Something creepy I wrote for Halloween and totally forgot to post!
Since I'm between writing projects now, I may explore some new stuff for a minute. That is, if Diana's As-Yet-Unnamed Fantasy Novel Volume Deux doesn't forcibly crawl out of my head.
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I jam the key in the lock and jiggle it. It always sticks when the weather turns cold. Tonight it's raining, big, fat angry drops. My hair is wet, my socks are fucking wet, it's all bad. I want a drink. I consider the potential consequences of having just one. And if that one feels good, maybe two. Two wouldn't be so bad.
The lock gives way and I decide maybe I don't need to open that stale bottle of white wine in the fridge. Not today. Save it for—I laugh to myself—a rainy day.
The door opens with a whisper against my tiny apartment's shitty carpet. I traipse inside, sure I'm tracking mud but too cold and wet to worry. I kick the door shut and flick the light switch, but nothing happens.
“Fuck, the god damn power bill,” I say to no one, stooping to take off my boots.
It would be nice to have a roommate to yell at about this. This one's all me. Stupid Emily, can't pay her god damned electric bill on time. Stupid Emily, who gets her power shut off, misses the bus, loses her job.
My heart sinks. If my math is right, I should have a little over $600 in my account. That won't even see me through the month.
I could call Arthur and see about picking up a few shifts at the club. Maybe I'll do that. Tomorrow.
Tucking my boots next to the door, I stand and squint around my dim apartment.
I'm not alone.
It's lounging next to my half-shuttered window. It tosses something in the air, and as it catches the scant street light that's filtering in, my heart stops. A sickly orange pill bottle. And as it catches the bottle in a clawed hand, I miss the rattle of pills that should follow.
“No, no, no,” I say, clutching at my scarf, pulling it over my mouth and blowing my suddenly ragged breath into the scratchy knit.
My phone rings. The thing disappears. Trembling, I shove half-frozen fingers into my tiny girl pockets and pinch my screaming phone, delicately pulling it to freedom. Trembling, I look at the screen.
Private number.
“H-” I clear my throat and try again, “Hello?”
“Emily,” Arthur's smooth baritone crackles through the speaker.
“Yeah,” I say, eyes groping over every inch of my living room and kitchen.
“I heard about Orchid.”
There's still that wine in the fridge.
“Yeah,” I say again, impotent and suddenly exhausted, “Yeah, it was some shit.”
There's a pause, and I know—in that moment, I know with absolute certainty—that Arthur hates me. He's calling because he has to. Because it would be cruel to ignore his schizophrenic ex-fiancee in her time of crisis. That Facebook status update was a bad choice. I should delete it right now.
“Are you alright?”
And the way he says it, there's disdain. Thinly-veiled, but disdain nonetheless.
He goes on, “I know how much that job meant to you, Em. I'm really sorry. Want to pop by the Spot and talk about it? I'm here for another couple of hours.”
I don't want his pity, so I say, “No thanks.”
And before he can embarrass either of us any further, I press my finger to the merciful red button on the screen and end the call.
I go to the fridge and retrieve the wine from its black, silent depths. I grope for the wine cork in the back of the silverware drawer. I pop the screw out and prepare to plunge it into the cork when I hear something breathing. Something right behind me, drawing rattling breaths and pushing them into my right ear. The hair rises on the back of my neck and I think about screaming.
But I swallow it. I remind myself that it's not real. That I just lapsed by—what, a day? Maybe two? I force myself to take a deep breath.
One cold finger caresses my jaw. Without thinking, I pivot, swinging the corkscrew in a wide arc, and when my feeble weapon connects with nothing but air, I overbalance. Suddenly, I'm on the floor and the corkscrew is sticking out of my arm at a sick angle. Swearing, I twist the offending thing out of my skin and wince as blood gushes from the hole.
I rush to the bathroom, wishing I had power, using my cell phone's over-bright, sterile flashlight to make sure I don't bark my shin on the coffee table or do some other dumbass thing to hurt myself. In the bathroom, I wash the wound in the sink, then open the medicine cabinet looking for a band-aid. A big one, or maybe some gauze.
There, in the cabinet, is a half-full bottle of pills. Incredulous, I pick it up and examine the label.
Seroquel XR
400mg Once Daily
I shake the bottle like a maraca, relief flooding my limbs. Placing my phone face-down on the dingy counter, I let it spill light onto the molding ceiling. Looking up at myself in the mirror, I look like I'm ready to tell ghost stories at a slumber party, the way the shadows pool on my face.
It's behind me.
Steeling myself, I want to say something brave to it.
Its hairy black face is broken only by two huge, bulging, spherical red eyes. The fur parts to reveal two rows of shark-like-teeth. It isn't quite smiling.
My phone rings again and I jump.
When I look back up in the mirror, it's gone. I'm sweating and cold. And I'm bleeding god damned everywhere, fuck. Groping for my phone, I silence it and turn on the faucet, rinsing the hot, tacky blood.
“Emmmmmmilyyyyyyy,” a voice hisses from the speaker. No crackle this time.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, no,” I say, hurrying myself, bandaging my arm. Hands trembling, I reach for the pill bottle. It's empty again. Picking it up, I shake it incredulously.
“Stupid, pitiful Emily,” the voice says. “You let your prescription lapse.”
“No,” I say numbly, clutching the bottle to my chest like a rosary. It rattles again. Laughter busts out of the speakers, bright and loud like fireworks.
“What the fuck,” I whisper, staring at the full bottle.
“Do you think anyone will miss her?” Came another voice.
More laughter, and a click. A dial tone fills the tiny space.
I pop the top off of the bottle and swallow two pills before they can disappear again. They're bitter on my tongue, hard in my throat. Swiping the phone, I unlock the screen and check the call log. The last one was outgoing, to my mother.
I want to sleep. I want to warm up, and get in bed, and shut out this episode. I march into the kitchen and nearly impale my foot on the corkscrew. Rinsing it in the sink, I twist it into the old cork and sigh as it frees itself with a pop. I take a long pull from the wine and make my way back to the bathroom, grateful for my phone's flashlight.
Luck is with me as I turn the knob for hot. I let the bath fill up, strip down, and ease myself into the scalding water. I drink more wine.
It's back in the doorway, staring, but I'm warm and starting to get a little buzz, so I give it the finger. It slowly reveals its teeth again. I keep the wine bottle in one hand, and take another long pull.
“I've never seen you before,” I muse, surprised to feel my tongue slip over the “s”. A wine glass would have been a good choice. I've lost track of how much I've had. No matter. I'll have a bear of a hangover tomorrow, but at least tonight I'll have oblivion.
Its teeth part, and in a whispery voice it says, “Oblivion.”
In spite of the cloying heat, my skin breaks out in gooseflesh. I babble, desperate to normalize this. “What's funny is if some monster ever did come traipsing in here, I'd never know the difference. . . Usually, it's the ah—just the voice. It sounds like a more sinister version of that actress I hate.” I shake my head, “But you—you're something.”
It takes a step, then another, and suddenly it's on the bath mat. If I reach out, I could touch it. That is, if it were there at all. Instead, I lean back and hold the near empty bottle out to it, eyebrows raised. It takes the bottle, or maybe I drop it. I'm pretty drunk.
My phone rings again, like an old fashioned rotary.
It turns my phone over and hits the button. Suddenly my mom's voice is everywhere, “Emily. Emily? Emily!”
Then the actress—the one that I hate, she's in the background with her usual talk, like my mom has the phone on speaker. She does that a lot when she calls—she'll be cooking or something. I hear her clattering around. That makes sense.
“Emily, I'm worried,” mom carries on. “Arthur called me. You haven't been yourself, you-”
Mom drones on. I drift in and out. Her words shift from worry about me, to talk about California, the election. She's thinking about getting a dog.
It stares at the phone as my mother talks. Shifting, it holds its hand straight out, dropping the phone into my cooling bath water. Its teeth part, mouth is hanging wide open, and its voice is that stagnant dial tone.
Its bulging eyes are on me. It leans down, and down, and down. I realize it's been a while since I've taken a breath. Its hands are on my neck, water is in my lungs. It's grinning now, really grinning.
The last thing I see is teeth.
