Midnight Warning
“To all citizens, this is a midnight warning. Please stay inside and do not interact with any beings outside no matter what or who it is or claims to be. We will notify you later once the threat has subsided. This has been a midnight warning.”
“Mom?”
Sarah blinks herself awake. She fell asleep on the couch again, watching late-night comedy reruns after putting Abigail to bed, with only a half-empty bottle of wine and a tin of weed gummies for company. She blearily blinks at the young girl; god damn it, she promised not to let her see her like this again.
“Wha-,” she coughs, “what is it, dear?”
“Auntie wants to come in but I can’t open the door.”
The TV’s just showing static, and the VCR’s blinking 12:00. Sarah never learned how to set its clock. That was always Chris’s—Christine’s, she reflexively reminds herself—wheelhouse. It’s pitch-black outside the windows. The street lights must be out again.
“It must be 3am, Abbie! No one’s there, just go back to sleep.”
“… okay, Mom,” Abigail looks at her like she’s stupid, “but auntie will be mad at you.”
“Sure. Just, please, go back to bed? Mommy needs her sleep too.”
For a moment Abigail looks like she’s going to argue. Sarah wouldn’t be surprised if she did; she’s been having a lot of trouble since the divorce, flipping between sullen resentment and almost-violent outbursts, and therapy hasn’t been doing anything to help. Might be making it worse, honestly, even if Dr. Teal says it’s part of the process. Feeling emotions, and learning to control them. Fuck her.
Still, as Abigail pads off back to her room—probably too small for a growing girl, but what can she do about it?—Sarah thinks she should probably at least try to do the parental thing. Stumbles upright, hits her knee on the coffee-table, knocks the wine bottle over and watches helplessly as it rolls off onto the carpet. The white carpet.
… whatever. That can wait until tomorrow.
She walks into two walls on her way to Abigail’s room, so maybe she’s not thinking too clearly when she looks in. Sees the big lump on the bed, pillows and blankets and dead-eyed plushies piled up like armor around her daughter, illuminated by her night-light’s irregular blinking. Her window’s curtain is closed tight, so that’s good.
Sarah stands there, thinking about going over. Sitting down next to Abigail, trying to reassure her. It would be the motherly thing to do, wouldn’t it? Like one of those perfect women on television, effortlessly composed. Nothing Sarah’s ever done has been effortless.
Eventually she settles for a whispered “sleep well, dear. Mommy loves you,” and gently closes the door. Stumbles towards the kitchen for a handful of ibuprofen and a glass of probably-safe-to-drink-we-promise tap water. Pulling the filter pitcher out of the fridge is just too much to ask, this time of night.
The doorbell pierces her ears like a siren, seven odious notes lined up in a facsimile of music.
She thinks that must have imagined it, but there it is again, stabbing through her brain. Who the fuck is ringing her doorbell at (she glances at the coffee maker) 2:36AM? Who the fuck?!
Some local kid playing a prank? Well, she’ll give them a piece of her mind! She’ll march them right back to their parents and make it their problem, spread the misery around! Teach them to respect her!
The doorbell keeps on ringing as she clicks open the deadlock and undoes the chain, slams the door open. Sees what’s waiting on her doorstep.
They press the doorbell one last time, and step inside.