Dancing Outside the Light
in the light he shines, exquisite marble, but in the dark he waxes obscene
The thing about magic spells is that they are not necessary. Our breath gives them power, not the specific words or languages we use. Yet, unless we are exact to the final detail in communicating our desires, considering every outcome, demons will take advantage of our mistakes. They were once gods, and they yearn to return to the material world, to be loved and feared, to be seen. It does not matter if the face they wear is truly theirs, for we will know them from what they are beneath. In this way, they are very much like us, which is why we are so terribly compatible.
So, out of caution, I use spells to bend these entities to my will. Although I perform each rite to perfection, demons are ancient, sly, and intelligent. We mortals, in the hubris of our living energy, are no match for their belief that they are superior. Especially when we set out to control them, for that is but pretense on our part.
“How are you feeling this morning?” I carry a tray with Dad’s scrambled eggs, the only food he can keep down lately.
“How are you feeling after all the unholy screams with your boyfriend last night? You can have the decency to close the door.” He is grumpier than usual.
“You’re getting your timeline all wrong. I haven’t seen Jojo since our big fight.”
“As always, you lie through your teeth. Apropos of that, where’s the spell book you continually steal from me?” Dad’s in-home hospice room is his extensive library of grimoires and demonology tomes. “How many times must I tell you how deadly it is—how dangerous everything is on these shelves?”
“It’s right there where it’s sat my entire life, Daddy. I know I’m not supposed to touch it, like its evil, or whatever, is contagious.” I hand him his eyeglasses so he can see better.
He waves them away and squints at his most prized possession. “Well, I woke up last night and it wasn’t here. Do not lay a finger on it again. I’m serious.”
“Fine. I don’t even know how to read it.”
“Cut the crap, Sophia.” He is not kidding. This whole situation reeks of it. That is literally how the demon smells. And I have plans with that book again tonight while Dad sleeps like the dead from the potent painkillers he takes.
I send the nurse home, lock the house, and begin my search of every room, including the basement and the attic, to make sure no other person, like some neighbor kid or a burglar or clueless, romantic Jojo, has snuck inside. There are probably some mice and those ghastly house centipedes around, but if the demon gets desperate and tries to possess them it will be instantly kicked back out into the void, whipping like the wind. Well, this one is a type of wind when it is not inhabiting a human. I will not tell you its name because I do not want you to accidentally summon it with your thoughts, your brain pulling it in through a nostril like a reverse Egyptian excerebration, but know it is a particularly nasty one. You might think demons who cause disease are the real ones to fear. Yes, Dad is gravely ill, but this fiend is an opportunist devouring his life alongside the cancer that should be in remission.
Our home is so dim, even now while the sun is still out, that I use a flashlight for my search. Our candelabra seemed more appropriate, but the drafts in this old Victorian would blow out the flames. Mom and Dad kept all the period color schemes and furnishings and other features when they moved in. Now the walls are peeling, moths spew from the upholstery like bats at dusk, and the floorboards creak with every step I take. Eyes belonging to countless portraits of long-dead inhabitants of this house watch my progress as I inspect the rooms, shadows loom and contort like beasts condemned to hell.
I stand behind Dad’s hospital bed—candles dripping light and dark up and down my nude body—with the forbidden book. At sunset I performed a ritual to protect myself, and since then have been working on one to cast the demon away. Yesterday was preparation to weaken it, hence the screaming. Although the demon’s power faded in tempo with Dad’s precipitously diminishing health, it remains strong enough to hang on for longer than I anticipated. The exorcism is taking all night, which despite what popular culture suggests, is a considerable amount of time. I only have until sunrise, or my father is doomed. If extractions do not work on the first attempt, then the demon has a hold that no outside influence can ever break. I suspect it would be impossible to vanquish this entity if Dad were not on the brink of death.
The demon has those inverted hooks you sometimes see on insect larvae in repulsive internet videos. The mother fly lays an egg in a human or other animal. The resulting larva comes to the surface for air, where you can catch it with forceps, but it is challenging to remove cleanly because every time you pull on its head, those barbs dig deeper into the flesh.
I would die if Dad saw me naked, but I enjoy the way the candlelight licks me. Sure, it is the tongue of the demon trying to convince me to rescind my force field so it can tunnel past the surface, but as Dad often observes, I like to walk with fire, which in this case works on more than one level. For a celebrated professor in a private New England university, he uses a lot of idioms. But, as an immigrant whose first language is not English, he occasionally changes them to match his own worldview with literary and film references.
Thankfully, Dad does not wake up. When I at last wrest the demon from his being, what some might call his soul, a worm squirms from his slack mouth then sublimates into a mighty wind that shrieks around me as if I am swaddled in a transparent silk cocoon, extinguishing the shadows dancing on my skin.
A couple of sleepless hours later, I stroll in with Dad’s usual. He is sitting up in bed eating a giant breakfast with Dr. Coney, his longtime friend, and our family physician.
The day nurse notices me as she fusses over Dad. “Your father’s appetite is back. All I could find in the kitchen was rabbit food and eggs, so I ordered takeout from the diner. Just look at the color returning to his face.”
Dad pauses the passage of bacon to his mouth. “Leave Sophie alone. She’s vegan like all her atheist divinity school chain-smoking gothic friends.” He usually mocks my diet and classmates. Maybe the demon took some of his innate unpleasantness with it.
Doctor Coney finishes his plate and pushes his tray table to the side as he turns toward me. “Sophia, you’re overdue for your physical. I want you to call my office now and make an appointment.”
“No offense, really, but I’d prefer a woman for the pelvic and breast exams.”
“Listen, with all the—energies, shall we say.” He glances over at the nurse, who is chattering to Dad, oblivious to our conversation. “The energies your father has stirred up, I think it’s for the best that we keep your family’s medical care with one physician.”
I feign surprise. “Why, Doctor, I thought you were a man of science.”
“I am, but the things I’ve experienced in this house over the decades have altered my understanding of the world. Make the call.”
“Fine.”
“Well. I’m waiting.”
I sigh and pull my phone out of a back jeans pocket. “This is Sophia Larsen. I need to schedule my annual physical. Yes.” I glare at Dr. Coney. “Including my women’s wellness exam. Next Wednesday at 1:00? Thanks. Goodb—. Yeah, he’s here. Yes, I’ll get them from him.”
He hands me a slip of paper. “Get these labs done tomorrow morning. You’ll need to fast.”
“Can’t I go some other day? I’m exhausted.”
“Do as George says. See the miracle he worked for me.” Dad stuffs a tower of French toast into his mouth, but he does it in the continental style, so it still looks elegant.
I kiss him on the cheek and walk past Dr. Coney toward the door. “I’m heading back upstairs. See you soon, Doc.”
Although I need sleep after my night of illicit rituals, I am too full of residual momentum to even lie down. So, I decide to cleanse my bedroom of any lingering bad vibes from the huge argument I picked with Jojo the day I first recognized the demon’s presence. I was aggressive, which is not at all like me. Honest. In any case, Jojo had grown increasingly irritating in the months leading up to our fight, so us splitting up was inevitable. Being a guy, he needs to be taught absolutely everything, and I just did not want to be the one to do it all. Nevertheless, I remain confused by the hostile way I ended things. Like I was a completely different person.
While limestone gargoyles perched outside my windows defend the house from on high and marble angels radiate comfort from the yard below, I strip the bed of its linens, mattress pad, bed skirt, and my dirty pillows, and take them all down to the heavy-duty washer in the basement. The thing is so old and devoid of computer chips it will probably last forever.
Back in my room, I dust, then move my bed so I can vacuum the area rug beneath it before I sweep and mop the oak floor. To my horror, I discover a battlefield of used condoms that Jojo tied off and tossed underneath the bed. He must not have done the best job with some of them, because they leaked and left stains that I need to deal with. A disgusting habit for the next girlfriend to rectify.
“We’ll call when the Pap results come in, Sophia. In the meantime, I’ll wait for you in my office while you dress.” Doctor Coney extracts the speculum from my vagina. O, the relief. He tells me to relax when he inserts that cruel device, but I always clench up.
In his office, he motions for me to sit. “Did you leave your lab results with Mrs. Coney? I don’t see them in your records.”
“No. She didn’t ask. And I totally forgot to access them and print them out.”
He takes off his glasses and pinches the skin between his eyebrows. “Bring them up on your cell phone and hand it to me.” He puts his glasses back on. “Okay, here we are. Hmm. This is a first. Bloodwork suggests you’re mildly anemic. I know you’ve been preoccupied with caring for Tomas, but you must remember to consume foods high in vitamin C to increase non-heme iron absorption. Or better yet simply introduce meat into your diet, especially if your body craves it. Everything else in your routine labs looks great. But there is one other result.” He pauses. “Now, Sophie, you told me that the first day of your last period was about two or three weeks ago.”
“I’m pretty sure. It was before Jojo and I broke up.”
“Do you remember the approximate date of your breakup?”
“How could I not, living in my house? Halloween.”
“Today’s December first, kiddo. You’re pregnant.”
“Not possible. In addition to the pill, we always used condoms to help protect against STIs. The odds of me getting pregnant are basically zero.”
He sets my phone on the desk. “The test result indicates otherwise.”
“You know what? After this is over, I’m switching to that new clinic with the OB/GYN everyone’s raving about. I suspect she won’t go rogue and perform a pregnancy test without telling me.”
“Sophia, I cannot emphasize this enough. I strongly advise against changing physicians.”
“Yet, you don’t get to decide.”
He rises to close the door then comes back. “What about your father’s work?”
“Oh, you think an incubus impregnated me while I slept?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“A baby is the absolute last thing I want. We need to nip this situation in the bud right now.”
“Let’s not be hasty, Sophia. Terminating a pregnancy is an important decision with lasting repercussions. Think about it for a few days. Or weeks. Allow yourself some time to consider the alternative. You might surprise yourself.”
“Please, Doctor. This is awful enough already.” The nerve of this guy.
Anyway, I cannot get over the fact that I lost track of so much time, much less that I am allegedly pregnant.
Doctor Coney and I go back to the exam room for more tortures. He probes me with a terrifying foot-long wand for an internal ultrasound and rotates the display screen toward me. “That little bump is your baby.”
“I know the correct term is embryo or maybe fetus.”
He frowns and pats my foot. “I was the first person to hold you when you were born. I don’t want you to regret anything, sweetheart.”
“I’m only twenty-one. I’m not ready for becoming a mother or adoptions or facing the ethical implications of bringing a child into this dying world to appease society when I have other, safer options.”
He sighs. “Well, let’s make sure everything under the hood is in good working order first.” He keeps that hideous probe inside me for an eternity, like he is a mechanic working on the engine that powers me as a woman. “Good, Sophie. We’re going to give you a medication abortion. It’s about ninety-five percent effective for a pregnancy at this stage.” He removes the wand and his gloves and stands to wash his hands. “Get dressed. You’ll take the first medicine here and the second at home. The nurse will get you started.”
Twenty-four hours after I dissolve the second round of pills between my cheeks and gums, I experience no bleeding or cramping or side effects like nausea and vomiting, diarrhea, dizziness, or fever, so I call Dr. Coney. He tells me there is nothing to worry about then transfers me so I can schedule another appointment. While on hold, I silently make a wish the abortion worked after all and open the drawer where I keep my birth control pills. In the blister packs, some tablets are punched out, most not. I have always been meticulous, taking them at the same time every day. Or so I thought. Maybe the grief over my father being terminally ill distracted me. Maybe it was the energies, as Dr. Coney says.
A man swings from the cusp of my sleep and drops beside me. Clouds tiptoe along the craters of the moon, shadows dance within the visitor’s body. In the light he shines, exquisite marble, but in the dark he waxes obscene, grotesque. He rasps me with a mouthful of tongues and overpowers me. He glows and kisses me with soft lips. He is my nightmare and my dream. We make love, he brutalizes me. Music as if from a cave arises slowly, quietly then crescendos into a shrieking chorus of voices until I join it, panting, throbbing, knowing he will lie with me again tomorrow, ravenous.
The receptionist, Mrs. Coney, glowers at me when she is not actively working, which is nearly every moment I have sat here in the waiting room today. Each time the nurse opens the door to invite a new patient into the back, she also gives me dirty looks.
I remain in my chair to endure the rest of the beginning of my life sentence as a baby killer in this little town.
The nurse finally calls my name, leads me to the exam room, and exits without a word. I change into the paper gown, drape the matching blanket over my lap, and wait some more.
Doctor Coney rushes in and washes his hands. When he brandishes the probe, I cringe.
“Let’s take a peek inside, shall we, kiddo?” His face changes from its usual smug expression to a blank façade that cannot conceal the smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. “This is unusual but not unheard of. The fetus is still there, alive and well, and implanted where it should be in the uterus. It’s the correct size for the gestation age we estimated. Let’s try the medication again.”
A bald woman gorges herself in the dining room, a feast. She rips flesh from animal carcasses with her hands. Muscle and cartilage hang from her bared teeth, blood drips from her chin. I sit before a plate, my parent’s wedding china, serve myself from the bounty. Small primates flicker in and out of view like dark flames. The woman mounts the table, which dissolves into thick fog. She beckons me to join her then squats. I mirror her. We expose our enlarged vulvas, slather mine with tallow.
I repeat the medication and still nothing, so I make an appointment with the local abortion clinic. After obtaining my records from Dr. Coney and subjecting me to more exams and labs, they help me decide on vacuum aspiration to empty my uterus. This procedure is ninety-nine percent effective. Afterward, they see some abnormalities that could suggest it may not have worked. I undergo follow-up tests. Turns out I am still pregnant. Again.
The odds of this happening are becoming so unlikely I am starting to entertain the idea that an incubus does visit me at night between abortions, inducing me to ovulate at will, fertilizing eggs that divide into many cells within my fallopian tubes and scream down to the uterus where they implant in the receptive endometrial lining, speeding up that whole part of the cycle too. This is exhausting.
“What are you doing?” For the first time in a year, I find Dad alone in his library. No nurses, no deathbed, no IVs. Full shelves cover three walls all the way up to the high ceiling.
“Working.” He scowls and closes one of his ancient tomes to hide the illustrations and words like he does every time I interrupt his reading.
Like always, I ignore his obvious annoyance, flop down sideways in an armchair, and swing my legs while inhaling the intoxicating blend of old books and citronella wood polish. “Tell me about Mom.”
“You’re like a broken record, Sophia, but very well. She was lovely and fierce as you. Stubborn as you. You would have been best friends or worst enemies. Now, you ask this question when you want something, but I am currently engrossed.” He shuffles through some documents.
“Dad, I need to talk—”
“By the way, Dr. Bosch called to ask when you’d be back to school.” He does not look up at me.
“I have something important to tell you, Daddy.”
“That can wait. Off with you.”
“No, really. It can’t wait. I’m pregnant.”
“Tremendous news. We’ll discuss this over dinner. I’m in the midst of a complicated series of theses that is beginning to come together, my little dancer in the shadows.” He picks up a picture frame from his desk.
I rise to kiss him on the cheek and wonder if he knows what “tremendous” means in this context.
He is holding a photograph of me as a tiny ballerina wearing a mouthless human mask and curtsying outside the light cast by a candelabra. “Pay a call to your advisor.”
Back at the clinic, this time Dad holds my hand while I undergo another suction abortion, which does not work. With all the waiting and tests and malfunctions, time is running out, so we go back for a dilation and evacuation procedure, which is also about ninety-nine percent effective. It is unsuccessful.
The staff is now beyond concerned, both because of the failure of these attempts and the fact that I am down to being mere days away from the legal abortion limit, so they refer me to the university hospital for a medically induced labor. Dad has his arm around my shoulders as we exit the clinic and walk down the quaint, busy street to his parked car.
“Sophie. Hey, Sophie.” It is Jojo running toward me. The last thing I need.
“Hey, Jo.” I manage to smile.
“Whoa. You’re pale. Still beautiful, though, like you’ve become part of your house. Do I need to worry?”
“No, I’m fine. A little anemia is all.” I mean, how would I explain the rest to him?
Jojo puts out a hand to shake Dad’s. “Good to see you, Professor Larsen.”
Dad nods instead of letting go of me. “Joseph.”
Jojo retracts his hand and grins. “Soph? I never told you how great you are.”
“Yeah, you did. But it’s not true.”
“Sure, it is. You’re the best.”
“Aww, thanks. I really needed to hear that.”
He hugs me tightly, avoiding Dad’s arm. “Well, I gotta go. I’m meeting up with my new girlfriend. You’d love her. Oh, she said to thank you for all the work you did on me, whatever that means.”
I do think I would love her.
At the hospital, in a darkened room, I lie on an exam table ready for the procedure that will at last bring an end to this nightmare. The first step, in my case, is for a specially trained doctor to stop the fetus’s heart with an injection, using an ultrasound to guide the needle. I am not surprised when the omnipresent Dr. Coney strides in before we begin. At my request, the technician shows me the sonogram to demonstrate that the heart is no longer beating. The three leave for a while and return to confirm the result.
Someone wheels me to a room where Dr. Coney gives me drugs to dilate my cervix and induce contractions. Neither happens, so he administers more of the medication and occasionally shows up to check on my progress but says nothing. Meanwhile, I am freezing because it is so cold I can practically see my breath, and I am afraid because I do not know what is happening. When I ask a nurse about Dr. Coney, she tells me he has gone home for the night. I do not sleep.
At long last, Dr. Coney arrives. “Good morning, Sophie. Let’s take a looksee, shall we?” He examines me. “Well, kiddo, seems we need to perform a C-section to remove the dead fetus.”
Later, a nurse verbally prepares me for the surgery then leaves. After what might be hours, she comes back to roll me into the operating room. The process begins with me sitting up so the anesthesiologist may inject a local numbing agent before inserting the epidural. He says it will be no more painful than a mosquito bite. I beg to differ. However, the knowledge that I am about to have a needle stuck into my spine probably contributes to my perception. Afterward, I lie back down, and the nurse assigned to me secures my arms so I do not accidentally flail them and disrupt the procedure. This ordeal grows more horrific by the second.
They position a sheet so I cannot see the operation. It is disturbing to feel pressure you know is from a scalpel slicing through several layers of tissue, to feel discomfort that is not quite pain yet is unbearable.
Everyone gasps.
“What’s happening?”
No one answers.
Tears roll into my ears. “Somebody please tell me.”
The nurse who prepped me and has stood next to me the entire time, leans down and smiles. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
I feel more weight on my abdomen, hear a stapler, then fall asleep, depleted.
Wildfire sunset aseethe on the horizon, wraith-pale men laze about me on a crimson shore. A flock of wingless angels lies defiled among us, the sanguine sea hisses beyond. I reject a man, which angers them all. They rise up, reach inside me, their hands silence my mouth from within, leaving nothing I recognize as self but fury, the Earth beneath me, my blood become seafoam.
When I awake in a small room, I am alone and cold and paralyzed from the waist down. “Hello?” I wait. “Anyone there? I can’t move. Help me.” I wait some more, too defeated to scream.
A woman finally materializes and wheels me to a different room where my backpack is sitting on a chair. “Your doctor will be in shortly.”
Another woman eventually comes in to help me shower.
I sob and clutch the bedsheet. “No. I don’t want to see the staples.”
“You need to get up and walk around so you can heal properly.” She removes the urinary catheter I did not even know I had and coaxes me onto my feet then into the shower.
Afterward, I admit I feel better wearing my own pajamas and heavy flannel robe.
Dad knocks on the doorframe and sits beside me. “How do you feel?”
“They had to do a C-section.”
“I know. George sent me home to get clothes for night.” He tilts his head toward Dr. Coney, who is walking into the room. “Speak of the devil and he appears.”
The doctor brushes some hair from my eyes. “Hey, kiddo. How’s our patient?” He does not wait for my reply. “Sophia, during the operation, we could find no fetus nor other related tissue in your uterus or vagina.”
“How is that possible? We watched its heart stop. You checked again like an hour later.”
“We don’t have an explanation. My colleagues want to keep you under observation for a few days, but I see no reason why we shouldn’t release you tomorrow. You’ll be more comfortable at home where your father and I can care for you.”
A couple of weeks later Dad and I are eating breakfast when I run to the bathroom to vomit.
He is standing outside the door when I exit. “Are you okay? Have you fever?” He touches the back of his hand to my forehead.
“No, I’m fine. But I’m going up to my room.”
“George will come in a few minutes to check us out. You wouldn’t believe the night we had celebrating my recovery. It was one for the blood books.”
While climbing the stairs, I feel pressure from within my belly. When I make it to my bed, I swear something quickens inside me. I have never suffered anything like this before.
The unthinkable occurs. I still have boxes of pregnancy tests but I reason there are a ton of those hormones raging through me, so I refrain from using one.
The doorbell clangs. A few minutes later Dad knocks on my door. “George is here. Can we come in?”
“Yes.” I am propped up on pillows, pretending to read.
“Tomas tells me we’re not feeling well today. What’s going on?” Doctor Coney sets his bag down and opens it.
“I threw up then my belly felt weird, like a pushing from inside and something shifting maybe? I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Lie down so I can examine your abdomen. That’s right. Now pull your shirt up to just below your breasts.” He presses several spots with his hands. “The stethoscope now.” He listens, moving the instrument’s head around more and more rapidly, timing with his wristwatch. Then he places it over my heart. “I didn’t sleep well last night, Tomas. Can you listen to Sophia’s abdomen and her heart?”
“Do you have anything against that, Sophie?”
“No, Daddy. Please check.” I weep silently.
He inserts the headset into his ears, listens to my heart then my belly. Again, heart then belly. “There are two heartbeats—one double the rate of the other. George, I’ll ask Sophie to call your office and make an appointment soon. She needs rest.”
“This makes no sense.”
“I understand that, but she’s been through so much. Let me show you out. Maybe you should free your day after last night. Am I right, old friend?” Dad glares at me with hellfire in his eyes as he steers Dr. Coney through my doorway.
They walk downstairs. Soon Dad is back entering my room. He slams the door although we are the only ones in the house. “What have you done?”
“I don’t know.”
“Which incantations did you use?”
I consider lying but have been alone in this for too long. “First a spell to protect myself, then another to extract a demon from your body.”
“My god, Sophia. It was that spell book I explicitly forbade you to touch time and again, yes?”
“I didn’t know I was pregnant, I swear. I was always so careful I didn’t consider it to be a possibility.”
I sit with this child inside me growing stronger by the minute, the fiend with it. My best intentions distorted by love’s weakness, I realize I cannot compete with the demon’s vanity, its belief it is chosen, is better, more than. Now that it has its hooks in me, it will not let go without a battle. I will be damned if I am the one who loses.
🖤
Wow...