What Gladys Knows

Their whispering bothered Gladys the most—like she couldn’t hear their cruel plot.

Then they would stare, like she was the alien.

No, that wasn’t true.

What bothered her the most was that she did not know these people.

Every time she forgot someone, someone new showed up at her door. They would flash a fake smile, slither around her like a boa stalking its prey—and then finally sit—too close—and observe her.

She heard a low moan, and a chill ran up her spine.

The woman next door.

If only she could help her. Gladys looked at her watch. 5pm. No, there wasn’t enough time.

They’d be back soon. They came like clockwork.And they kept it so cold.

Poor, poor woman. Only God in heaven knew what they were doing to her. Last night, her wailing had made Gladys cover her ears as the cries rose and fell—hysteria to sobs.

“Leave me alone!” The woman had screamed.

Then silence.

Where were her children?

Gladys would have called out. But she couldn’t quite remember the woman’s name. Shelby? Sheba?

Besides, she couldn’t be too loud.Late at night, they walked around. Peeking into people’s homes. Gladys would lay perfectly still when they entered. But she saw them—poking around her things.

Two days ago, she had gathered the strength to sneak into Sheba’s room.

It had taken everything out of her just to walk the few hundred feet between them. But when she had arrived, Shelby …no Sheba … had just stared at her, eyes glossy and faraway—a bit of saliva dripping from her mouth to her chin.

Her home smelled of stool.

Gladys had covered her nose, as bile rose in her throat, and rushed back to her own place. She had to—before they realized she had gotten out. But the drugs slowed her down. Why had she waited until 4pm to leave?

She made it back in time to fall into her chair and throw a shawl over her knobby knees—they hadn’t always been that way; what were they doing to her—just before they reappeared.

She prayed no one would notice the perspiration that dotted her forehead or hear her elevated breathing.

No one could know what she knew. That she was beginning to put two and two together.

Still there was so much more she had to figure out if she were to escape.

In the beginning, she’d asked, “Who are you?” Her voice had been dry. Coarse. Unfamiliar—to her own mind. Scratchy from a white pill she didn’t remember taking.

But then disappointment would roil across the faces of these uninvited guests, and one would slither away—only to whisper to another.

“She’s forgotten already,” it pronounced.

Vigorous nodding erupted.

One would touch her.

One would leave the room.

The others would simply smile, nod, and observe her.

Today, the pretty one entered. She smiled and spoke with a fake sing-song voice. “Remember me?” Her long fingers coiled around Gladys’s forearms and squeezed tightly. Gladys fought the desire to pull away—compliancy was key—and then the woman shoved a faded picture inches from her face.

What did this woman—with lips too red and hair too blonde—think she knew?

Before Gladys could catch her breath, another entered. “Take this.”Liquid this time. Chalky. With a bitter aftertaste. It made her sleepy, so she would spit it out if they turned away.They didn’t.

The pretty one looked at the others, “Damn it,” she whispered. Gladys cringed. This was no lady—with her foul language. She was a replica, sent to manipulate her, bearing photo after photo of these horrid intruders. 

It quietly mouthed “test,” then quickly turned away. But Gladys’s weary eyes caught it, and she swallowed hard.

She was doing all she could to survive. But she knew she was running out of time.

She had never liked horror movies. Her husband had taken her to see Invasion of The Body Snatchers and she had nightmares for weeks. Because it was all too real.

And what had they done to her husband Solomon?

It was only last week they were at Bible study together.

Or was it Easter?

As wise as he was, sometimes it was hard to get him to go.

King Solomon had been right. All her life she had been striving after the wind. She had tried to be kind, to do right, to be a good mother. A church-going woman.

Yet here she was: unsafe in her home, and despite her prayers and her resourcefulness, she hadn’t found a way out.

One of them put their face close to hers, their noses touched, and an empty smile crept across its ugly face. Its snake-like eyes blinked and Gladys struggled to keep her own open, as her heart threatened to burst through her chest.

“You remember me, don’t cha?” It chanted—breath of tuna and coffee.

Gladys gagged. “Get away!” she hissed, but the drink was making her sleepy.

It blinked twice more before it stood. Then it looked at the others and shook its head. “Sad.”

“It is,” one agreed.

Compliance was the key. And it had slipped her mind!

A third got behind her and pushed her forward.

The time had come. They were going to do to her the terrible things they had done to her neighbor.

Tears began to fall. What had she done to deserve this?

As they rolled Gladys out, she heard the pretty replica use that bad language again.

Damn it.

No, not damn it.

Dementia.

Gladys relaxed a bit. Yes, dementia.

They thought they had outwitted her. But finally, she was beginning to put two and two together. 

Timothe Davis is a writer whose stories explores the human condition and the quiet ways people survive the hardest moments of their lives. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and appears or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Final Girl Review, Mouthful of Salt, and other journals. He is based in Dallas, Texas.

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