And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof:
but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever.
1 John 2:17
“It’s the World,” said Sister Ma.
They were standing on the sidewalk, Sister Ma and Sister Schuester, halfway between the chapel building and Sister Ma’s quiet, clean-smelling house on Leona Drive. Sister Ma was a short, steel-haired woman in a light purple blouse, sensible brown shoes, and a white crocheted sweater buttoned at the third button despite the July heat. She had the high cheekbones and thin mouth of her Japanese-Hawaiian ancestry, and she pursed her lips as she said it again. “It’s the World. Like in Lehi’s dream. I never thought I’d see it here.”
Sister Schuester was bigger than Sister Ma in every way. She was a tall, solidly build blonde of Scandinavian stock. She wore an off-white dress with a pastel flower pattern, and clutched a large fabric handbag. There were three flaking paint-prints of her children’s hands on the bag. Sister Schuester’s mouth, which was used to smiling, was now trembling slightly.
“It’s so awful,” she said. “Just—really terrible.”
They were friends. They had been called as first and second counselor in the Primary presidency in their ward, now more than five years ago: Sister Ma, childless, terrified, and reliant on prayer for the smallest participation; and Sister Schuester, her children already entering adolescence, tired, and worried about fulfilling her calling by rote. Their strengths balanced, and each found the other’s conversation pleasant. When they were released their friendship only strengthened, because they chose it. So, when faced with the challenge that now lay before them, it was natural for Sister Ma, though she was the elder of Sister Schuester by fifteen years, to ask in a clear, girlish voice, “What should we do about it?”
Splayed on the sidewalk in front of them, its spine forming an off-center pyramid, was a pornographic magazine, bleached and frayed with age and buried slightly in the gritty gravel that strayed from the road’s embankment onto the cement. On the cover, where exposure to the sun tinted everything green, a dark-skinned woman drew two fingers heavily across her lips over the forced perspective of one enormous breast, her teeth out, her eyes heavily painted. It was the nipple of that ridiculous breast that accosted the viewer, more than the lidded eyes of its owner: it was what Sister Ma and Sister Schuester could not bring themselves to look away from.
“We should just—leave it alone,” said Sister Schuester. “It wouldn’t be right to pick it up.”
“But we can’t just leave it,” said Sister Ma. “Someone might come by. Some child, maybe.”
They stared at the magazine, as if their joint gazes alone could banish it from existence. The magazine’s corner seemed to incline toward them, and for a moment the two women, each in her own way, saw it not as a cheaply printed bit of filth, but as the corner of a buried artifact from some powerful and loathsome civilization, a Pandora’s box left over from an ancient evil from before the Restoration. The impression faded almost as quickly as it manifested, but it had occurred, and it guided what happened next.
Sister Ma said, hesitantly, “What if it’s a test? What if it was put here to see what we would do?”
Sister Schuester wrinkled her nose. “You mean—Heavenly Father?” The name felt blasphemous in her mouth in this situation, the concept absurd. Sister Schuester had strong if vague feelings about God: He made sick people well, made sure that food was safe to eat, and from time to time helped you find your keys when they were lost. He did not, she was sure, drop pornographic magazines in front of his Saints on their way home from church.
Sister Ma was wringing her fingers slightly. “Or—you know. The other one.”
Sister Schuester’s feelings about the devil were less powerful and less defined than her feelings about God. The suggestion was enough to reorient the situation slightly, however. She grew less befuddled and became more pragmatic. “I think we should probably throw it away.”
There was no garbage can in sight. It was Sunday, post-church, and the suburban Idaho street was drawn in on itself as families made dinner and guiltily watched TV.
“I suppose—we could—take it home and—throw it away—there,” said Sister Ma. The gaps in her speech were caused by frantic thinking: What garbage can would she use? What would the garbage man think, if he noticed the magazine under the ends of greens and pristine white eggshells? And a deeper, barely articulated thought—could even her garbage become infected with this vileness, so that she would never again feel the simple satisfaction of cleaning the house, and taking out the trash?
“It wouldn’t be right, to leave it where some young man could find it,” said Sister Schuester.
“No, it wouldn’t be right at all,” said Sister Ma. “Still, I wish we could—just kick it to the side, or something. Or bury it.”
“There’s no place to kick it to,” said Sister Schuester. “We’ll have to pick it up.”
“Okay,” said Sister Ma, taking a deep breath.
“And then—throw it away,” Sister Schuester said—hesitantly, because Sister Ma’s house was closest, but also because Sister Schuester had three teenage boys at home, who always seemed on the cusp of breaking out in carnality. Test or no test, she would not bring the magazine within five blocks of her home.
“We can throw it away at my house,” said Sister Ma, bravely. “But—don’t you think—I mean, wouldn’t it be better to burn it?”
This suggestion was an enormous relief to both of them; looking back on it, Sister Ma would consider it divine inspiration. It changed the situation from a problem to a crusade. Eradication was a different matter than transference: Their souls would stay clean if the magazine no longer existed.
“Well, then, we better pick it up,” said Sister Schuester. There was no question that she would be the one who did, now that Sister Ma had given her a way to escape bringing the magazine near to her home. She crouched down and grasped the spine of the magazine between her finger and thumb. “It’s awful,” she said, almost in a whisper. “It feels like it’s moving.” She straightened, still holding the magazine in front of her. “It’s just so filthy.” After a moment of deep breathing, she put the magazine into her tote bag, wincing as she did so. “There, now, at least we won’t have to answer any awkward questions. If anyone asks.”
Kindly, Sister Ma took her arm, and that made the awful moment better, because they were sharing it. Arm in arm, they walked to Sister Ma’s house, silent except for the one moment when Sister Ma suddenly said, without prompt, “The World is everywhere. It’s so sad.” Sister Schuester nodded.
There was a hesitant moment as Sister Ma’s doorstep: Sister Schuester had the vague idea that the burning would take place in the backyard, forgetting in the moment that Sister Ma’s backyard was a tiny square of grass and overgrown cinderblock paving, visible from the road. If carrying a pornographic magazine would invite judgment from the neighbors, burning one in the backyard might even bring the police.
Sister Ma had already worked through the difficulty. “We’ll have to use the kitchen sink. It’s the only place, really.”
Sister Ma’s house had the slightly overwarm, sun-drenched Sunday feeling widow’s homes often build up over the years, and the thick white carpeting and heavy porcelain decorations invited visitors to speak more loudly than normal. Sister Ma always felt slightly ashamed of the dampening quality of her home when Sister Schuester visited, not realizing that Sister Schuester, coming from a home filled with the hormonal rumble of teenage boys, viewed Sister Ma’s swaddled existence as an enviable luxury.
They put the magazine facedown in Sister Ma’s gleaming stainless steel sink. The back of the magazine was just as obscene as the front, but the obscenity—other than a red-tinted picture of a blonde in a black lace bra—was written rather than visual, an ad for some service neither cared to comprehend, and that made it less objectionable, somehow. Still, after Sister Ma lit a match and dropped it into the sink, she threw away the rest of the packet, even though it was more than half full. The match burned on its own for a full second, and then in a swirl of yellow the magazine caught fire.
“That does it, then,” said Sister Schuester, feeling deeply satisfied.
The two women would forever wonder if what happened next was pure coincidence. For, just as Sister Ma was opening her mouth to wonder, belatedly, whether the fire would leave a mark on the sink, the phone on the kitchen wall let off a short burst of noise, as someone dialed Sister Ma’s number only to hang up the phone again. The strangled, abortive noise startled them both; it awoke in both a feeling of being caught at something illegal.
Sister Ma laughed apologetically, placing her hand on Sister Schuester’s forearm. “Oh, that spooked me,” she said.”
But when they looked back at the sink they were horrified to see that not only had the fire gone out, but the magazine had disappeared, and in its place a small, furry creature was clambering weakly out of the sink, its small translucent claws scraping against the steel as it did.
Sister Ma shrieked and closed her eyes. Sister Schuester backed away from the sink, pulling Sister Ma with her, staring wide-eyed at the creature. The beast, now clear of the sink, stared back at them with unnaturally large, lantern-like eyes.
It was about the size of a large cat, and had a long sloping head with a rounded nose, a little like a rabbit’s. Its ears were pointed and lay flat along the side of its head. The large eyes were trapezoidal, their pupils indigo. Most disturbingly, its front legs were built backwards, so that they arched out in front of the beast, giving it an ungainly, spider-like appearance. Its feet were round pads, terminated in a complicated snarl of clawed toes. It sat down on the counter, next to a brightly colored statue of a mother reading to her child, and began to lick itself.
“What—what is it?” asked Sister Ma, trembling.
“I don’t know,” said Sister Schuester. For a moment suspicion and common sense battled within her. Finally, she said the thing that seemed most true to her. “I think—I think it came from the magazine.”
From their vantage point, they could see the sink. It was perfectly empty, perfectly clean, except for the twisted and blackened twig of the spent match.
“Changed—transformed—” Sister Ma was mentally reviewing the stories of the Bible for an analogue. Finally, she decided. “It could happen. I think it really could happen.”
“It couldn’t,” said Sister Schuester, sounding as if she were going to cry. “Oh, Charlotte, I don’t think it could happen. But—where did the magazine go?”
They drew closer to the sink, to get a better view. The creature stopped licking itself and snarled at them, showing needle teeth. The sink remained empty, clear even of soot.
“What happened?” said Sister Schuester in a small voice.
“It wasn’t a miracle,” said Sister Ma. “That—that thing is not a miracle. So it must be—well, it must be the other thing.”
They peered at the beast, which seemed to be gaining strength the longer it rested. Now it was sniffing the statue, brushing the amorphous faces of the knickknack with its short whiskers.
“Is it a devil?” asked Sister Schuester.
“I don’t think so,” said Sister Ma. “Wouldn’t it have tried to shake our hands?”
The beast did not look like it was likely to shake hands any time soon. It was now exploring the rest of the countertop. It had the up-right, leaf-shaped tail of a deer.
“What is it, then?” asked Sister Schuester, her voice trembling.
The phone rang again, a long ring this time. Instantly, the creature leaped off the countertop and skittered across the linoleum—not away from the sudden noise, but toward it, gleefully, as if it were a dog and its master had just come home.
The two women screamed as the monster raced under their skirts, and fled to the den to avoid coming near. From the den they watched as the beast pawed at the wallpaper below the phone, making short, anxious leaps toward the sound, as if it wished to answer the call.
Sister Ma had a sudden, heart-wrenching certainty settle upon her.
“Beth, Beth, it’s the World,” she said. “Think of what they said in Relief Society today, about the many ways the World can gain access to our homes. Think of how we found it—how it found us—and look how much it likes the phone.” The beast was now tugging intently at the phone’s white cord. “It’s the World, I’m sure of it. It wants to get back out—out there.”
“What are you talking about?” said Sister Schuester.
“It’s—” Sister Schuester put her fingers to her lips. “It’s a symbol. It’s what the World would look like, does look like. In its true form, I mean, not in the guise of the media or something. That’s why it’s a monster, that’s why it came out of the magazine. Oh, Beth, what are we going to do?”
The phone was still ringing. The World, for that was how both women now thought of the creature, was indeed now acting as if it were caged: it whimpered and spun around in small circles underneath the jangling phone.
“Could it—do that?” asked Sister Schuester. “Escape through the phone?”
“The World can come to us any way through the outside,” said Sister Ma. “Anything from the outside—anything at all; the media our neighbors, even phone calls. And if it can get in, I suppose it can get out too.”
“Should we let it out?” said Sister Schuester. “We could knock the handset off, see what happens.
“We shouldn’t let it out though. Think of it, Beth—it’s trapped here, it can’t do any damage to anyone. We were going to destroy the magazine; this is ten times worse than any magazine could ever be. We can’t let it escape. We have to destroy it, keep it from hurting anyone.”
“Destroy it?” Sister Schuester swallowed. “I—I don’t think I could.”
“I could,” said Sister Ma. “My father showed me how to kill a rabbit. This is probably the reason why he did. This could possibly be the reason for a lot of things in our life. Oh, Beth, this must be a test—what else could it be? We can’t let it get away!”
The phone stopped ringing. The World cocked its head, as if listening, and then suddenly scuttled toward the den and the two women. Sister Ma and Sister Schuester screamed again and fled before it, eventually jumping to stand on the low-slung couch while the World snuffled about the edges of the furniture, searching the carpet with the sweeping focus of a dog following a scent.
“It’s looking for a way out,” said Sister Ma. “Look, there, it’s found the TV!” The World seemed especially interested in Sister Ma’s boxy television set: it pushed its pink nose against the slate-blue screen and hissed sharply. For Sister Ma, this was confirmation; she was certain, had the TV been on, the World would have vanished in a blaze of sparks and escaped their grasp.
“Beth,” she said, taking Sister Schuester’s arm, “we can’t just run away from it. We need to catch it. At very least, we need to make sure that it can’t get out. What is it Sister West said today about keeping our homes safe? ‘We need to face up to the World.’ If we don’t back down, it’s the world that will be afraid of us.”
“But what if it bites us?” said Sister Schuester. “You saw its teeth.”
“We’ll have to be brave,” said Sister Ma. “I can do it, if you’ll help me.”
Never before had their friendship been defined in such clear and vulnerable terms, and it is a mark of how genuine their attachment was that Sister Schuester did nothing but turn pale, nod, and squeeze Sister Ma’s hand where it rested on her arm.
They stepped down from the couch. The World, as if catching some hint of their intent, turned and snarled at them. Sister Ma stepped slightly back; Sister Schuester stepped slightly forward. Connected as they were the action unbalanced them somewhat, and the World took that moment of uncertainty to skitter away back into the kitchen.
“The computer!” said Sister Ma, and the two women broke apart, to chase after the World.
The World was indeed sniffing around the computer, a white rectangle of modernity looking out of place on Sister Ma’s ancient cherry credenza. “Shoo!” said Sister Ma shrilly, shaking her hands at the World a good six feet away from it: to both her and Sister Schuester’s surprise the World did shoo, and leapt to a nearby bookshelf, where it ran down the length of a free-standing shelf, scattering church books as it did so.
“It’s afraid of us!” said Sister Ma triumphantly as she got on hands and knees to yank the power cord of the computer from the wall. The computer died in a staticky moan. “We can catch it, Beth—look at it run!”
The World was now tearing through the house like an insane thing, thundering from room to room and leaping to any surface large enough to support it: countertops, window ledges, the top of the refrigerator. Things tumbled to the ground as it passed, thudding dully into the thick white carpet like rotten fruit.
Sister Schuester followed it, her instincts honed after years of chasing children in spaces that, for her, were claustrophobic. At last she cornered it in the living room, where the World darted from behind couches and chairs, and once made a quick but failed attempt to scale the curtains.
Sister Ma came up behind Sister Schuster, a large knife in her hand. “Can you pin it down?” she asked.
Sister Schuester thought she had just seen the World disappear behind the couch; gathering her breath, she crouched down between the chair and the couch and peered carefully around the edge of the sofa’s back.
The World, however, was in fact on the other side of the chair, and as Sister Schuester leaned to look behind the couch it burst from the other side of the chair, just inches from Sister Schuester’s face. Sister Schuester pounced, knocking the World over, and, in the next second, pinning it with her weight.
Sister Schuester held the struggling beast down, her large pink hands securing its odd legs and its twitching, clawed toes. She could not help noticing that the monster was warm-blooded, and that its fur was wiry with the slightest curl, like a setter’s.
Sister Ma kneeled next to her, set the point of the knife in the carpet next to the World’s neck. The World looked up at them both with large, terrified eyes.
“It’s for the best,” said Sister Ma, and drove the knife down through the World’s neck with a heavy crunch, leaning with her whole weight.
For a moment, the two women sat kneeling next to each other, their heads nearly touching, their hands still on the World, the dark blood from the severed head staining the white carpet in a pool about their knees. And then Sister Schuester began to laugh, a low laugh shaking with relief. Sister Ma joined in. For nearly five minutes, they clutched each other, their foreheads pressed together, laughing helplessly. Their souls had never felt so pristine.
The next morning, an unusually rosy Sister Schuester rang Sister Ma’s doorbell, balancing a plate of lemon cookies, a bucket, and a newspaper clipping on the best way to remove bloodstains from white carpeting.
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D.C. Nelson‘s elegant voice once more is heard in the land. “The World” first appeared in Monsters & Mormons (2011) which, happily, is still in print. He has a nasty habit of disappearing his work when no one is looking.
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