Shadows.
Harold saw shadows in the room and his body, a real, living, solid body, felt
heavy. I’ve been drugged, Harold thought. Harold hoped this wouldn’t ruin his
sobriety date. It’s not like he wanted to get high. In fact, he didn’t like
this feeling at all. His eyes, blue as the sky on a June day, were dry, and he
tried to rub them. That’s when he realized his hands were cuffed to the metal
frame of the bed in the attic. He tried to say Lilith, but his lips wouldn’t obey
the signals he tried to send them. His tongue felt swollen, and he couldn’t
even lick his lips.
Harold
the ghost tried to sit upright on the metal-framed bed, but the handcuffs pulled him down. He felt like he was drowning. The mattress, stained with
Harold’s blood, drooped in the middle. “I’ve been drugged,” Harold screamed,
hitting a high C that would have awakened the dead. “Help.”
Miss
Kitty dropped the mop and dashed up the stairs. Miles slid down the bookcase,
knocking over the photograph of the drummer, and followed Miss Kitty up the stairs. Harold’s door, as always, was locked. Miles barely squeezed
himself beneath the door, promising himself he would stop eating so much
cheese.
“Harold,”
Miles said. “Are you all right?”
“I've been drugged,” Harold said.
Miss
Kitty pounded on the door.
Miles
said, “Miss Kitty, the key to the door is hanging in the old shed. Harold, tell Miss Kitty where the keys are.”
“Where
are the keys to this dreaded door,” Miss Kitty hollered.
“In
the shed. Hanging on the brass hook by the broken wheelbarrow,” Harold said,
grimacing.
“Everything
is going to be fine,” Miles said.
“No,
it’s not,” Harold said. “Somebody drugged me. Will that ruin my AA birthday? I'm about to celebrate 10 years. Where’s Lilith? Why am I cuffed to this bed?”
Miles
thought, Harold is a recovering alcoholic? Well, that certainly explains a lot.
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