Page 47 of The Witching Hours

If I was lucky, I’d make it to the exit before the crazy circus. Maybe I’d crawl into my bed and find that it had all been a dream. I judged that to be the best outcome available. It was a longshot, but I was born a hopeless hoper. At that time I didn’t know that the nastiest demon of all is the one named Hope.

Of course it was no dream. I was not asleep. I was wretched.

After scrambling to pull myself up onto the hole’s apron which was the remainder of my bedroom floor, I stood dripping on the blond oak my mother waxed so meticulously.

With a dark mixture of horror and wonder I watched as the queen and her entourage disembarked the barge and, one by one, disappeared into my closet. When the door closed behind them, the room was restored to its pre-hole configuration. The only sign that something was amiss was my wet hair and ruined clothes.

Taking care not to wake my parents, I changed into dry pajamas and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom where I towel-dried my hair and snatched an extra dry towel for my pillow. Back in my bedroom, I put my wet pajamas in the plastic bag my toy accordion had come in. My plan was to burythe evidence the next day in the back of the yard under the little stand of peach trees and hope my mom never realized the pajamas were missing. Meanwhile, I stashed the bag behind the big toy chest.

After placing the dry towel on my pillow, I crawled into bed still shaking and thinking I would never sleep again. I was asleep in seconds. Probably due to sheer exhaustion.

The opportunity to wonder if it’d been a dream was snatched away when my dad woke me for school asking, “Why are you sleeping on a towel?”

It was confirmation that it had not been a dream.

“I opened the window to smell the rain and my hair got wet.” Perhaps the ease with which I lied should’ve been alarming, but I was too young to know that everyone didn’t come equipped with dubious talents.

He looked surprised. “It rained last night? I guess I slept through it.”

My lie could’ve easily been disproved if he’d chosen to investigate, but mornings were too busy for suspicion. It was hard enough to get ready for work and school.

How I wished I could’ve shared my experience with my dad. Or anyone for that matter. But I’d already learned that good things never came from sharing unusual events. As I was thinking about the fact that secrecy was my only option, the ugly cat in striped pajamas appeared on my dresser. He gave one paw a lick then looked at me, grinned, and disappeared.

Dad looked over his shoulder to see what had captured my attention. I covered by getting up and hurrying down the hall to the bathroom.

Deception became my life.

Various characters from the Wonderland story who’d followed me back to reality showed themselves regularly asif I was under surveillance. Reasons for that were beyond conjecture. But when other people were present, I learned to keep my focus trained on them or whatever task I was about and not let my gaze flick towards busybody creatures who were invisible to others.

Other than the nuisance of making regular appearances, the Wonderland gang more or less left me alone. Occasionally something would go missing, like a precious pair of aquamarine earrings my mother had inherited and my cherished pair of magnetic Scotty dogs that crashed into each other if you put them on a table and released them. The thefts were targeted to be things we loved, but at least no one was touched physically.

For the most part I could ignore their shenanigans, but I loved those Scotty dogs. The next time the Cheshire Cat appeared when I was alone, I wasted no time asking, “Where are my Scotty dogs?”

My acknowledgement was a surprise. He’d grown accustomed to being ignored even though he’d tried all sorts of antics, including impossible cat gymnastics and such lunacy as a mock workshop on flossing teeth. He did his best to draw my attention and make things awkward for me. I did my best to pretend he wasn’t there becauseanyreaction would escalate the torment.

He perked up and looked interested. “Dogs?” he asked, looking around semi-anxiously. “I don’t see any dogs.”

“I’m not talking about real dogs, and you know it! Someone took my toy magnetic dogs and I want them back!”

The cat studied his claws like he was considering a manicure and yawned revealing a full mouth of razor-sharp teeth. I opened my mouth to restate the demand for return of my toys, but heard my mother call, “Catherine? Who are you talking to?”

The cat’s smile grew impossibly wide. I hated him.

“Just rehearsing a poem I have to recite for school,” I yelled back. I was getting soooooo good at lying on the fly. The cat laughed silently, his whole body shaking. Lowering my voice to barely more than a whisper I said, “I hate you.”

That made the ugly creature roll onto its back and hold its sides as the silent mocking laughter continued. Not the reaction I was going for.

Sometimes I wouldn’t see or hear from any of them for weeks. When that happened, I couldn’t help but hope it was the end; that another hole had opened somewhere and swallowed them whole. But it seemed they could always sense when I felt the tiniest glimmer of optimism because that’s when they’d send a representative to let me know they were still around and doing God knows what.

The Cheshire Cat would lounge on his back on my Algebra teacher’s desk and suck on a straw while amusing himself with making his whiskers dance. Over time I’d developed the ability to ignore them. Mostly. But I could never completely erase them from the picture. That sort of distraction makes Algebra even harder than it is.

Once the big-foot, red-eyed rabbit ran circles around my family’s dining table while we were having dinner shouting, “Queen of Hearts! Queen of Hearts! Where’s the Queen of Hearts? Time for tea. Time for tea. Time for tea.”

I could barely make out conversation over the ruckus and had to explain why I seemed “out of it” by saying I wasn’t feeling well. By this time, my parents had begun to resign themselves to the burden of having a strange daughter. Every day I longed to tell them what was wrong, but knew it would only make things worse. For me and for them.

Once in church the Mad Hatter appeared and leaped to the dais shouting, “POPPYCOCK!” while the preacher was in the middle of a sermon. I laughed out loud, which was ahuge mistake. Everyone nearby turned and gave me inquisitive looks except for my parents. The looks my mom and dad gave were more a promise of reprimand than a question about my mental stability. But honestly, there had been times when I’d wanted to leap to the dais in the middle of a sermon and shout, “POPPYCOCK”, or something more contemporary.

My first date was for burgers and a movie. We went to Goodtime Charlie’s and were seated at a standard square table for four. Shortly after we’d sat down and had a chance to read the menu, the seven and nine of hearts, took the two empty chairs and gave every appearance of listening intently to our order.

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