At a certain point the bullying became impossible to ignore. Which was how Danny and I ended up in Dr. Epstein’s office. She was so disarming and the office so comfortably arranged, I felt my edge immediately dissolve. Danny was next to me on the couch, tearing up little pieces of paper and rolling them into balls. He placed the balls on his palm and blew hard, launching them in the air.
Dr. Epstein asked, how about recently? Danny was reaching for more paper. I pushed his arm back. Buddy, I said. Tell Dr. Epstein about the party.
Danny shrugged.
So I started telling Dr. Epstein about the birthday party in the park. How Sammy Kahan, who had some sort of speech thing, ran over and told me Danny was “thpitting” potato chips and juice at the girls.
When I found him, Danny was chasing girls with a Styrofoam cup in his hands. “Spluge time!” Danny said. “Watch out for spluge!” He raised the cup and filled his mouth with juice and chips, then unleashed a torrent of this filth at the girls.
I grabbed Danny’s arm and told him to stop. But by then Sammy Kahan, the tattler, had limped over. Danny put two and two together. Danny turned to Sammy, at his own party, and spit a mouthful of chips and juice at the birthday boy.
In the end I tried to take Danny home, but he wouldn’t budge. He sat on the field for half an hour in the midday sun.
There are more stories like that, I said. Maybe Danny wants to tell you about what he did to his cousins. Or some of the names he’s called me.
I’m sorry, Danny said. He was still rolling paper balls.
Dr. Epstein looked placidly at us.
Listen, she finally said. There’s something I want to show you.
She swiveled back to her desk and yanked open the bottom drawer. She removed a half-gallon Mason jar and slammed the drawer shut with her foot.
Dr. Epstein held the jar towards us.
At the bottom was a tangle of hair. Maybe it was Dr. Epstein’s own hair, saved from her childhood. Or maybe it once belonged to a favorite aunt. But then I realized that the hair was moving. And that it had eyes.
A tiny creature. It was almost cute.
I leaned closer to get a better look. It lurched at me. It ricocheted off the glass. It was as large as a rat but built like a goblin. It stood on two spindly legs. It had a lizard tongue. It had jagged teeth it was using to gnaw the inside of the glass, making a horrible scratching sound.
Imagine, she said. One night this little guy crawled out of me. He crawled right up to my chin. Then he tried to harm me.
What are you doing, I asked, though I could plainly see she was opening the jar.
I think he wants to hurt you, she said. I’m going to let him.
She undid the jar and the thing shot out. It crawled on all fours across her office’s carpeted floor. It scurried over to Danny and climbed up his pants leg. Danny shrieked. He tried to shake it off.
The funny thing is I love it, Dr. Epstein said. It, him, whatever. A little more every day. Even though he’s wicked. I don’t deny it.
I was on top of Danny. I was trying to pull the thing off him, but it was too fast. I got my hand on it but it cut me with its claw and I bled. Meanwhile, Dr. Epstein was going on and on. I could hear only every other sentence.
You’ll learn to love the things that hurt you, she said. You’ll learn to love the danger you bring forth. You’ll learn to love it or it’ll kill you.
I shouted. Who are you talking to?
The thing was on Danny’s face. It scratched under his eye and broke the skin. A tear of blood ran down his cheek.
I grabbed a book off Dr. Epstein’s shelf. It was some sort of textbook.
With the back of my hand, I finally brushed the thing off Danny’s face. Then I bashed it with the textbook.
Dr. Epstein screamed. The thing, unhurt, went for my eye. I fell to the floor, the office carpet warm on my face. With my good eye, I saw the thing again, racing up to me, holding a pair of scissors that a moment before had been on Dr. Epstein’s desk.
The thing raised the scissors in the air.
At that final moment, Danny arrived. He gave the thing a tremendous kick. It went flying against the wall.
Dr. Epstein had her hands to her face. She was crying.
Danny grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the office. We ran down the stairs. We ran through the park and across the street. That’s where we are now, both running still. We’ll run until we can’t. Only then we’ll turn around to see if the thing in the jar is still following us, or if we’ve left it behind.
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Michael Pershan is a math teacher and writer living in New York City. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Outlook Springs, BULL, and The American Bystander. He recommends “Witch Sister” by Kira Compton from the hex archives.