Intrusive Thoughts
Late-night snacks during pregnancy were not casual affairs.
This was not some sad little sandwich situation.
Not crackers.
Not fruit.
Not a granola bar and a glass of water.
No.
This was seven-months-pregnant-with-triplets business.
That meant strategy.
Volume.
Structure.
A spread.
My husband had gone into the kitchen to microwave a burrito.
That was the original mission.
Simple. Clean. Efficient.
Instead, somewhere between opening the fridge and reheating leftovers, the two of us emerged with an entire dinner.
Greek chicken and vegetables.
Rice.
Cold iced tea.
Reheated peach cobbler waiting for its moment.
Ice cream planned for later.
I believed in sequential common sense.
You handled the meat and starch first.
Then dessert.
That was just wisdom.
We stood side by side in the kitchen, making our plates in easy silence.
The house was dark beyond the warm square of kitchen light.
The living room ahead sat in shadow.
Still.
Quiet.
Normal.
Until it wasn’t.
I paused.
Scratched my head.
Stared into the darkness ahead.
My husband, halfway through putting the gallon of iced tea back into the refrigerator, froze instantly.
“Oh shit,” he said. “What? You scratched your head.”
I didn’t answer right away.
My eyes were wide, but not with fear.
Wonder.
Curiosity.
Maybe even appreciation.
Whatever was moving around out there in the dark was not subtle.
It was looming now.
Leering.
Jumping up against the wall.
Then the floor.
Its movements were almost athletic.
Creative, even.
Honestly?
Kind of fascinating.
“Huh?” I said absently, still staring.
He straightened slowly, peering into the darkness of the living room like it might answer for itself.
“I said what is it.”
He already looked like a man whose soul had taken two steps backward without consulting the rest of his body.
I considered telling him.
Then reconsidered.
I had always had a wild imagination.
This wasn’t new.
My brain did things like this all the time.
So I did what I usually did.
I filed it under: intrusive thought.
Only this one was especially vivid.
“Oh,” I said at last. “Nothing.”
Then I grinned.
Too wide.
Way too wide.
He narrowed his eyes at me immediately.
That was never a good sign.
Not when I smiled like that.
Not when I was trying not to laugh.
Definitely not when I said “nothing” like I was hiding a full screenplay in my mouth.
The thing in the dark had changed positions.
Now it was on its back.
Its limbs jerked upward as it scuttled across the floor in some grotesque upside-down crawl that made no anatomical sense whatsoever.
My eye twitched.
I was going to lose it.
The thing looked like Linda Blair from The Exorcist if she had somehow had a baby with Annabelle.
Props to costume design, honestly.
My husband stared at me.
Then at the darkness.
Then back at me.
“You know what?” he said carefully. “Don’t tell me.”
“Okay!”
I said it much too fast.
Much too cheerfully.
The creature had now latched itself to his leg.
It was humping his shin while grinding wildly at his groin with demonic enthusiasm.
I bit my lip.
A small sound escaped me.
“Pfft—”
He grabbed his drink and downed it nervously.
“Please don’t tell me,” he said, voice tight. “It’s on me again…”
“Okay…”
That only made it worse.
Because now I was trembling with suppressed laughter.
The thing was climbing higher.
Its little demon face pressed against my husband’s side as it kicked and writhed and then suddenly, with all the unearned confidence of a nightmare that had never once paid rent, it stretched itself upward and licked his cheek.
He visibly cringed.
“Yup,” he muttered. “Don’t tell me. Please.”
I broke.
“I’m sorry,” I laughed.
“I don’t know where these things come from!”
That was true.
Mostly.
He did not stay to workshop the issue.
He rushed down the hallway with the speed of a man trying to outrun a curse.
I stood there laughing as he half-hopped, half-fled into the bedroom.
The demonic little Exorcist-Annabelle creature turned its head 360 degrees—all the way around and leered at me from the dark.
Then it scampered after him.
Straight down the hall.
Into the room.
Committed to the bit.
I stayed in the kitchen, still laughing.
Still holding my plate.
Still entirely unconvinced by any of it.
That was the difference.
I didn’t believe in it.
That was why it was funny.
Meanwhile, from somewhere down the hallway, my husband could be heard in full spiritual distress.
And it sounded a little like:
🎶 TAKE ME TO THE KIIIING 😭🙌✝️🎶
The peach cobbler was excellent though.