What They Know
Most nights, the demons disappear into the house. They carry on as if they have business to take care of, ignoring Anya and me and the questions I always ask. I go into the nursery and fall asleep on her floor, door locked, and in the morning, some obscure thing in the house is damaged—symbols scratched into Carrie’s clarinet, pages ripped from our photo albums—and the demons are gone. They’ve been coming for weeks. Always at the same time. Always with the same solemn sense of purpose. The routine is almost comforting.