Damaris sat up in her crib — her very first time. The room flickered. Mom dropped the bottle she was carrying. It rolled across the floor, spinning, spinning, until it bumped the leg of the changing table and fell silent.
Damaris's new eyes were too deep. They swallowed the lamplight whole. Her father hummed his silly goose song and set her on his hip. The humming died in his throat. The stars on her mobile froze.
Damaris reached a tiny hand toward the window. Outside, the streetlights popped — one, two, three — snuffed like birthday candles. The house shivered. Every light in every room went out.
In the living room, the walls seemed to hold their breath. A draft moved through — cold and thick. The crack appeared like lightning frozen in drywall.
Three blankets covered the couch. Three shivering people pressed together — Mom, Dad, and Damaris. The house was so cold. It felt like winter had moved inside.
Damaris giggled. The sound was like wind through a cracked door. A tear split the living room wall. Black smoke poured out, thick and twisting. A demon with too many fingers began to pour through.
The demon pressed through the crack — too many fingers, too many eyes. Damaris clapped her hands and kicked her feet, as if this were the best game ever. Mom pulled her close and held her tight.
Mom sang the silly goose song. All the way through. Dad wrapped his arms around them both. The house glowed — warm, golden, safe. The tear in the wall zipped shut with a soft click.
Damaris yawned. Her tiny hand uncurled from Mom's sweater. Her breathing slowed. The silly goose song hummed on in the quiet house, soft and steady.
Outside, the streetlights flickered back on one by one. The stars in the mobile began to spin again. The house was warm.
Damaris dreamed. In her dream, the house was warm, and the song never ended, and everything was soft and golden.
The silly goose song hummed on. And on. And on.
