Poor Molly (or, The Blue Horror)

I am driven by a compulsion to write this down as insurance against the future possibility of a refusal on my part to acknowledge what has just occurred. It is also out of a desire to make sense of the incomprehensible, to unlock some hidden logic that could elucidate this terrible mystery. More practically, I am writing this account with the intention of handing it over to the police tomorrow, and must therefore reproduce every moment, every incident in this perturbing tale, while it is still fresh in my memory, however troubled my state of mind may be at the moment. The incident in question has forever shaken my belief in our world as a rational place, one that operates on inviolable and predictable scientific rules. Matters of the spirit are the territory in which my spouse, who is currently asleep in the room next door, has always been more comfortable. It was always she, not I, who saw things behind the veil of reality, visions and experiences to which I would respond with the dismissiveness of one who perceived himself as the more reasonable partner in the relationship. 

We have sought temporary refuge at her parents’ house outside the city, and I do not know when we will find the courage to return to our home, a home from which we fled in terror last night. Here is how it all began.

Our nightmare started several weeks ago with a nearly imperceptible shift in the normal course of things. Were it not for my wife’s high sensitiveness to such matters, it is unlikely that I would have become aware at all that something untoward was afoot. And in all fairness, when at first Chia-jung sought to draw my attention to the signs, I treated her apprehensions as the by-product of her typical high sensitivity. In other words, I dismissed the warnings she was giving me, her pointing out that objects inside our home—potted plants, framed photographs and such—were often out of place. I responded to her claims by feigning ignorance or, when this did not assuage her, by blaming our black formosan dog. Rest her gentle soul, poor Mollie.

Chia-jung teaches early morning classes at university and is usually the first one out the door. For my part, work at the semiconductor firm, where I am one of the chief engineers, normally does not require me to leave home before 9 a.m. I was therefore in the shower when I heard the scream. Rushing out with only a towel around my waist, I hurried to the living room and found Chia-jung standing by the front door, her entire body trembling, while Molly, a low growl emitting from her throat, paced about frantically.

“What happened?” I asked, taking hold of her shoulders to calm her down.

“I—I saw s-something reflected on the door,” she said tearfully. “It was some blue streak. It came from there, outside the door to the study.”

I turned and looked at the corner where the “streak,” as she described it, had allegedly materialized. The door to the room we shared as a study was closed, flanked on both sides by bare white walls and, to the right, the humming air-conditioning unit. Besides these, there was nothing there. It then occurred to me that we had been experiencing some issues with the light bulbs in that area of the ceiling.

“It was probably the lights,” I said. “You know they’ve been misbehaving recently. I will call the electrician today and ask him to come over and take a look.” 

Chia-jung shook her head vehemently. “No, it wasn’t that, I know it wasn’t. Molly saw it, too. See how alarmed she is!”

I told her that Molly, as we both knew, was very attuned to our states of mind and that Chia-jung’s scream was undoubtedly the cause of her trepidation. As if to prove my point, Molly had quietened down somewhat, though she continued to stare apprehensively at the corner, no doubt because Chia-jung was still drawing her attention in that direction.

Chia-jung eventually calmed down and left for work, though it was clear that she was still unconvinced that my theory about the lights could explain what she had experienced. But as always, she surrendered to my rational talk and conceded that perhaps she had imagined things.

“Just—be careful,” she said as I kissed her forehead, wishing her a good day.

Chia-jung never saw that light again, though over the following days she continued to claim that objects around the house were being moved. By then the electrician had come over and confirmed that the wiring inside the ceiling indeed needed repair. As the maintenance involved removing a series of ceiling panels in that section of the living room, we made an appointment for him to come back at a later date with his crew. Happily convinced that I had resolved the mystery of the “blue streak” that had startled my wife, we resumed our lives, and I continued to dismiss as mere tricks of the mind Chia-jung’s warnings about the displaced items. Once, in passing, she asked me if I had made enemies at work or perhaps brought home some object of suspect origin. I told her that I was unaware of any enmity with anyone at the workplace and that no, I had not brought home anything unusual. She made no such inquiry again. Every once in a while, I would hear Molly’s low growl, but that, too, I dismissed as canine idiosyncrasy (a bird outside, perhaps?) or her response to Chia-jung’s own sensitivities.

The fabric of reality was ripped apart weeks later—last night, to be more precise. It was well past midnight when a sound, coming from the living room, awakened me from my sleep. Molly heard it, too, and jumped off the bed, growling faintly as she walked over in the darkness toward the living room. Not wanting to unduly alarm Chia-jung, I carefully slipped out of our bed and went after Molly. As I approached, the sound became much louder. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but for some reason all I could think of was a wet towel being slapped against a hard surface.

This is the part where I struggle to continue to tell my tale, as it brings back such agony. All of a sudden, Molly yelped loudly and I rushed into the living room, in time to see the poor dog suspended halfway between floor and ceiling, her limbs flailing frantically. What appeared to be a knot of strings, glowing an iridescent blue that cast the entire living room in a gloomy light, was wrapped around her body. The strings were connected to a much thicker trunk—something tentacular, with veins of a darker hue zigzagging underneath its glistening surface—which found its source in the ceiling, straight through one of the light sockets. I momentarily froze, my brain incapable of reconciling what I was descrying with any possible logic. Molly’s lament intensified as the tentacles squeezed more tightly around her. I could hear her bones getting crushed, and in the semi-darkness I saw a torrent of blood pouring out of her mouth. I rushed over and attempted to pull at one of her legs to prise her off the deadly grip of that abomination, but Molly was covered in a thick slippery substance and her thin leg escaped from between my fingers. Meanwhile the thing continued to drag Molly upwards, and seconds later, awakened by my screams and Molly’s agony, Chia-jung joined me in witnessing the terror as our beloved dog, who by then was emitting high-pitched whimpers, was dragged through the light socket with a gut-wrenching suction sound. Then it was over, and a terrible silence reclaimed the traumatized darkness around us.

A terror-stricken scream escaped from between Chia-jung’s lips and moments later we were both tearfully escaping from our home, jumping into our car, and making our frantic way toward the safety of my in-law’s house. I have contacted the authorities, and I was informed minutes ago that a patrol car is on its way to our home. 

I cannot begin to comprehend what this cursed violation of the laws of nature it was that invaded our home, nor can I seize upon anything to explicate why it targeted us. What I do know, however, is how much I regret not believing my wife when she repeatedly warned me that something was amiss. I should have known better. Perhaps if I had been more open minded, had accepted that Chia-jung’s high sensitivity gives her a fuller picture of the world around us…Poor sweet Molly. What terrible pit of hell, what unholy dimension, were you dragged into by that monstrosity? It is my deepest hope that life escaped her body before she was taken to that place. 

        Chia-jung insists on going to the temple tomorrow.