Flight of the Mangled Nightjar

Ever since I was a young girl I've had trouble sleeping. I can remember the age it started, 14, the dreaded summer that transitioned middle school to high school. Nerves, anxiety, that's what it had to have started from. And now, nearly twenty years later, if I were to talk about it, people might say the drinking doesn't help.

But you see, it does.

If I drink enough, sometimes I can get through a few hours- just a couple of restful ones before she appears. And she always comes. Maybe not every night. But that's when it's the worst, that's when the fear really kicks in, the waiting, the wondering when her ghastly presence will emerge. Will it be late in the middle of the night, or right before I close my eyes? That's why I can't tell anyone. No one needs to know what happens.

I take another sip, the dull liquid burning my throat as it goes down, but I feel better. Calmer. I stare out past the crack in my driver's seat window, looking at the house that once was filled with happy memories, but is now completely dead inside. It's been too many years since I've seen it, and I'd rather not stay.

I glance at the half crumpled obituary, my mother's face smiling back as if she's happy to be dead. I knock some loose dirt off my black dress, and stare back at the house.

"Just for tonight." I whisper. Someone has to get things in order. Then I'll be gone again. For good.

I throw back another shot and climb out, closing the door a little too loudly. Dusk is already surrounding the neighborhood. The neighbors I no longer know are either out of town, or who knows, maybe dead as well. I heave my bag over my shoulder, and trudge up the paved walkway. Grass is growing long through the cracks, and I can tell my mother didn't get anyone to keep up with the yard after my father passed years ago.

I fumble for the key, and push the door open, flicking on the lights and now I'm staring directly into the dining room. The smell hits me and in that moment I'm back again.

I can see my mother and father leaning over little Pearl as they sing happy birthday. She looks up at me, her blue eyes twinkling from the candlelight, one lid heavy over her right eye, and she breaks out into that snaggled big grin of hers.

"Wuby!" she says in that mangled lisp, "Look! Wings!"

She climbs out of her seat, ignoring the cake now, and turning, wiggles the ridiculously bouncy things attached to her back, sending glitter everywhere.

"That's great, Pearl." I say, leaning up against the entryway.

"Blow out your candles, honey." my mother says gently nudging her.

She bounces back into her seat, sucking in air for a big breath. Her face suddenly loses its color and instead she begins coughing and spraying all over the cake. My dad is patting her on the back, my mom grabbing water, and Pearl is teary eyed, apologizing.

"Here." I say, and before anyone can stop me, I've blown out the candles.

In that moment, my eyes meet Pearl's, and she's shocked. Hurt.

"Ruby!"my mother hisses.

"It's okay." Pearl says in that small voice of hers. "I don't need to make a wish." She smiles. "I have wings. I can fly now. That's all I want."

"There. See?" I say to my parents, rolling my eyes.

I take a deep breath, and step away from the dining room and that memory. Throwing my bag on the couch, I look at the boxes already piled around the house. Looks like someone has done most of the work. Aunt Joan no doubt. Well, good. Not much for me to do then.

I walk into the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door, ignoring the family pictures weathered with age stuck to the outside.

Empty.

But I'm not surprised. My mother spent most of her time in the hospital anyway. I close it, stifling a yawn and look out the window. Staring past the glare of the light behind me and into the darkening night, I can see its silouhette still looming high in the sky. The need to drink comes over me and I wonder again, like I have many times after, why they never got rid of that damn treehouse.

Something shifts behind me, and my eyes immediately focus on the hallway. I can see her, dark against the wall, frail and gaunt, her limbs twisted where they shouldn't be. She's not walking, barely moving, but she's there, and I can see it, even in the reflection, the gruesome deformity of her face opening, falling.

I gasp and whirl around, reaching for anything that might be near. But I'm alone. Nothing but the quiet humming of the refrigerator. The streetlight flickers and it takes me a moment to calm my racing heart. I can feel the tears beginning to well in my eyes but I bat them away. Not tonight. Everything is alright. It's not real. I know this.

It's strange being upstairs. I haven't been in this area since I moved out. The pictures look at me, hauntingly. Pearl has that big silly grin in every one, always posing for the camera feeling like a little beauty queen. Each time she saw the photos, I remember the light leaving her eyes just a little.

"I wish I was as pretty as you, Wuby."

I look down the hall at her closed bedroom door. Part of me wants to open it, just to see if it's still the same. Preserved in her eternal childhood. But I know better.

I walk into my old bedroom- this one not preserved. In fact, aside from a few packed away boxes, it still has that country inn feel my parents were going for with the bedroom. No more popstars adorning the walls.

I lay down on the bed and stare at the clock on the dresser. 7:50. Still early. Maybe if I just rest for a moment, just shut my eyes for a little bit, I can pretend I'm not in this house, I'm not being followed by somethi...

It's late afternoon and I'm trying to help Pearl ride her bike. She's too old to be in training wheels. Eight years old is just too big, but that's how Pearl is. She's not like the rest of us. Or so my mother had calmly instilled in me after she was born.

"I think I got it this time, Wuby."

I'm holding onto the back of her seat, trying to avoid those wings that keep thrashing in my face.

"You can let go and I'll do it this time. I pwomise."

I run along behind her, faster, faster, listening to her squeal that she's flying. I let go and the bike glides down the street, her small frame bouncing, the wings lopsided. I stand back, thinking maybe this time she'll stay up. But my heart sinks in frustration as she veers off to the right and crashes into an azalea bush.

I'm waiting for her to cry, almost hoping she will, but she leaps up, her wings dangling stupidly and she grabs onto her bike coming back toward me, that sheepish look on her face.

"Sorry, Wuby! I tried."

Past her now I can see three girls I know that are already in highschool. They're watching my sister as she hobbles a long, her stubby little legs giving her that old man's walk. I can hear the laughing, their imitation of how Pearl says my name, and my face burns. I hate her. I tell myself this over and over. I hate my sister.

"Poor Pearl, the broken girl. Wuby help your sister!" The girls are laughing.

Turning, I run down the street, my feet hitting the pavement as hard as they can as I try to drown out Pearl's pitiful cries far behind me.

My eyes shoot open as I realize the cries were too close to be part of some distant dream. I look at the clock glowing in the darkness. 2:11. How did I sleep for so long?

That's when I hear it again. A distorted cry, like an animal bruised and broken. Then something else, a long steady movement. Dragging.

I sit up in bed, paralyzed. Somewhere out in the hall, something is coming, making its way from the stairs- no- not the stairs, the other side of the house. My parents' or maybe Pearl's room. Something is coming from there.

I can't move. I don't even know where to go. I can't run out in the hall. It's getting closer.

I close my eyes. It's not real. She's not real. You're hallucinating. None of this is real.

The dragging stops and I know she's right outside my door. I inhale. There's no sound.

Maybe it's over. Maybe she's gone for the night.

I glance at the clock. 2:19. The door remains firmly shut. Did I lock it? Of course not. I let out a slow steady breath. It's alright. It's over now.

And then the door begins to creak open. A loud steady groan, and my whole body is thrown into shock. I can't move. I can't breath. Even in the darkness I can see her battered shape trying to crawl along the floor. The loud shuffling and wheezing. The dry breathing. She's coming across the room trying to reach me. Her bony fingers opening wide. She crosses the one strip of moonlight and I see her trying to smile at me through her long hair. Her mouth is twisted upward, but her broken jaw hangs lopsided and crushed, causing more of a sneer.

I can't take it. I leap from the bed, slamming into the dresser. I throw myself as far around her as I can, eyes squinted, frantic to get out but still trying not to fully see her.

I run into the hallway, and make my way toward the stairs. I'm two steps down when I see something at the bottom. No, not something. Someone. Tall, dark, not moving. Standing far too still.

I hurl myself back up and stumble across the hall, past my room, and grab onto the nearest door handle.

I lunge into Pearl's room, slamming the door shut. Locking it.

Tears are coming down my cheeks as I try to stop shaking. Swallowing deeply, I look around me. It's still the same. Everything is just like it was. I collapse in a heap by her bed, staring at the doorway knowing what's on the outside, but also too afraid to face what's now inside.

And then for the first time, I relive that day.