The Intrusion

Thirty-Three

[Jordan]

I couldn't sleep last night.

I tried to go to bed at 10pm, but I lay in bed all night, my head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling fan spinning round and round like the gears in my head, mocking me. My mind wouldn't shut off. It kept spinning, trying to figure out why all this is happening, and what it all means.

Every time my eyes finally managed to drift shut, something emerged in the darkness. Somehow, in the deep blood-red glow of my gently closed eyelids, a dark shadow burned its way into my vision. A dark shadow in the shape of a person. I'd shoot awake, my heart beating out of my chest as sweat collected on my forehead.

I drifted in and out of sleep-limbo, closing and opening my eyes. Almost sleeping and then seeing the intruder entering my vision, entering my mind. With each successive time, it drew closer and closer, but it did it so slowly I barely even noticed until it was right in front of me—right inside of me.

Until it was too late.

I don't think I slept at all. Not even a minute.

I don't know if I'll be able to sleep tonight, either. I'm afraid if I go to sleep, when I wake up, I'll be different. When I wake up, I won't be myself anymore.

Is this what it feels like to lose your mind?

Maybe it is, but that's why I'm running—running to try to get away from it all. Get away from myself, maybe—away from my mind.

I had to go to work today even though I didn't want to. I was so distracted all day I couldn't get anything done anyway, but I couldn't just stay home.

I mean stay in the apartment.

That place isn't a home. That place is haunted, but I don't know by what. I think it's in the mirrors. I know it's in the mirrors. It's lurking back there, hidden somewhere in the glass, past my own reflection, ready to break free and consume me.

A horrible fog has consumed me the past few days, and I can't get out. I don't remember which way out is, or even what out looked like to begin with.

So I keep running.

But even running doesn't seem to help anymore. My mind won't allow itself to shut down and stop thinking. That's all I want to do—shut it all off for a minute to give myself a break.

But it isn't working.

I'm almost back at my apartment now. I ran all the way around the ridge. It started drizzling while I was on the far side of the park, right at the edge where the ocean meets the land and you can see out for miles over the choppy sea. The rain was ice in the gusting wind. It stung my face and soaked my clothes until I was shivering. But even that icy blast didn't help shake off this creature that's latched on to my mind.

I enter the lobby of my apartment, water dripping off of my clothes as I avoid eye contact with the desk attendant.

I make my way to the elevator.

When I finally reach my floor, I'm overwhelmed by the feeling that something isn't right. It's completely quiet and empty, but yet this unexplainable feeling of dread overcomes me as I walk towards my door. The hallway rolls beneath me. The lights dim. My vision blurs in and out of focus. By the time I reach my door, I'm so exhausted I consider sitting down on the floor to rest.

But I don't.

I rummage through my purse for my key. I finally pull it out, but as I reach towards the lock, my hand slips. I miss the slot, and the key drops to the floor with a clank.

Butterfingers.

Learn to hold your liquor.

"Fuck," I say aloud. The door next to my apartment swings open, and a man in his early forties steps out.

"Sorry, sorry," I say. "I just dropped my key."

"Are you Jordan?" he asks, and my heart skips a beat.

How does he know who I am?

I've never spoken to this man before in my life.

"Yes," I finally reply. "How did you—"

"A man came by looking for you," he interrupts me, his eyebrows turning down at the sides as he says it. His shoulders droop—softening. Or maybe it's pity. I don't know. I can't seem to read people anymore like I used to.

"What did he look like," I ask, so quietly I'm not sure he can hear me.

"Young guy, about your age. Blond, thin." He pauses and opens his mouth a couple of times like he is trying to decide how to say the next part. "He didn't look... right."

"What do you mean? Didn't look right?"

"He was drunk," he finally says bluntly. "Very drunk. I could smell alcohol on him, and he had a bottle of I-don't-know-what with him in a brown paper bag. He banged on your door and shouted your name over and over until I came out to see if everything was all right."

"I'm so sorry." I don't know what to say to him. I don't even know what to think myself. What is Andy doing?

"I told him to leave—that you weren't home. He yelled at me, told me he was your boyfriend or something, so I told him I'd call the police if he didn't get out of here. That finally got him to leave."

I don't know what to say.

"Is everything all right with you?" He steps out of his apartment towards me. "I mean, if you are being harassed, do you want me to call someone for you? Is there anything I can do? A young woman living all by yourself..."

"No, I'm fine," I say, but it's a horribly obvious lie because tears are already burning hot in my eyes. They spill onto my cheeks.

"Are you sure, miss?" he asks. "Really, it'd be no problem."

"No, I'm sorry." I pick my key up off the floor and unlock my door. "I'm fine, really. I'll talk to him. He won't bother you again."

"Miss," he calls, but I slink into my apartment and click the door before he can finish his sentence.

Once I'm finally alone, I lean back against my door, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor, my legs bent at the knees and pulled in close to my chest.

Why was he at my apartment? Why? I can't figure it out!

The only semblance of an answer I can come to is that maybe, if similar things have been happening to Andy, he's just as scared as I am. Maybe that's why he's been drinking so much, trying to clear his mind, trying to stop thinking. Maybe that's why he was at my apartment, looking for me. Looking for help.

Maybe I need help too.

I look out the enormous window opening up like the mouth at the edge of the world in front of me. The sun sets over the city, reflecting back in the glass towers.

In a wave of horror, I realize I don't remember opening my blinds.

I know I closed them Monday night, but I don't remember opening them again after that.

I don't even remember if they were open when I got home from work today, or when I left this morning. They could have been open all day yesterday, for all I know, and I wouldn't have even notice.

I shudder. I have no idea what to think anymore.