Pockets of Darkness by Jean Rabe Page A

overpowering stench, and then a long, thick tongue lolled out and swiped at a rivulet of goo running down its face.
    The creature had no discernible nose or ears. It had a prehensile tail with a ridge of spiky hair on it. The tail flicked back and forth, and its front legs—Bridget noted they ended in twisted claws—bunched as if it was going to pounce.
    No, not a monster, Bridget corrected herself. Calling that thing a monster would be too kind and understated.
    ***

Ten
    “You can’t see it?” Bridget pointed at the beast sitting next to the open briefcase.
    “That little statue? Of course I see it, sweet Brie. Egyptian? It looks old. And valuable. It should be in one of your display cases, the large one with the beveled glass, not on the floor.” Dustin paused. “Is that what you slipped out to get last night? Is that what was so very important?”
    “The statue? Yes.” Bridget ran her fingers through her hair, curls still damp from sweating. She was shaking. “But do you see the … thing? Next to the statue. Do you see it ?” How could the man not see it?
    Dustin thrust his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe and yawned. “I see the statue and an ugly old satchel. And I see that you puked on the rug and have made no attempt to clean it up. Is there something else?” He wriggled his nose. “And I smell something a little stinky. You maybe, or—”
    “A little? A little stinky ?” Bridget would have retched again over the foul stench of the creature, but her stomach had nothing left to give up. She stared at the monster, not meeting its disconcerting, fluctuating eyes. The rivulets of goo that trickled down its mottled hide pulsed like veins and looked purple-black in the morning light that spilled in through the half-shuttered blinds. It belched and babbled a string of sounds she suspected was language, nothing she could understand. “Seriously, you can’t see it, the … monster?”
    “Monster? No. There is no monster. Are you ill?”
    She pointed vehemently at it. All the while the creature continued to babble. Dustin stepped closer and set the back of his hand to her forehead. The worry was evident in his eyes.
    “You are clammy. Sick. So pale! I told you to call the doctor. You should not have gone out so late. Bridget, you … oh, what is the damn word I need … imagine. No, hallucinate. You hallucinate. Monsters! So sick.”
    “I’m not sick. And it’s not ‘monsters,’ there’s just one of the feckers. I just—”
    “Drugs then. Did you—”
    “I don’t take drugs. I … never … take … drugs.” Bridget had experimented in her young years, pot a handful of times, cocaine only once, poppers at a dance club—twice with poppers, but she didn’t like the effects. She rarely drank, as she didn’t want anything to dull her special senses. Wine at dinner with Dustin, she did that sometimes, but not often. “And I’m not hallucinating,” she said so softly she doubted Dustin could hear. Louder: “Call Michael, will you?”
    He stuck out his lower lip and reached for the intercom. “I cook for you, Bridget O’Shea, and I share your bed a few nights a week. But I am not your servant.” Nevertheless, he called for Michael. “I should, instead, call for the doctor. You have some nasty flu, or maybe something worse.” He shuddered. “God, I hope I do not catch it. I have a sous-vide study session this afternoon—low temperature cooking.”
    Moments later, a stiff-backed man in a vest appeared.
    “Michael, do you see it?” Bridget asked.
    “The briefcase?” Michael glanced at it, and then gave Bridget an up and down before he noticed the vomit on the Turkish rug. “Yes, I see the briefcase,” he said. “Would you like me to throw it out ma’am? Clean that up?”
    “Yes.” Bridget slapped her hand against her leg. “Of course, that’s it!” If she’d been more alert, she would have realized it. The monster was attached to the briefcase, released when she