Sleep

Carli Marie Alves. I am described as beautiful. Everyone knows how pretty I am. I am known to be very gorgeous in a way that is indescribable. This is my story.

They come at night.

Not being an overly attentive person, I don't usually pay much attention to the time of day, so I am usually caught off guard when I hear the scratching and the shrill noises they make.

And when I do, I immediately shut and lock my doors and windows. I don't want what's outside getting in.

I don't know who they are or what they want, but what I do know is that their intent is malicious. I've never seen their faces. They never look up, they keep their faces turned down. And they just crawl. They scuttle around the yard, the patio, even up the gutter and the wall of the neighbor's fence that forms one side of our back yard. They move at an alarming pace, like a crab or a centipede. They look pale and emaciated, it looks as if they haven't eaten in months, maybe years.

I can't determine their gender or age, but sometimes they look like someone I barely remember, like I know I've seen them before, but I can't tell from where or when.

I don't know what they want or what they are.

All I know is that they come at night and that they come with intentions that ca't possibly be good.

And I am the only one who sees them.

"Carli?"

The glaring white numbers on my clock read 1:45. I wake up to find my older sister, Amanda looking down on me, her hand pressed into my thigh. My Physics book lays discarded on the wooden floor along with various pens and pencils I used to annotate last night's study guide. I find it hard to move my body, I feel stiff and dry, like an old worn out scarecrow left out in the sun for too long.

"Carli iyou have to get to bed. How long have you been up?"

My eyes struggle to adjust to being awake and I lift my head in an attempt to acknowledge her choking out, "I was just reviewing for a test, give me a few more minutes and I promise to go to bed."

Her face reads exasperation. "You can't keep doing this, you always say the same exact thing, but you never end up going to bed and you look like you're dead in the morning."

The dog next door starts howling and I hear objects banging together outside. I know they'll be here soon.

"Okay," I say quickly, even though going to bed will be the last thing I will be doing tonight. "But if I fail tomorrow it will definitely be your fault."

"You won't trust me, it's better to get sleep than to study all night. You'll be more focused tomorrow when you take the exam." Amanda says. She's always quick to give advice, but never one to take it. I can see the tiredness in her eyes. I don't point it out though, she's under enough stress already. Trying to be a parent at seventeen must be hard.

"It doesn't matter anyways," I say lamely. "I'm not going to pass this class, I have a solid 'D' ."

Amanda gives me a pitied look before slumping down in a show of defeat. Her dull frizzy locks that were once a shiny blonde hang over her face hair, giving her a disheveled appearance. "I wish it wasn't like this," she whispers so quietly that I have to lean in to hear her. "I wish it would have been different for you and I," she says still whispering.

"It's not that bad," I say, and I immediately regret it. It's a lie and we both know it. I feel like an idiot for even suggesting that, and knowing I wasn't going to make anything right. We both don't speak for a while, until the sound of the dogs barking interrupts our apparent trace.

"I'm going to bed," I announce abruptly.

Amanda nods and quietly says, "Goodnight," walking out of the room. I say.

Her footsteps grow fainter and fainter as they leave the room. and then they're silenced by the soft closing of her bedroom door. She forgets that there's nobody here but us. That Dad is a hundred miles away, getting his second chance at being young and interesting. That Gabor is at college. She could slam the doors and nobody would care. But it's not in her nature to slam doors.

The dogs crowd into the bathroom with me while I try to brush the fuzz out of my mouth. They whine and wiggle, casting worried glances at the window.

"Shh," I tell them. "It's fine. It's no big deal. We're safe in here."

Still, I find myself glancing at the high bathroom window, wondering how many of them are out there. What they're doing. Why.

But all I can see is the pale white circle of the moon against the black rectangle of sky.

In my bedroom, I set my alarm for five, shove my math book into my backpack, and force myself to get under the covers without checking out the window. The dogs huddle against my back, little hot doughnuts. They sigh and lick and then settle down and are silent.

I can't sleep.

I get out of bed and walk to the window.

The first whisper of movement is a pale flash of blue from the shed to the shrubs along the neighbor's wall. The second travels along the edge of the flowerbed and then up the fence. They do that — move in any direction as if it were nothing. It makes me think of lizards, who have suction cups on their feet. But these don't look like lizards.

I don't know what they look like. There's nothing to compare them to.

Except, no.

They look like babies.

Just not human babies, exactly.

They move around in patterns that I know to be normal — from here to there, from there to here, away over the fence and then back. One climbs halfway up the trunk of the crape myrtle tree, then changes its mind and goes back down. From time to time, they seem to brush against one another. Each time this happens, there's this sensation in the air — like the briefest hint of electricity, a strike of lightning too nearby. The hair on my arms stands up.

Then it passes.

I wonder, can they even see each other? Or am I the only one that can see any of them?

Maybe their own existence is just as much of a mystery to them as it is to me.

Finally, I go back to my bedroom and lie down. As I'm closing my eyes, a shadow passes over the window above my head. I can see it on the wall opposite me — thin, spindly limbs, a narrow body. A head that's too large to be anything but a child's head.

I sit up, but I don't turn around. I feel wide awake, and a little angry. This isn't part of the deal. They don't come here. I don't try to scare them away, and they stay down in the yard. Away from me. From my room.

I hold my breath, staring at the silhouette outlined on the wall. Its head tilts to one side, then the other. And then it scurries away.

I turn around. I close the curtains.

I get out of bed. I walk through the empty bedrooms, closing all the curtains.

I don't sleep.