The Novella Life of Illuscia Nester Himawari

  When I was thirteen, Jackie Rozier disappeared from my street. He was three years younger than me, and while I knew him, we never played together or hung out or anything like that. He was a quiet, nerdy kid who kept to himself most of the time, and he had a dark birthmark above his left eye that had gotten him nicknames from the meaner kids at school. And while I felt a bit bad for him, I also knew that if he came around me and my friends, someone would wind up messing with him. So I ignored him, and thankfully I rarely ever crossed paths with him, despite him living just a couple of hundred yards down the street. The last time I ever did see him, the last time I guess most anybody saw him, was the year a new fair had come to town. It had been set up on the edge of town since before Halloween, and while it had been popular the first few nights, by the second week in November, things were winding down. Word was that it’d be gone by the we

    The following is a transcription of a large audio file I found within a voice recorder app on a used cell phone. I bought this phone at a pawn shop three months ago, and after multiple listens I still don’t know what to make of it. The recording is all done in the voice of the same woman, but her tone and the style of language she uses seems to shift depending on what she’s talking about. Whether this is a side effect of medication, her circumstances, or just her being dramatic while playing on her phone, I can’t say for sure. So I typed this up as I found it. If you have thoughts, or even better, know who this woman might be and how she’s doing, please let me know. I drifted along a wide, black river, the air around me so still and quiet that just the sound of my panicked breaths seemed to break the world a little bit. The boat I was on was barely a boat at all—a flat, featureless plane that traveled for twelve or so feet in every di

    I remember when I first saw the truck weaving in front of me. It was one of those old and battered white work trucks that you see government crews and old handimen driving. My first thought was that it was a drunk, and that I needed to slow down in case he slammed on the brakes suddenly. Then I was watching as the truck lurched violently to the right and tumbled down the embankment to the creek fifteen feet below. I stopped and got out, and while my brain was still buzzing with adrenaline and surprise, I slid down the hill and yanked open the driver’s side door. The man inside was in his fifties, and from the angle of his head, I thought his neck was probably broken. I couldn’t tell if he was alive, and I knew better than to move him, but I was also starting to realize I needed to call 911. There was a colored piece of paper laying on the man’s leg, and thinking it might have information I could give the hospital or the police, I pluc

    I remember the first time my mother told me about Chigaro. It had been the day before my sixth birthday, and I was excited about the decorations she had been stringing up around the house and the smell of a cake baking in the oven. That warm anticipation turned icy cold when I saw her standing at the door to my room, a solemn look on her face. She told me to come and take her hand, and when I did so, she began to walk us through the house, room by room. I wanted to ask what we were doing, but something about her stern expression and the tight grip on my hand seemed to forbid it. So instead we walked into a room, paused for a moment in silence, and then moved onto the next without any comment. When we had entered every room, my mother brought me back to my bedroom and shut the door behind us. Only then did she crouch down next to me and speak, her voice a tightly-bound whisper in my ear. “Did you see anything that didn’t belong?”

  When I was in college, I spent two summers working at a local funeral home. I learned a lot during that time—the embalming process, the stitching and wax used in reconstruction, and even odd tricks like running condensed milk through the circulatory system to reduce the yellow tint of jaundiced skin. I’d gone into the job with a fair amount of dread and squeamishness, but by the end of the first month, I was half-convinced I wanted to do it for a living. It was the respect that had taken me by surprise. Respect for the body, but also respect for the grief of those left behind. There was such care taken to present this decaying collection of meat and bone in the best light possible—not because it was still a person, but because it was the last reminder that had been left behind. A reminder of who had been lost, and what waits for all of us at the end of the road. The idea of comforting people through their grief was appealing to me,

    Two weeks ago I got the call that my brother had committed suicide. It came as a complete shock to me. I know it’s a cliché, but Jerry really didn’t seem like the suicidal kind, if there is such a thing. Sure, he had problems just like we all do. He was in a bad car wreck in college, and he battled depression for months after he realized that surgery and rehab was only going to give him most of his mobility back, not all. But that was seven years ago. He hardly even limped any more, had a good job, and had just started dating a great girl a few months earlier. He hadn’t said anything concrete, but I could tell from talking to him that they were in love; that he thought Laci was the one. She was the one who called me first, and she sounded crushed. I drove out that night, and amid funeral arrangements and spending time with my parents and Laci, I was so busy taking care of things that I didn’t have time to stop and really let it

    There are various definitions and traditions when it comes to the length of a lunar month. An anomalistic lunar month is around 27 days. A synodic lunar month is 29. I know this because I’ve always been interested in astronomy. I mention it because it is one of the few useful reference points I was able to carry over from the life I had before I went to visit my father two years ago. I use the synodic lunar month as a basis for marking my calendar every month, not because I need it to keep track, but because it allows me the illusion of order and sanity. In reality, I keep track of the moon by the building pressure at the base of my skull, by the growing volume and frequency of the demands being whispered in the darkest chambers of my mind. Because this isn’t a struggle I have once a month, or just in the last days leading up to the moon rising fat and full in the sky. No. Every night I fight the demon. “You look just li

  “It’s Mr. Doyle that’s doing it. The man that lives next door? He’s poisoning me.” I frowned at her. Aunt Margaret’s mind was going more and more as she went downhill physically, but this kind of weird paranoia was new to me. “Why do you say that?” Her yellowed eyes shifted nervously from the nearby window to my face. “I’ve seen him come over in the night. He creeps up on the bed. I can feel his weight on top of me. I try to act like I’m asleep, but I’m not. I see what he really is.” Swallowing, I sat down next to her. Had someone really been messing with her? Coming in and assaulting my poor, dying aunt while she lay helpless in bed? I felt fear and anger rising in my chest. “Are you sure about this?” Her eyebrows knitted together. “Of course I’m sure. I know I’m getting dotty, but I’m not crazy.” She paused. “Not yet.” Nodding, I went on. “Okay. I believe you. So what does he do when he’s on top of you?” Mar