Page 56 of Devil Inside

In making up a personal history for her pretend pal, she forgot to fill in herself. All her thought and energy went into Sara, leaving Cara’s own life empty.

Whenever Mom asked if she might ever meet this mysterious best friend, Cara always came up with an excuse: Cara’s job at the Dairy Queen had her closing, even though she’s a vegan, or her mom is immunocompromised or she’s busy volunteering for PETA.

To keep up appearances and keep her mother from worrying all over again, Cara created endlessly elaborate one-sided conversations on the telephone at night, laughing to herself while pretending to chat with Sara, even though there was never anyone on the other end of the line. She would place a small strip of Scotch tape over the reset button so that she wasn’t actually on the phone, keeping the line open without the incessantbeep beep beepof the disconnected call pecking at her ear, the operator nagging,If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again...Cara could talk to Sara for hours. Or at least until Cara’s mother told her to get off the phone. It was fun. Freeing, even. Finally having a chance to chat with somebody about the things going on in Cara’s life, even if there wasn’t anyone really there. Sara always knew what to say to make Cara feel better because Sara was in fact Cara, a manifestation of what she needed the most.It may have started as an excuse, a cover, but now, the deeper into these phone calls Cara and Sara went, the more Cara could share with Sara, opening her heart up to a new friend.

A true friend.

I feel like my mom doesn’t understand me... She doesn’t want to understand me.

For real?

Yeah, she, like, wants me to be just like her when she was my age... but that’s not me. That’ll never be me.

I think you’repretty cooljust the way you are,Sara said after a brief pause.

You think? Really?

Yeah, I do.

Cara always knew when her mother was eavesdropping from the other side of her bedroom door, the silhouettes of her feet filling the gap along the floor from the other side, so she would laugh at something Sara had said, answering back,Of course you’d say something like that, orOh my God, you didn’t, please tell me you didn’t, for real, I can’t believe you’d do that, you are so hilarious, what did he say?

It worked. For a while. All the way up until Cara’s mother covertly picked up the phone from the kitchen to listen in on the conversation, palm pressed against the mouthpiece, ear up to the plastic colander, hearing nothing but the hum of the dial tone.

Cara’s mother barged right into her room without even knocking, cutting off the conversation between the two girls. Her mother demanded Cara explain herself. To admit Sara wasn’t real. She’d had her suspicions for weeks,months, and now this. Allthis.

Cara was in tears when she eventually confessed. It was as if Sara was oozing out of her, running down her cheeks, out from her nose, her very pores, gathering at her chin.

That, sadly, was the end of the era of Sara.

Until now.

Let me in...

“. . . Hello?” Cara is now twenty-seven years old and no longer believes in imaginary friends.

When’s the last time she thought about her ol’ pal Sara?

Years ago.

Cara now lives in Richmond, alone, just a three-hour drive from her childhood home in Norfolk. She’s gotten a job with the Virginia Film Commission, primarily dealing with permits for production companies who want Richmond to double as a cheaper DC. Mindless office work. Way too much red tape. She’s told herself it’s filmmaker adjacent and therefore worth her time and energy, though most days she comes home absolutely zonked from all the endless hours of phone calls with producers or assistant producers or associate producers all asking for her to expedite the process on their permits so they can shoot, like, tomorrow in Maymont.

Not gonna happen, sorry...

Most nights, all Cara wants to do is crash on her couch and watch a movie. Open a bottle ofsomething. Maybe light up. She could go out, if she could just rally. She’s made some friends here in the city. More like acquaintances. Some co-workers organized a female filmmakers coalition. She’s never actually seen anything by anyone else yet. They meet monthly to discuss projects they’re working on or a screenplay they’re workshopping or maybe just even a film they’ve all seen recently. The group’s preferred spot is Sticky Rice, though lately it’s been such a frat-magnet, Cara can’t help but wonder if there might be a better place to meet up. Ipanema or,Jesus, even The Village would be ten times better than Sticky Rice. But Cara’s new to the crew, the rookie of the group. She doesn’t feel comfy enough suggesting a change in location, so she sorta suffers in silence most nights while—

Let me in...

There it is again. This time, she’s certain she heard it.

“Who’s there?”

Cara sits upright on her IKEA couch, straining her ears tolisten. She’s been hovering around the same paragraph in her book for the last few minutes. The words haven’t been sinking in, no matter how many times she rereads the same passage. She just can’t focus.

She putsThe Lovely Bonesdown, losing her place.

Listening.

The voice could’ve come from right behind her. Someone whispering at her ear. It felt that close. The hairs on the back of her neck even prickled. There was the faintest sensation of breath spreading across her skin—but the moment she sits upright and turns to look over her shoulder, there’s nothing there. Her apartment is empty, save for herself.