The Jackal Stares at Me
By Dan Stein

          The jackal stares at me.

          That makes two weeks now that she's inhabited my bedroom. I wonder how she got in. For that matter, I wonder how she got to America. And why does she stare at me like that?

          All I do is lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Staring. Staring. Then she’s there at the foot of my bed. Staring. What does she want?

          I call it a “she”, but I’m not really certain of that. If I move she disappears, so I can’t really go check.

          I should get out of bed.

          It’s been weeks now. I’ve just lain here, staring at the ceiling. I wonder sometimes how Pamela’s doing. But how could I find out? I’m just staring, staring at the ceiling while she stares at me.

          I talked to the jackal once. I said, “Hello.” She just stared. I wonder if the stare is meant to be accusatory. Could Pamela have sent the jackal?

          The ceiling bends sometimes as I stare at it. I haven’t slept in awhile. I wonder if something’s wrong with my head. When the ceiling bends I think sometimes that that’s where the jackal comes from. Maybe it’s where Pamela went too.

          But then I remember that Pamela is in the bathroom. She’s staring at the ceiling too. But here eyes are glassy now. And the water she sits in is crimson. So is the razor that fell from her hand. I wonder if she sees the jackal too.

          So as she lays staring at the ceiling, I lay staring at the ceiling. And the jackal stares at me.

          I think maybe she is accusing me.

          I turn my head to look into the bathroom. Pamela is sitting up now. She’s staring at me. Her eyes are the jackal’s. Confused, I look back to where the jackal is sitting. Pamela is there now. Her eyes are the jackal’s. I can no longer doubt the accusation in those eyes.

          She stares at me as I stare at the ceiling.

          The jackal stares at me.