By Katie Arminie

Some say television rots your brain, and MTV is the devil’s channel. Well, if that’s true than my sister and I are brain dead demons. Despite the infrequent loneliness, it is kind of cool to be on our own up here. Being thirteen and twelve, we are not kids anymore. Besides, nobody else has cable, like my dad does. His huge Montgomery Ward console television entertains us for hours. Except, we are starting to get bored and hungry when Irene says, “Do you hear that?” I tear my eyes away from Starship’s We Built This City, turn the music down and listen. Above us is an empty apartment that has never been renovated, lacking electricity and plumbing.  I hear it: the scurrying sounds. “Mice,” I say, sighing with annoyance. She loves to say it is ghosts, which irritates me. I am trying to act mature and not believe in stuff like that. To punctuate this, below us, laughter erupts. 

“Go get Dad. I’m hungry. He’ll order pizza. You know he will cuz it requires no time or effort,” Irene whines. 

“He hates it when we bother him! Plus, it’s super awkward walking into the bar with all those rowdy adults. That one woman who likes that awful, smelly lindberg cheese always wants a hug!” 

“You’re suppose to take care of me! Go!” I flinch, her voice is harsh, which is in opposition to the cheerful Christmas tree next to the couch she lounges on.

Anger floods my system, I feel hot while my mind races towards the negative. The building is in a bad section of the city and has been broken into twice. The neighbor’s house across the street lacks a front door. It gapes open like a scream. Dad buys the kids pizza every once in awhile. They devour it like starving animals of prey, which I can understand at the moment. Maybe I should go. There is a large gun in the kitchen, resting up against the wall like an everyday object. I fantasize about taking it down the stairs with me for protection, but know that is crazy. This frustrates me more, having no recourse over our predicament. My cynicism grows. Dad leaves us up here to rot with no food, except the occasional pizza, and just tiny soap nubs to wash with instead of shampoo. 

No one cares about how I feel! Irene always throws the year difference in our age at me. She will stubbornly sit here while I make a fool out of myself, alone, downstairs. I stand up and scream at her, “You’re a lazy fraidy cat that no one likes! No wonder we’re here alone!”

“Shut up! You’re lame and dumb! The older one should go! Get out of here! Go!”

The tension in the air is thick when I hear a screeching noise. The brass hourglass on the back of the console, the one which takes both of us to lift, is sliding across the 21 inches of wood right towards me. Shock filled terror sucks the air from my lungs.

My brain buzzes, “How is this possible? It’s the only thing in the room moving, including me!” Screech! It continues to move along undeterred.

S-c-r-e-e-c-h! It is nearing the edge, on a ghostly mission. S-c-r-e-e-c-h!

“Run!” I hear Irene yell and I obey. My feet make it into the dining area as the hourglass hits the floor inches behind me. Thud! It lays, defeated, on its side against the wall.

The air is heavy with supernatural fear, refusing to be explained away. Realization assaults me, an unknown evil means us harm! With a sharp terror striking my heart, and the gorge rising in my throat, I follow a wide eyed Irene as she runs past.

Locking ourselves into our father’s bedroom, we wait for him, and try to stay calm. He is a man who spent a year in Vietnam as a foot soldier, seeing horrors not to be shared. Once the bar closes, he listens. He believes. Confirmation arrives when I finally return, months later, to help with the move. A morbid, dreamlike fixation compels me to the dining area where a sliding partition is closed against the living room. Just like in a nightmare I pull it aside, wide enough to peak. What greets me is the decayed, now orange, Christmas tree, standing sentinel amongst pine needles. The television and the hourglass are next to it, heavy with dust, untouched in months.