Five twenty six a.m. shakes me with the sound of Rihanna. Since I’m the dumb jerk that gets up to wake the dead, you’d think I could get some hard rock, punk or Britpop.
I do my morning routine. It occurs to me that things are normal since no one is speaking to me, including the golden retriever. He feeds, and the others make themselves presentable.
I leave the bathroom and jump back. They’re all standing in the kitchen, staring at me with beautiful deep blue eyes.
“We want food” they say in creepy unison.
My wife and two of my daughters, 15 and 7, stumble toward me expressionless, mouths agape. Their gorgeousness deflecting their deadly desires. I respond cautiously.
“Go watch tv or something. Bobina, can you help me? The dog’s fed.”
She scowls at me. Her perfectly round face, accented by deep dimples and dirty gold curls around her cheeks, masks devious attitude.
“He wants more. If you what’s good for you, I mean, if you love me, you’ll give it to him and let me watch Phineas and Ferb.”
I roll my eyes. A minute later, I answer a knock at the door. Instead of sitting on the couches, my wife and two daughters are standing with lifeless shoulders, staring at the tv. I realize an awful truth. They’re zombies.
I open the door. It’s my 9 year old niece and my 8 year old daughter.
“What are you two doing here? You girls aren’t supposed to be here today.”
My 8 year old, as usual, does the talking.
“Oh daddy, we heard you were making pancakes. We snuck out of our other houses, made someone drive us then my cousin ate the driver, and now we’re here. Phineas and Ferb! Go get those pancakes, daddy!”
I grab the arms of my 8 year old, push my niece over to the others and run into the kitchen. I drop to one knee and hug her tightly. She feels normal. She’s strong and warm.
“Baby, talk to me. What’s wrong with them? I mean I know all four of them are nightmares in the morning, but, they’re zombie-like.”
My 8 year old kisses me on the forehead.
“Daddy, they are zombies. It’s Halloween. They aren’t afraid to show you they’re zombies on Halloween, silly.”
I touch her face, her arms, her legs, and feel her heartbeat.
“You’re ok, sweetie? They didn’t turn you into them?”
She shakes her head and takes a grape dum dum sucker from the pocket of her ripped jeans.
“Daddy, you made me or you had me made, whatever? You and I are robots. They can’t change robots into zombies. I’m 8 and I know that. That’s why they don’t eat us. Now, get those pancakes.”
I hug her and send her into the living room. I watch her sit everyone down.
A few minutes later, I deliver several pancakes to the living room. My wife and teenager are on one couch. The three younger girls are on the other loveseat. The golden retriever covers the floor like a 95 lb throw rug. They devour the pancakes like wolves tearing raw meat.
“What is the matter with ya’ll? They’re just pancakes.”
Without warning, a creepy chant begins.
“Daddy’s pancakes are people! Daddy’s pancakes are people!”
I run into the kitchen and look at the box.
“Oh. Dear. God. It’s true!”
Then I wake up. It’s pretty much the same kind of nightmare two or three times a week. Happy Halloween.
*disclaimer* my niece and 8 yr old are brunettes, but, for some reason, in the nightmare, they’re blonde.
My family of ladies are the prettiest pop zombies you’ve ever seen. I wanted to have some fun with Katie’s The Lightning and the Lightning Bug Halloween prompt of “The Living Nightmare” http://thewriteandthewrongword.blogspot.com/
Today’s song is something my girls would like. At times, especially in the mornings, they’re aren’t far off from this story. They do love pancakes. Here’s Rihanna’s Disturbia.