She was stuck in the backseat of the car on the inexplicable, grueling drive from Columbia, Tennessee, to Québec City, Québec. She had been staring at her shoes most of the way, afraid to meet the gaze of her father as he stared at her in the rear-view mirror. He was always doing that. She barely understood how he was driving, always looking at her.
"I don't want to do this," said Miley Stewart to her shoes.
In the passenger seat, her mother put her Stephen King novel down.
"You have to, Miley." Her voice was stern. "You promised that you would."
"He's a fan," said her father. Miley looked up to see that Robbie Ray was still staring at her in the rear-view mirror. He did not blink.
"You have to do these things for the fans," he said. "Your fans are part of what make us money. You don't want to spit on that, now, do ya?"
"But I don't know him," Miley protested. "And he's only a child. Why would he want to spend the day with me?"
"He's a fan," her father repeated. "That's all that matters, hon."
She looks down at her shoes again, feeling powerless. She could still feel the burning gaze of Robbie Ray's eyes on her. It unnerved her—always being watched like that.
"Will the media be there." The bluntness of her voice made the question more like a statement.
"I don't know, honey," her mother said, returning to her book. "The child's only four, so I doubt his parents would be keen to let strangers in the house. Especially ones taking pictures."
"A shame," said her father.
Smart, thinks Miley. She wiggles her left foot.
"We drove all this way from Tennessee," her father continued to whine. "You'd think the least we could get out of this is some PR."
"Robbie Ray," sighed Miley's mother, but this complaint about his behavior would do nothing; she knew that. Nothing more was said on it. Instead, her mother changed the subject, speaking to her directly.
"Oh, look out the window, Miley," she exclaimed. "We're crossing a river!"
Miley finally looked up but found a bridge obscuring her view of the St. Lawrence. It really looked like any other river.
"This river is how the colonists came into Québec!" her mom explained, cheerfully. "They came all this way inland from the Atlantic by boat, looking for gold and furs."
"Is that how they started killing all the Indians?"
The car hit a bump in the bridge, sending everyone up and down in their seats. Her mom looked back at her.
"Miley, they're called Aboriginals here," she said. The cheer had disappeared from her voice.
The house would have been a nondescript Canadian suburban if it hadn't been painted in eye-searing primary colors. It stuck out from the rest of the neighborhood like a dead parrot among dead pigeons.
There were no vans, no film crews, no reporters, and no photographers out front. Robbie Ray groaned.
"Apparently I'll be the one walking you in," Miley's mother said, putting her book down on the car floor and opening her door.
Her father's eyes continued to scan the neighborhood for a moment, hoping beyond hope. Then they went back to burning a hole through Miley in the rear-view mirror. She began stuffing her hair underneath her blonde wig, as usual.
"Hey, just because there ain't no media there doesn't mean that anything you do won't reflect on you and your career," he said to her. "Understand me?"
"Yes, daddy," she said, tucking a few loose strands underneath the itchy skull cap.
"And if you act up while you're in there, you're really gonna get it. Alright?"
She dry swallowed. "Yes, daddy."
Up the sidewalk, her mother waited. The front window of the house was oddly grimy. Dead flies dotted the windowsill with their spindly, brittle legs curled in the air; Miley noticed them as she stopped in front of the door, and her mother rang the doorbell. A sinking feeling settled into her stomach for some reason.
"Coming!" came a voice from the other side of the door.
A child's voice rang out. "I want to get it!" Then the sound of running—fast, overconfidently heavy footsteps.
"Caillou, wait until one of—"
The door opened then, just a crack. A pair of beady eyes peered out. The irises were pitch black.
Every hair on Miley's arms stood on end.
The eyes retreated, disappearing from the doorframe just as suddenly as they had appeared. Then a skinny, yet hairy hand gripped the edge of the door and pulled it into the house, revealing a frumpy middle-aged man, clad in a green sweatshirt. His cheeks were rosy, but there were bags under his eyes.
"Sorry about that," he said. "You must be Ms. and Mrs. Stewart."
"Yes!" her mother chirped. "And you are?"
A nervous expression bloomed on his face. "Please come in," he said, a little quieter than before.
Faded, stained carpet lined the entry hall. A mismatched pile of children's shoes took up most of the space. Past a stairwell with an odd metal banister, the house opened up into a living area, complete with fireplace and television set. A curtained window faced the front yard—but not the window Miley had noted when walking up to the house. An arch led to a kitchen, where a frazzled-looking woman was spooning pureed spinach to a toddler in a highchair.
"Forgive me for not answering the door right away," she called. "We just finished breakfast. But thank you so much for coming all this way to visit us."
"Oh, it was really no trouble," said Miley's mother through a smile. "We're so glad we could come spend time with one of Hannah Montana's biggest fans."
"We're so glad you could come!" said the man who had let them in. "You're all Caillou has been talking about for months now. Where is Caillou, anyway?"
"I'm right here, daddy!" Followed by a giggle.
A young boy then walked into the living room from the kitchen, where he must have been hiding. He had no hair on his head, and he wore a yellow frock with what looked like dried pieces of cereal stuck on it. His eyes were those that had answered the door, Miley noted.
The woman set down the bowl of green mush and grabbed a mug of coffee, then came up behind Caillou to gently press on his shoulder.
"Caillou, go say hi," she said.
The boy ran towards Miley and her mother, but still said nothing.
"He might be a little shy," said his father, walking over next to his wife and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
Miley bent forward, putting her hands on her knees. "Hi Caillou," she tried. "I hear you're a really big fan of mine."
"You're Hannah!" he squeaked, barely audible. "Hannah Montannery!"
"Please, you can just call me Miley."
"But your name is Hannah Montananner!" he continued, even though he seemed to understand that he wasn't pronouncing it right, because he then shouted: "Montanary!"
Miley looked up at his parents. They didn't seem to want to correct him, although his mother's knuckles were turning white around the coffee mug she held.
She sighed. "How about you just call me Hannah?"
"Hannah!"
"Perfect! Now are you ready to play some fun games with me?"
"Yeah!" he said, turning around and walking towards the kitchen. "But first I want you to meet Rosie and Gilbert. Come on!"
Miley looked back at her mother, whose eyes narrowed at her. She took a deep breath and followed the child.
"Is there anything I can get you?" Caillou's mother's voice came from the living room. "Tea? Coffee?"
"Oh, no thank you," Miley's mother started saying, but before Miley heard the rest of whatever she was telling them, her entire vision was then taken up with a grey cat. Held up by gummy child hands, the cat let out some distressed yowls.
"This is my cat Gilbert," Caillou chirped while shaking Gilbert in Miley's face. "Go on! Say hi to him, Hannah!"
"Hi Gilbert," she said, full of unease at the struggling cat's condition.
"Pet him," Caillou demanded. "Pet him!"
She stuck out her hand to try and scratch behind the cat's ear, but as soon as she reached out, he snapped his teeth around her finger.
She jerked backwards. "Ow! He bit me!"
The child laughed; Gilbert finally escaped his grasp and bolted out of the kitchen. "He was just playing," he said, awkwardly drawing out the pl sound as though he were just getting used to saying it.
He then pointed to the toddler, who was still stuck in a highchair. She had a full head of red hair—unlike her brother, or however they were related. A thick beard of green muck covered her mouth.
"Nah-nah," she said at Miley, her eyes widening.
"This is Rosie," Caillou explained. "Say hi to Rosie, Hannah!"
"H-hi, Rosie," Miley stuttered, but tried to wave at her cheerily.
Rosie's eyes continued to widen, then quickly rolled back into her head. She lurched forward and caught the same finger that Gilbert had bit between her teeth. Miley yelped. The toddler bit into her harder, breaking the skin.
"Ow!" Miley cried. "She bit me!"
Rosie's eyes rolled back to focus on Miley again, and her jaw immediately let go of her finger. She covered her mouth with her little hands, as though she was unclear of what had just happened.
"Rosie sorry," she then said, tears pooling in her eyes.
But Caillou just laughed again. "She was just playing," he said.
A drop of blood welled up from Miley's finger and fell, splattering on the linoleum. Miley stared at it.
"I'm bleeding," she announced. Her voice was numb.
Caillou gasped. "Mommy, mommy!" he said, running back to the living room. "Hannah has a boo-boo! Hannah has a boo-boo!"
"Oh dear," came his mother's voice from the living room. "Is everything okay? What happened?"
Her mother's voice followed. "What did you do now. I swear."
"Nothing!" she called. "I just need a Band-Aid for my finger. Where can I find them?"
Caillou's father went and got her one. Ironically, they were of Hannah Montana. She watched her own smiling face warp as she wrapped it around her finger, standing in the living room.
"Again, thank you so much for letting them play together," Caillou's mother was saying to hers. "It really means a lot to Caillou."
"Oh, absolutely," her mother replied. "Her father and I are going to go get situated in the hotel room—long drive, you know. We'll swing by in a few hours to pick her up."
She checked her nails, then walked out the front door. The butterflies returned to Miley's stomach. Caillou stared expectantly at her, completely silent.
"So—" she said.
Then the child squealed: "Let's go play in the shrouded room!"
"The shrouded room?"
"Yeah, the shrouded room!" he kept squealing as he tugged on her hand to lead her. "Come on!"
She looked back at Caillou's parents. They chuckled, somewhere between being polite and slightly anxious.
"The imagination on that kid," Caillou's mother said, shrugging. "Just humor him and you'll get along fine."
The shrouded room was exactly that. White tarps covered the furniture, giving each piece a soft, formless shape; Miley thought she could make out several chairs, a couch, an ottoman, and a lamp, but it was really anyone's guess. The tarps were connected with thick cobwebs, and a visible, dark layer of dust discolored everything in the room.
There was also dust in the air, too. Unfortunately, she sucked in a good amount of it and started to cough. Caillou sat on the floor, expectantly watching her as she tried to avoid getting dust on her clothes as she walked. Behind him, a grandfather clock rhythmically kept time. For some reason, it was the only thing in the room that wasn't covered.
"Here! Sit on the floor with me, Hannah!"
"It seems—" she paused, trying to figure out how to avoid coming across as a snob. "It's really dusty in here, Caillou."
"So?"
"Don't you think we should play somewhere else?"
"The shrouded room is the fun room!" he explained as though she should have known this. "I like to play games in here or play pretend."
"Alright… I guess we can play in here."
Miley sat on the floor, giving up on keeping dust from getting on her clothes. Her knees slid on the dust a little; she could practically feel it staining her pants.
She stared at Caillou.
Caillou stared back at her.
They stared at each other. Neither said anything.
The clock continued to tick.
Suddenly, Caillou spoke. "We could play a board game."
Miley breathed in to speak but flew into a coughing fit instead. "Like what?" she finally managed.
"How about Carcassonne?" the child offered.
They played Carcassonne. Caillou won. Miley did not.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: Inns and Cathedrals," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: Inns and Cathedrals. Caillou won. Miley did not.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: Traders and Builders," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: Traders and Builders. Caillou won. Miley did not.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: The Princess and the Dragon," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: The Princess and the Dragon. Caillou won. Miley did not.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: Abbey and Mayor," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: Abbey and Mayor. Caillou won. Miley did not.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: Count, King & Robber," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: Count, King & Robber. Caillou won. Miley did not.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: The Catapult," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: The Catapult. Caillou won. Miley did not.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: Wheel of Fortune," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: Wheel of Fortune. Caillou won. Miley did not.
How long does it take to play a game of Carcassonne, Miley thought, looking at the clock?
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: Bridges, Castles & Bazaars," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: Bridges, Castles & Bazaars. Caillou won. Miley glanced up at the clock again. No time had passed in between when they had played Carcassonne: Wheel of Fortune and when they had played Carcassonne: Bridges, Castles & Bazaars.
Maybe the clock's broken, Miley thought. It is old. It seemed to her that nobody used this room much, given all the dust.
"I want to play something else," she protested.
"Okay, let's play Carcassonne: Hills & Sheep," Caillou said.
They played Carcassonne: Hills & Sheep, and Miley was getting very concerned. The play date should have ended by now.
"I— wait," she stopped. "Caillou, I need to check something."
"Okay, but don't take too long," Caillou responded. "We still need to play Carcassonne: Under the Big Top."
She went to the wall, leaving a trail of footprints behind her in the dust on the floor. A thick, beige curtain blocked out the window. Upon touching it, her fingertips were coated with dust. She suppressed the need to cough again.
The child took notice. "Hannah, what are you doing?"
"I need to check something," she repeated.
Sunlight streamed from underneath the curtain as she peeled it away from the window.
"What are you doing?" Caillou's voice had become higher pitched, she noted. "Stop!"
She applied too much force; its rod popped off the wall, and everything—including Miley—came down in a cloud of dust. She coughed, then looked down at herself; her clothes were now covered in a fine layer of dust and a not-so-fine layer of dead bugs—the ones she had seen on the windowsill before.
"Gross," she said, patting her wig and brushing off the bugs with her hands. She watched them fall to the floor in the sudden light.
She looked out the window. It was still light.
Bright, even, like when she got out of her parents' car. Exactly like when she got out of her parents' car. She saw that the car was still parked out front. Her mother was reading. Her father stared directly at her, his gaze completely empty.
She quickly put the curtain back up. Her heart pounded in her chest.
"What are they still doing here?"
"Why were you looking out the window?" Caillou asked.
"Caillou, we've been playing board games for something like eight hours now," Miley said. "Why is the sun still up?"
"Because it's still time for the sun to be up," Caillou said.
"Wh—" she started, but dropped it, realizing that he may just not know. "Caillou, you know how many hours there are in a day?"
No spark of recognition registered on the child's face.
Miley sighed. "Do you even know what an hour is?"
"There is no such thing as 'hours' anymore," Caillou said. "It's time for the sun to be up."
Her eyebrows furrowed, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"It's time for the sun to be up because I want the sun to be up. I get everything I want."
"You—it's up because… of you?"
"I get everything I want; I'm Caillou!" He had lost his temper now. "If you want to have a good play date with me, then you'd better do everything I say!"
Miley frowned. Here was a chance to teach him something. "Caillou, that's not how good playing works—"
"I don't care!" he said. "I'm hungry now! I want to eat a snack and watch TV!"
"Perfect timing!" his mother said, poking her head in from the hallway. "I just cut up an apple for you. Hannah, are you hungry at all? Would you like anything?"
She entered the living room to discover that Caillou's family had already taken spots on a couch in front of the television. The boy sat in his mother's lap, chewing apple slices that he held in a bowl. His sister, likewise, sat in her father's lap, drinking from a sippy cup. On the TV screen, a brightly colored title card announced: "Soft Shapes!"
She sat on the carpet below the couch, her hand resting on a dried stain. "I've never heard of this show before."
"It's Soft Shapes, Hannah," Caillou responded. "It's my favorite."
After the titles faded, a woman's hand squeezed a sponge that had been cut to look like a cube. The sponge expelled water over her pruney fingertips. A lone flute played in the background, only slightly masking the sounds of the host's sobs.
"Wow," said Caillou. "Look at how soft that shape is!"
"What a soft shape," his father remarked.
"Yes," said his mother. "We always watch Soft Shapes together as a family."
"I like sitting on Mommy's lap, while Rosie likes sitting on Daddy's lap," said Caillou with a smile. "Gilbert can sit on your lap, Hannah."
"I don't want anyone to sit on my—"
An icy glare from the child made her choke on her words. "Gilbert can sit on your lap, Hannah," he repeated.
She had no choice, now. The cat would have to sit on her lap. He was staring out the front window, disinterested in the goings-on of the house.
"Here kitty, kitty, kitty," she tried. Gilbert replied by leaping away from her and onto the floor. He licked himself.
"C-come on, Gilbert," she tried again. He let out a low, mournful yowl. Underneath the Band-Aid her finger ached, remembering. She momentarily looked down at her own stretched smile covering the wound and swallowed.
"Be a nice cat," she said, picking him up off the floor. He clawed at the carpet, trying to take it with him.
"Hannah, you're going to miss the softest shape!" Caillou said.
Miley tugged again, probably harder than she should have; Gilbert yowled in protest and let go. Then she walked with the cat over to the TV and sat down, holding him in her lap. He responded to this treatment by farting on her.
"Oh," said Miley.
Caillou giggled. "Ew, he farted on you! That's gross!"
"He's just a cat—"
"You're supposed to be grossed out," Caillou said.
She noticed that his parents were staring at her, almost expectantly—like they were holding their breath, waiting for her to do something. Discomfort settled in her chest.
"Uh," Miley said. Then: "Ew, he farted on me? That's gross?"
"Gilbert can sit on Mommy's lap," said Caillou. "I'll sit on Daddy's lap. And Rosie can sit on your lap, Hannah."
It was done.
"Hi Nah-nah," said Rosie, settling on her lap.
On the TV, the host was now squishing a perfectly spherical piece of cotton candy. Her knuckles left an imprint on the shape. This disappointed Caillou.
"The shape was soft," he said, crossing his arms. "And now it is not soft anymore. I don't like that."
"I'm sorry you're upset, Caillou," his father said. "But they tried their best."
"I don't care!" the child shouted. "I want soft shapes!"
On a disappointment high, he turned to his sister. "Rosie," he said, almost scolding her. "You're supposed to fart on Hannah now."
Miley, confused, stared down at the child in her lap. But Rosie did nothing.
"No," she said. "Rosie don't wanna."
Their parents looked back and forth from each other to their children, their expressions growing frantic.
"Rosie," repeated her brother. "You're supposed to fart on Hannah now."
"No! Rosie like Nah-nah!"
"Rosie! Fart on Hannah! Now."
"Go on, Rosie," her mother encouraged her, for some reason. "It's okay. You can do it."
"No!" Rosie sobbed, beginning to cry. "Rosie like Nah-nah! Not wanna hurt Nah-nah more!"
Miley watched as Caillou frowned an impossibly severe frown, one so that all the muscles in his face sagged. Then the weight on her legs nearly disappeared. She looked down at her lap. In the place of Rosie now sat a doll. Its arms outstretched towards her, a vacant expression on its face.
YOU USED TO HOLD THE CHAIR TOO HIGH.
WHAT'LL I DO?
WHAT'LL I DO?
"Where is she?"
Caillou, Miley, and his father sat at the kitchen table, while his mother paced behind him. At the center of the table sat the doll, in case it mattered.
"What have you done to her?" she asked, turning around and walking back the other way. "I want to know right now, Caillou."
"You promised us that if we did everything you wanted, you wouldn't hurt us," his father said.
"You didn't do everything I wanted," Caillou whined. "Rosie didn't fart on Hannah when I told her to."
"Rosie's just a child, Caillou," his mother said. But this only infuriated him more.
"It doesn't matter!" he shouted and kicked the table. "I wanted her to fart on Hannah, and she didn't do it!"
"What are you?" Miley asked, quietly. Since they'd moved from the living room to the kitchen, her eyes hadn't left the child's face for a moment.
"I'm just a kid who's four," he sang as he kept kicking the table, off rhythm. "Each day I grow some more. I like exploring; I'm Caillou."
"We don't know what he is or where he came from," his father said to Miley. "He just showed up here one day and wouldn't leave."
"What do you mean—"
"Caillou," his mother interrupted Miley. "Where is Rosie?"
"I am putting her away," said Caillou. "I want to be your only child now. You don't need her anymore."
"Putting her away? Putting her where?"
"Mommy! Mommy, help!" came a sudden cry from upstairs—then, a scraping, like something being dragged across the floor.
"Rosie!" Caillou's mother screamed, bolting out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "Rosie, oh god!"
Caillou's father reached out of his chair, grabbing his son by the neck. He moved so quickly that Miley's hands flew up in front of her face in reflex.
"You give her back," he demanded, shaking Caillou. "You give her back this instant, you monster, or I'll—"
"I don't like this!" the child screamed. "You will become a soft daddy now!"
And it was so.
His dad buckled, knees falling onto the linoleum—no, he was folding over himself, like batter dripping from a bowl into a pan. His limp hands fell from Caillou's neck. Boneless. Muscleless. His eyeballs rolled aimlessly, unseeing and bulging out from his sockets. Underneath the now-too-big sweater, lungs moved. A heart beat. The mind struggled to keep the body working, even when it was no longer there.
It took Miley a moment to realize she was screaming.
THROWN AWAY WITH THE GAFF AND THE DOG.
ISN'T IT CLOSED?
ISN'T IT CLOSED?
Caillou's mom found herself running through the halls of the house, following the distant screams of her daughter.
"Rosie!"
A light shone at the end of the hall. She did not remember this hall being in her house. Doors led to rooms she had never seen before, rooms full of dust and cobwebs and furniture covered with sheets.
"My baby." Her cheeks were wet with tears. "Where is my baby?"
"Mommy," the screams continued. "Mommy!"
She didn't know where she was anymore. Had she ever seen this room before? Was this really her house? How long had she been running for? She was forgetting everything.
"M—o—m—m—y…" The screams were getting fainter. Almost inaudible, now. Who was she trying to find again?
She stopped—stood in the darkness, eyes unblinking. She couldn't remember why she had been running at all. Quietly, the light at the end of the hall was snuffed out.
THERE'S NO PAIN KILLER ANYMORE. OOOO, LOOK AT THE EARTH.
I'M ASKING, IS IT VERY CALM?
CALLING TO YOU.
CALLING TO YOU.
The living room seemed darker to her than before, somehow. Miley stared into the space in front of her, her eyes unfocused. She could not remember moving from the kitchen table to the couch.
"What do you want to do now?" Caillou asked.
She turned towards his voice. He stood in the kitchen doorway, backlit by fluorescent lights. His face was obscured to her.
"I don't know; what do you want to do," Miley's voice rang hollow. The words were not her own. It was like she was reading off a script.
"I know!" the god-child's voice chirped. "We can build a block tower with Rexy! Doesn't that sound fun?"
Behind him, the pile of flesh that was once his father burbled. Miley didn't hear it—no, wouldn't hear it. She didn't want to think about it. Her stomach burned.
"I said: Doesn't that sound fun?"
"Yes," said Miley, in the same sepulchral tone. "That sounds fun."
"Yippee! I'll go get Rexy and the blocks!"
And he ran away from her, up the stairs.
Miley quickly turned back to the TV to avoid looking at the thing in the kitchen. Soft Shapes was still on. A woman wearing different nail polish now squeezed a large marshmallow. The sobs in the background had disappeared.
IT NEVER ENDS. I'LL NEVER GO.
LUCKY FOR YOU!
LUCKY FOR YOU!
In time he returned, dragging a brightly colored bucket that was too large for him to lift. In his other hand, he held a plush, sweat-stained T-Rex. Rexy, no doubt.
"Let's build a tower!"
The blocks clattered together on the carpet as he dumped the bucket out. Only barely registering the sound, Miley shifted forward off the couch until her knees touched the carpet. She began putting blocks together to form a base. To a tower, of sorts.
Caillou kept at stacking blocks on top of each other. They were rarely stable, and sometimes his creations would fall and hit Miley in the head. Sometimes he would grab Rexy and use it to knock blocks onto her. When they'd strike her, he'd giggle. And she'd just remain quiet.
"I'm glad I got rid of Mommy and Daddy," Caillou said eventually, rummaging through the pile of blocks for something to add. "They weren't fun anymore."
Miley kept her eyes on the television. She grasped at a block, not looking at it; instead, she felt it in her right hand. It was shaped like a half-moon.
"You'll take care of me now," the child continued.
He put another block on his tower.
"You'll live here in the house with me, and we'll have fun play dates every day. Won't we?"
She didn't respond. The block felt cool and hard in her palm.
"I said: Won't we?"
With that, his current tower slammed into her head again. She blinked.
Then she lunged, grabbing the child and slamming him into the ground.
"Ow! That hurt, Hannah!"
She crawled on top of him. The blonde wig began sliding off her head. She didn't do anything to stop it, and it landed on top of the struggling child.
"Get off me!" Caillou demanded, squirming underneath her. "Let me go!"
Miley gripped the block again. Felt its edges dig into her hand.
Then she jammed it into Caillou's eye.
FIT TO WAKE THE DEAD, D'YOU HEAR?
WORDS FOR YOUR HEART!
WORDS FOR YOUR HEART!
He screamed.
"What are you doing?"
Miley watched the block slip under the child's eyelid, which did not tear as she'd expected. It stretched. There was no blood. Caillou's skin warped, sucking the block into him entirely. She pushed further with her hand; eventually, his eye socket had stretched around four of her fingers, down to the knuckle.
"Hannah, I don't like this game!" Caillou continued to scream, somehow, even though his mouth was warping. "Hannah, I don't like this game! Stop it!"
Quickly she brought her other hand up to his remaining eye and pressed it inward. His whole head buckled like dough around her wrists. Or Play-Doh—the texture reminded her of Play-Doh. She continued to move her arms within him, spreading his head further. Eventually, his jaw deformed, becoming useless, and his pleas for her to stop turned into inhuman growls and squeals.
Miley grunted. Extending her fingers within Caillou's head, she found she couldn't break through his flesh; it just contorted right along with her movements, stretching but never tearing. Her right hand was empty now. The block had long been lost somewhere in there. Caillou's body underneath her had begun to stretch as well, her discarded wig and her knees beginning to sink into it; somehow, what had been the child wasn't able to retain its shape anymore.
With some effort, she pulled her hands and knees out. The wig was halfway sunken into the thing, which gibbered and flapped the jaw that no longer fit its head. It was desperately trying to peel what had been its limbs off the carpet, but they were now too soft—too formless to move.
She turned and ran.
ONE DAY YOU'LL SAY: I'M TIRED. I'LL STOP.
OOOO, WHAT OF THE SUN?
BACK AGAIN WITH INSECTICIDE.
HOW ARE THE WAVES?
HOW ARE THE WAVES?
Out the door. Tripping over her own feet down the sidewalk. Her heart threatening to destroy her eardrums. Lungs burned. She jumped in her parents' car and slammed the door behind her.
"Where's the fire?" Her mother didn't even look up from her book.
"Drive."
"Now hold on a minute—" her father began.
"Drive."
Robbie Ray turned the key in the ignition and drove off, slower than Miley would have liked. She panted, waiting for her lungs to calm down before even trying to process what she'd just experienced. Outside the window, the facades of suburban Québec houses blurred together, like a giant, indistinct wall of color.
"What happened in there," her father said to her, finally.
She looked up and met his gaze in the rear view mirror.
"I—," and then she lost whatever she was going to say.
"You know, you were only gone not more than a few minutes," he continued. "I don't know what could have gone that wrong that you would tear outta there like a bat out of hell."
"I was hoping you would be on your best behavior, Miley," her mother said. "If I hear that you were anything less than a lady to them, I'll be very disappointed."
"Mom, it's—"
She saw that her mother now had Caillou's face.
CALLING TO YOU.
CALLING TO YOU.
The squealing of the car's brakes only slightly masked the sound coming from Miley's throat.
"Miley Ray Stewart, what in the hell are you on?" her father roared.
"Did you really think you would get away?" the hybrid of Caillou and her mom asked. "I'm Caillou; I get everything I want."
Apparently, her father couldn't see it. Or didn't care.
"No." Miley tried to sink deeper into her seat. "No. No, no. I killed you."
"I can never die," the mom–Caillou sang to her. "Even if you really try. You'll never kill me, I'm Caillou."
The front of the car began to sink, as though it were being sucked into a hole in the earth. Quickly, the car upended, falling onto its own hood. Resisting gravity, Miley dug her fingers into the upholstery and began crawling up toward the headrest behind her. The dashboard began to spread, losing its shape to the softness.
From the passenger seat, the thing's voice dripped full of venom: "We'll see how you like it, Hannah, when you become a soft shape." It softened then, quickly deforming beyond recognition.
The door. She grabbed the handle to open it, but the frame of the car had already warped; it only opened a couple of inches. Not enough for her to escape.
"No." She kicked it. It wouldn't budge.
"Do I need to keep a clo—ser—ey—e—on—y—o—u—kid—do?" her father slurred as the softness hit him too.
"No!" She put all the weight she could on the door. Cursed at it to move for her.
There was a loud pop as it swung open.
She fell out. Hit hard asphalt. Everything went black.
HOW ARE THE WAVES?
HOW ARE THE WAVES?
Sometimes she'd dream of being in a pitch-black place, like being backstage before a show; she could hear the roar of the crowd out front, chanting her name, but she couldn't see anything. No glimmer of light from around the curtains' edges. As far as she could tell, there was nowhere for her to go, but she still felt like she had to go somewhere. Somewhere there was a crowd that was waiting for her, waiting to see her, and she didn't want to let them down. So she'd move in the darkness, trying to find her way. But the more she'd move, the more the darkness would turn viscous, into actual fluid, until it stuck to her so much that she'd no longer be able to breathe, much less move. Then she'd wake up.
Lyrics stolen from Spratt's Medium by Renaldo and the Loaf.