat there for a while, staring at the wall. Eventually, fear faded away and was replaced by a new emotion, determination. What if I could stop it? Mrs. Daniels had already been dead when I had the dream about her. But if Rodney is supposed to die at the funeral, which hasn’t happened yet, then maybe I could prevent it. A prickle of doubt creeps into my mind. Maybe this is hopeless. Maybe I am foolish to think I could save him, but dammit I’m going to try.

The whole town showed up to the funeral. It’s not very often that someone dies here. I convinced Mother to let me come. I made up some excuse about how being in the house of God would help me repent of my sinful ways. Mother reluctantly agreed, but she sat next to me in the pew, side eyeing me every few minutes and whenever Pastor Mike read a Bible verse about the wicked, her eyes lingered on me a second too long.

I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong in this church. Like the floor would open up and swallow me whole, dropping me into the pits of hell. I was sure that Mrs. Daniels' death wasn’t my fault but as I sit next to a mother who treats me as if I’m the anti Christ, I can’t help but wonder if she is right. Maybe I am wicked and Mrs. Daniels' death was all my fault.

Rodney sat a few rows ahead of us next to his mother. I’m guessing she’s the reason he even showed up, because she keeps nudging him every few minutes to keep him from falling asleep. I zoned out for most of the service. I didn’t want to think about the dreams, or Mrs. Daniels, or my mother’s cruelty. My main focus was saving Rodney’s life.

After the service was over, we remained in the church house for the reception. There were fold out tables with food that people bought from home. I kept my eyes on Rodney and Mother kept her eyes on me. It’s like she was afraid that if she took her eyes off me for a second I would burn the whole church down. Eventually, it became harder for her to stay close to me since she had to interact with the people of the town and share condolences. I stood in the corner with a cup of cranberry juice. I wasn’t actually drinking but Rodney was. Hours had gone by and he not only had too much wine, but he found a way to sneak in some cans of beer. He got more and more drunk as the night went on.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It’s Sally Mae, a girl I used to go to middle school with before she graduated and went to high school. We never talked much since she’s a bit older. She was trying to convince me to become a youth group leader here in the church. Something about it being our duty to raise little warriors for Christ. I couldn’t exactly explain that I didn’t have time to teach Sunday school because I was already dealing with the whole dreaming about dead people thing. So I just smiled and nodded.

As she was speaking, I overheard nearby conversations about Mrs. Daniels. There was a lot of “She’ll be missed” and “She was such a joy” going around. But the tightness in their smiles makes me question whether their words were genuine.

Sally Mae starts to tell me the duties of a youth group leader as if I had already agreed to it. I briefly turned my head to look at Rodney only to find that he was no longer standing where I last saw him. I frantically looked around the room. He was gone. My heart sank as I realized he could already be on the balcony. He could already be dead.

I walked away from Sally Mae without explanation and made my way towards the stairs in the back of the church, which leads to the second floor. What if I’m too late? I reach the top of the stairs just as Rodney starts to tip over the edge of the balcony, a bottle in his hands. I dart across the room, stumbling over Sunday school desks and chairs. He’s almost halfway over the edge when I grab onto his body. I pulled him with all of my might. But Rodney is a heavy man and I have the strength of a thirteen year old girl. My heels dig into the ground, but it’s no use. He slips out of my hands. I stand there frozen as screams fill the air. I began to sob. I failed. I’m filled with a sense of dread as I realize that this ability is not a gift but a curse. I turned around to leave the balcony to find my mother standing in the middle of the room.

Three weeks went by of me being locked in the warrior room. Mother had walked in as Rodney was falling over the balcony. No matter what I said, she was convinced I had pushed him off and killed him. I tried crying, screaming, pleading, banging on the door, begging her to let me out, but it didn’t matter. I was no longer her daughter. I was a monster destined for hell. I was wicked. She placed two buckets for pooping and peeing in the room. There were no blankets, or pillows, or comfort of any sort. I spent every night on the cold hard floor of that closet.

Mother said fasting kills demons, so for the first seven days I starved. She rarely opened the door and when she did, she’d place a glass of water on the ground before slamming the door shut. Whenever I got too quiet she’d bang on the door until she could hear me praying. The next two weeks she started feeding me again, but very little and only twice a day at eight am and pm. She’d leave a glass of water with an apple, or a few boiled eggs, and, if I got lucky, a bowl of soup. By the third week, the buckets were filled to the brim with my waste and I became a shell of myself. I started to forget how life was outside these four walls. One night as I lay on the cold hard floor, sleep found me and I began to dream.

I’m standing in front of the bathroom door. I hear water running. Mother is taking a shower. Steam seeps from underneath the door, thick like fog. It surrounds me as I reach for the doorknob.

Slowly, I opened the door and stepped inside. It’s dark except for the moonlight shining through the window. The shower curtain opens abruptly on its own. Mother doesn’t see me. She’s naked and lathering herself with soap. She squeezes the soap bar too hard. It falls out of her hands and onto the shower floor. Mother accidentally steps on it and slips. It all happens so fast. She screams and tries to reach for the curtain to keep from falling, but she’s not quick enough. She lands face first on the edge of the tub, bones crushing. I watch in silence as an unnatural amount of blood gushes from her face and fills the tub.

On the wall next to the shower is a painting of the Virgin Mary that Mother keeps in her bathroom. In real life, it’s a sad depiction of Mary with a tear streaming down her face. But in the dream she’s smiling.

The next morning, I waited patiently for the shower to turn on. As soon as I heard the water running, I began kicking the doorknob repeatedly. The house is old, so it doesn’t take long for it to fall off like a chain being broken off a cage. Mother screams and then there’s a loud thud.

I run out of the house and I don’t look back.