We Lived In a Duplex
As I sit here writing this, it’s difficult to even put the last few days into coherent order. My mind is a boundless haze. There are gaps in my memory. I’m documenting this, first, to tell my story; so that others out there can protect themselves. And, second, to remember. For as long as I can retain my wits.
I live in an old sea-side town in Oregon that I can’t name. Idyllic, easy-going. Even quaint. Which seems safe on the surface but terrible things happen in small towns like this every day. And because it’s a small town, it never makes the news.
We lived in a duplex. Our side had two bedrooms. The neighbors were nice people – an older couple. They used to complain that they had too much left-over pie and always asked us to come over for a slice. I always suspected they just wanted the company. My roommate, Lexy, attended nursing school by day and tended a bar at night. She had her fair share of run-ins with drunk bastards but she couldn’t argue with the tips.
In the wintertime, there always was a bit of fog in the air – even at midday. That was the strange part. I say, “a bit of fog,” but to anyone reading this, it’s probably more like a lot. In most places, you’d expect fog to dissipate later in the day. Here, it never did. It was a constant grey screen. Growing up here, most locals are used to it. And we get on with our lives just fine. Until things stop being fine.
The rain was pouring something fierce the day it happened; the characteristic fog was suspended in the headlights of my car as I drove down the hill from where we stayed. Lexy was in the car. I swear to God, I never saw that old man. I couldn’t see a thing. None of us could. There was a thud. And then, I don’t know. A snapping sound. Then some squelching. A dog barking. It all melds together now. I’m not sure which came first but by the time I could step on the brakes, it was over. Adrenaline overtook me then. If you’ve felt it before, you’ll know what I mean. It’s a numbness. Of body, yes, but also of the mind. Actions appear slower than they are. Your eyes and ears, generally, are unreliable for about ten minutes.
Lexy stepped out of the car first. She was frantic, panicking, and yelled something about 911.
This isn’t really happening.
That’s what you tell yourself. It’s a common trauma response. Your mind obscures reality to shield you from it. We’ve all heard of “fight or flight”. A lot of people have heard of “freeze”. I suppose that’s what it was.
Maybe that’s why it was Lexy who heard the words instead of me. But I’ll get to that.
I’ve been having migraine attacks lately. A few hours a day. The doctors say it’s whiplash from the accident. They say you should lie down in a dark room when that happens. I’d do that. If it wasn’t for the knocking.
We lived in a duplex, Lexy and I. We’d been friends since kindergarten. I’m not sure if I mentioned that. In grade school, we were part of a small circle of friends, calling ourselves the Salem Witches. We thought it was very clever, what with Salem being the largest town closest to us. Ms. Meyers, our English teacher, tried to remind us that the actual Salem witch trials took place in colonial Massachusetts. But there was no convincing us. It was fun for a time. But when we got to high school, that’s when the rituals began.
As the Salem Witches, we would usually have sleepovers at each other’s houses; rotating from member to member. One of the girls, Brie, had a large backyard that extended into the woods. So, naturally, one summer night, we decided to go camping. We all told our parents it would just be in Brie’s backyard. What we didn’t say was that we planned to go a lot deeper.
“Just how much further?” Lexy asked, lagging behind the group.
“Keep up, Lex,” said Brie, our ringleader. “Just a little more.”
There were four of us, carrying small tents and sleeping bags. The last hints of daylight just barely made its way through the canopy.
We trekked for another thirty minutes, until Brie called us to a stop. Or maybe it was Jenna. Lexy and I had been in girl scouts and made quick work of starting a fire while the others pitched our gear. There was the tiniest sliver of moonlight in the night sky. It would have been completely dark if not for the fire we built. It wasn’t long before the owls came alive.
After the obligatory smores and Vienna sausages were roasted over the fire, we knew we had to begin. There was a little game we played. Thinking back, it was a silly poem. But it never failed to make my spine tingle. It still does today.
All four of us chanted in unison:
Temptress, temptress,
Say to me,
When I count from one to three.
Temptress, temptress,
Will it be,
Me or those here beside me?
One,
Two,
Three.
We all shrieked and giggled.
“So stupid,” said Brie. “It never works.”
“You’re just not chanting hard enough, Brie,” said Lexy, sticking her tongue out.
The goal was to summon what we called the true Salem Witch – the “temptress”. The legend went that if we sang the poem, the goddess would embody one of us. You could never know which of us it would be.
Temptress, temptress
Say to me,
When I count from one to three.
Temptress, temptress,
Will it be,
Me or those here beside me?
One,
Two,
Three.
None of us knew where the poem came from. It was probably passed down from upperclassmen to scare the younger kids. But it never worked. Until that night.
The details are fuzzy. But I know that Jenna and Brie were in one tent, and Lexy and I were in another. I also know this: right before we went to sleep was the last time anyone saw Jenna alive.
Police questioned all three of us: me, Lexy, and Brie. Special attention was paid to Brie, having shared a tent with the victim. She swore she never touched her. “It was the Salem Witch, the temptress” was all Brie would say about it.
Brie’s family moved out of state not long after.
Lexy and I graduated high school and forgot all about the ritual. Until the day of the accident. It was a foggy day that day and, like I said, Lexy jumped out of the car first. I must’ve suffered a concussion. Red and blue lights filtered through the fog. That’s the last thing I remember.
The old man died. I hit him. With my car. His dog barked. These are facts. I just can’t remember it. Lexy did. After speaking to police and getting checked at the hospital, we were free to go.
We lived in a duplex. After the accident, Lexy sat me down and told me what she’d heard.
“He was singing the poem, Sarah!” Lexy cried, hysterical at the kitchen table.
“What poem?” I asked her.
“You know what poem.”
I shuddered. “It can’t be.”
“Temptress, temptress–”
“Stop! You hurt your head, that's all. I hurt mine too. It’s whiplash.”
That was before I knew how bad it would get.
Lexy’s cognitive decline started soon after that day. She stopped going into work. Police would find her wandering the woods at night. On nights when she stayed home, I would hear her chanting to herself in her room:
Temptress, temptress,
Say to me,
When I count from one to three.
Temptress, temptress,
Will it be,
Me or those here beside me?
One,
Two,
Three.
I took Lexy to the hospital to get brain scans done. The doctors said they’d never seen that kind of regression in someone that young before. She would need twenty-four-hour care. I was at a loss. I was losing my friend and I didn’t know what to do. Then one day I left the door unlocked.
Lexy had walked into a lake and never came out. I think that’s when the knocking started. Or maybe the knocking always happened.
We lived in a duplex. I tried to reach out to Brie on Facebook to tell her what happened. Looks like she lives out in Arizona now. She won’t accept my friend request.
It’s happening to me too, I know. I can’t remember the last time I went to work. I wake up in strange places. I can’t remember writing the first half of this. Did I write it? I hear it now. The temptress, she’s the one knocking.
I should let her in.