Raising Demons by Shirley Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

husband stirred uneasily and I snarled at him, rolling out of bed and racing into the girls’ room, saying “Jannie? Sally?” in a voice which became more urgent as I perceived that they were not there, but that they had most certainly
been
there for some space of time after arising; the toys were out of the bookcase and a fort of some kind had been built with dresser drawers in one corner of the room; Jannie’s box of very small glass beads had been broken open and the beads scattered around thoughtfully near to the door so that, barefoot, I managed to step on several thousand.
    As a last heartbreaking touch—a tender gesture for Mommy, no doubt, and probably performed just before the final exit into the world—both beds had been made, crookedly and with the sheets hanging, but still made, with the spreads put on. In Laurie’s room,
The Boy’s Book of Baseball Stories
lay open on the bed, and Barry, who after nearly nine vivid months of life had developed a kind of patient cynicism about his family, was lying in his crib talking to himself and playing agreeably with Laurie’s hairbrush. I absent-mindedly picked up Laurie’s pajamas, which were sprawled on the floor, and looked into them vaguely, saying “Laurie?” Since his dirty socks and dirty shirt and bathing trunks and riding boots were on the floor I could see no reason for hanging up his pajamas, and dropped them back onto the floor and said to Barry, “Where is Brother?” He stared at me, and then smiled.
    Followed by Barry’s sudden wail, I went padding from step to step downstairs and into the kitchen, where I was suddenly made aware of my optimistic conclusion the night before that I would leave the dinner dishes and do them in the morning. “Laurie?” I said. “Jannie? Sally?” There were three cereal bowls on the table, two empty and one half empty, and, glancing at the cereal boxes where they sat high on the shelf, I reflected briefly on the magical capacities of children who are hungry and relieved of the pressing assistance of adults. I decided that I could not go out hunting for my children until I had clothes on, and went back upstairs to dress. I had brushed my teeth and combed my hair and was looking for a clean handkerchief when I heard the clear sweet voice of my long-lost daughter Sally. “Mommy?” she was saying in the kitchen, “Mommy has gone to Fornicalia to live. Where my grandma lives, grandma. Would you please like some breakfast?”
    Concluding, and rightly, that she was talking to the milkman, who needed urgently to be told that he must leave three quarts of milk instead of five, and a dozen eggs, I went to the head of the stairs and shouted, “Sally? Tell him to leave eggs and three quarts. Then stay exactly where you are until I come down.”
    I slammed the dresser drawer shut, hoping it would wake my husband, slid into my shoes, and raced downstairs to find Sally, who has a kind of literal mind, frozen halfway between the door and the table. “Can I move now?” she asked, as I came to a stop, “move?” There were five quarts of milk on the table, and three dozen eggs. “Sally,” I said helplessly, “where have you been?”
    Sally, who was then almost four years old, has always been very pretty. Any time I am prepared to spend an hour or so working on her, she is very lovely indeed, although her general appearance is of a child barely kept in a state of minimum human cleanliness by the most stubborn determination. Her hair was not cut short until she was six, so that summer it was still long and curly; since this particular morning she had been on her own for several hours she was recognizable largely by the voice and by the horrible doll she was carrying. She had chosen to put on a sunsuit, which would have been perfectly reasonable if she had not put it on backward; her hair was not able entirely to conceal the