a haunted house, a picket fence

The cold bite of autumn nipped at their face as they stepped out of the car, nervously shuffling from side to side. They wiped their mouth with the sleeve of their hoodie (a habit they’d developed as a child), and scrunched their face up at the dead skin cells they left on the fabric. You probably look like shit. They smelled even worse, and they knew it; a mixture of sweat, booze, and weed permeating through their clothes, but they honestly could’ve cared less considering everything else. They were just here for the one thing. They could handle it. In and out.

They shut the driver’s door, clicked the key fob twice to ensure it was locked, and approached the entrance of convenience store. Push, not pull, so push they did, bracing their shoulder against the cool glass. A little jingle announced their arrival.

Some mundane pop song they vaguely remembered the words to was playing inside. A man, maybe in his later twenties, was behind the counter leaned against the wall, lazily scrolling through his phone. They swallowed nervously. They didn’t remember the last time they’d spoken to another human being, let alone spoken at all. They wondered if their voice would sound the same.

He glanced away from his phone as they walked up to the counter, turning his attention to them. His eyes sweeped up and down their figure once, twice. “Hey man,” he settled on, and they resisted the urge to wince. “What can I get you?”

You must look really bad. They didn’t remember the last time they looked in a mirror either. They’d had their hair tied up for the past few days, irritated by the greasy feeling on the back of their neck, and only God knew what kind of rat’s nest it’d accumulated into now. “Um,” they started, voice catching in their throat. They cleared it, then decisively pointed their gaze at the counter right in front of him.

WE CARD! UNDER 30? HAVE YOUR ID READY.

Dammit.

“Uh,” they tried again, voice clearer this time. “I need a pack of cigarettes.”

“Sure. What kind?”

They looked up briefly, pretending to consider their choices. Like they had any kind of fucking standards when it came to cigarettes. They rubbed against their mouth again. Another layer of skin cells destroyed, another patch of white smeared across their sleeve.

“…Newports. Gold 100s.”

He turned around to fetch them, and they stuck a hand into their back pocket to fish their ratty wallet from the depths. It wasn’t like they didn’t have an I.D., and it wasn’t expired or fake or anything that would prevent them from getting their cigarettes. The thought of being perceived any more than they were right in the moment made them want to turn their skin inside out. Sure, they were standing here, several days without a shower or a change of clothes, but the fact he could look at a picture of them and see they were relatively normal at some point? The judging he’d probably do. Not like they blamed him, but still.

They’d been so wrapped up in their own thoughts, they almost missed him attempting to address them: “So, how’s your day been going?” An extended hand that said, I am attempting to treat you as a normal human being, so please act like it.

They did not want to talk to him. They could hardly think of anything normal to say in response. Oh, yeah, been great. Totally not having a nervous breakdown right now as we speak. I’m probably going to swerve my car into oncoming traffic right after this, what are your plans for today?

Ultimately, they chose not to respond, instead keeping their eyes fixed elsewhere, trying to pretend they hadn’t heard them. Maybe God would take mercy on them in the moment and open the crust of the Earth to swallow them whole.

He turned again, now looking a little perturbed at the lack of response on their part, using a hand scanner to ring up the cigarettes, and glanced up, where they unfortunately still stood. “…You, uh, got your I.D.?”

God fucking dammit.

They opened the wallet and slid the card out of its mesh confines. They’d turned it around a while ago, not able to bear looking at their own face, so they placed it face down front of them.

He’s gonna say something. He’s gonna look at you like you’re some kind of freak. Which you are, by the way, you deserve every fucking second of this. Walking around like you’re a human being. You’re a fucking liar and you know it.

He reached over the counter with the scanner and lined it up with the barcode on their ID. It beeped. He put the scanner away.

“Cool. $10.25.”

They blinked. He didn’t even look at it.

Maybe he’s that disgusted by you.

They took the card back and hastily shoved it into their wallet, this time extracting a ten and a five dollar bill. They shoved the crumpled cash in front of them, muttered something along the lines of “keep the change”, grabbed the box and left as quickly as their legs would let them, only briefly running into the Push Not Pull door, because all their scrambled brain could think of was to Push. Idiot. Another little jingle indicated their departure.

Okay, dumbass. Now he probably thinks you gave him a fake.

Well, that was just great. He could think whatever he liked right then, as long as they were out of range, preferably back on the road a million miles away from him. They’d been trying not to think about it too hard, but he looked just like him. Even had the same demeanor. The same job. If they walked in to visit him at work, he probably would’ve been in the same position too, bored and unenthused to be there.

But he would’ve saw them and smiled, like he always did. Their beautiful, sweet boy.

They felt tears rolling down their face before they realized they were crying, halfway sat in their car. They sniffed, hard, sending all the snot into the back of their throat, and closed the door. Gross. Everything about them was disgusting. This car smelled fucking horrendous. They wanted nothing more than to be back at home, with their bed and their shower and their cat and him, because they missed him so desperately it felt like their heart might explode from their chest.

Trembling hands opened the thin sheet of plastic around the cigarettes, flipping open the box and pulling one out. They reached to the passenger seat and dug around in the mixture of garbage they’d accumulated, fingers finally grasping around their only good lighter.

They stuck the cigarette in their mouth and lit it, cursing at themselves when the flame wouldn’t catch. As soon as they saw the ember glow, they inhaled as deeply as they could, watching the stick burn nearly a third of the way down before they had no room left in their lungs. They exhaled, long and slow, smoke rising to the roof of the car and expanding in the small space. These tasted like shit. Fantastic.

The embers fell onto their jeans, unable to hold their weight on the cigarette, and they felt a small sting as it burned through the fabric. They didn’t bother to wipe it away. It almost felt nice. Reminded them they were something. They were still real.

Barely, anyway.

Holding the cigarette between their teeth, they stuck their key into the ignition, starting the car and peeling out of the parking lot without so much as a backwards glance. Let them run over someone. Let them back straight into the gas pumps. Let it all go to hell for all they cared. So long as it took it with them.

So, where to?

They sure as hell didn’t know. They didn’t even have a really good idea where they even were. How long had they been driving?

Maybe a week. Two weeks? Two weeks sounded right, give or take. They rubbed the back of their neck uncomfortably. They’d really been sleeping in their car for two weeks straight. A motel sounded nice. They didn’t really like the idea of settling, but a proper bed… a bathroom too. Just someplace they could rest and maybe get their head together, figure out what they were doing for the rest of their life. They knew they couldn’t keep running, but there wasn’t any going back either. Not with what they did.

There’s no place for someone like you, you know. They knew. You should just dig a hole, lay in it, and die there. You’d be more useful as fucking fertilizer. That did sound like a great option, but they knew it wouldn’t accomplish anything, given their previous actions earlier in the week. They decided a motel room was a good compromise.

Reaching over to the glovebox, they popped it open, quickly glancing away from the road and inside. They had, what, seven, eight hundred dollars left? That was good for a couple nights. Probably.

They wiped at their eyes, still blurry from their tears.

They didn't know how long they drove for, only that the road seemed to stretch on forever, barely passing by any buildings as they marched on. Wherever they were, it was probably in Buttfuck, Middle Of Nowhere. Their entire life they'd lived in a city, always surrounded by the sounds of cars and trains in the distance, people they'd never meet chattering away. They never knew it could be so empty anyplace. They figured at this point, the entire planet had been colonized and stripped of whatever peace and quiet it had left. As much as they hated to be alone, it was strangely comforting then, knowing there was barely anyone else here.

Well, them and their thoughts. That's what they'd keep telling themselves anyway, that they were just thoughts.

Whatever helps you sleep at night. Cunt.

Okay. Unnecessary.

They wondered what it was like back at home without them. They knew their disappearance hadn't gone unnoticed — their phone started blowing up the very next morning they drove off. And it kept blowing up through the day and into the next evening. Most of the notifications were from him, they knew from the sparing glances they'd given their phone on the (previously clean) passenger seat. But there were some messages from their other friends too. They didn't read any of them. They were too scared to.

Eventually, the sound of their phone was enough to send them over the edge, and in a panic, they'd thrown it under their tire and ran over it, so fuck trying to contact anyone from that point on; it wasn't like anyone had numbers memorized in this day and age.

That was a lie. They had his number memorized. It was the only number they'd ever bothered committing to memory, reciting it like a prayer until they remembered nothing else.

Don't even bother calling him. He won't answer. That was probably true. He was probably angry enough at them to ignore any attempts at reconciliation now. He used to be like that a lot when he was younger — when they were both younger. Petty and defiant and vindictive. He still could be. Still was, if the conversation they had before they left was anything to go off of.

They wouldn't call him. No going back.

No going back.

They reached for the cigarette box once again, fingers deftly opening the box and trying to find another. With a start, they realized there was only one left. Have you really smoked that entire box? Gross.

They guessed they did. They'd have to make another stop someplace at some point. If they wanted to justify spending another ten dollars on a bunch of nicotine. They wondered why they didn't just get into chew. More bang for your buck.

You're running out of shit to think about.

They could say that again. They lit the cigarette with one hand, brushing away the pile of ash on their lap they hadn't noticed until just then.

It was later in the day now that they’d tuned back in, the sun creeping down below the road. They used to like watching sunsets, the purple-pinks and oranges of the sun cast against the stark white clouds, they always felt it was like a painting outside. It didn't look like much of anything anymore. Just a pain in their eyeballs.

Then, their saving grace—! COMFORT MOTEL: K & Q BEDS! VACANCY OPEN!The sign felt like a desert oasis after they'd been crawling through the sand for three months straight.

They pulled into the dingy parking lot, nervously gauging their surroundings. It seemed safe enough... although they still had no idea where they were, it at least didn't look like a motel where fifteen people had mysteriously disappeared (whatever that looked like). It was still shitty looking, but what motel wasn't? Beggars could not be choosers, especially not in their shoes.

Double checking there was no one in the parking lot to see them, they opened their glove box again and shoved wads of money into their pockets. They wished they'd thought to bring their bag with them, but then again, they hadn't expected to be here in the first place. At least there was the thrill of being mugged to keep them on their toes. You'd deserve it. Yeah. They knew.

After confirming they'd left nothing of real value behind, they got out of the car once again, making their way into the lobby. The transaction with the front desk clerk went by without any notable incidents. They asked for a room, she asked for how long, they said three days, she said that'll be $270, can I please see your I.D.? Always with the I.D., huh? Wait till she sees your disgusting mug. They handed over the cash, she handed back their I.D., tip-tapped away on her little computer that was probably older than them, then handed them a key. Room 37, continental breakfast is in the lobby from six to eleven A.M. Hope you enjoy your stay.

She stuck to the script. They liked that. They didn't have to think too hard.

They wandered outside, peering at the outside of the building until they spotted their number. Slightly disappointed, they realized it was on the second floor, meaning they'd have to haul themselves up a flight of stairs. Their whole body was sore, after sleeping for so many nights curled up in the back of their car like a fetus, but all it would take was one good night's rest to alleviate the pain. Everything hinged on this stupid motel bed that was probably going to ruin their back anyway. Just like you to put all your eggs in one basket, right? They rolled their eyes, and made the laborious trek upwards.

Once they finally made it to their room, they unlocked it, stepping inside and taking inventory of their surroundings. A bed, a TV, a phone, a desk and chair, a bathroom tucked away in the corner, a closet opposite to it, where no doubt they'd find a "personal safe" at the bottom of. They saw a "DO NOT DISTURB" sign laying on the desk, and they'd never been quicker to grab it and stick it on the knob of their door before closing it and locking themselves in.

They turned around to lean against the door, then slid until they were sat upon the ground. It was cool in here. Motels were usually hauntingly cold, a magical temperature that only existed within the confines of the Short Term Lodging Industry. It reminded them of when they were a kid, hopping hotels with their mother for a few years. What a strange time in their life, and now they were right smack dab in the middle of it again. How'd she do it all, they wondered?

Probably would've been easier without your pathetic ass dragging her down. That's why she ended up dying.

They swallowed hard. They didn't want to think about that right now.

That's all you do, you know? You leech off of people and then kill them. You're selfish.

They knew that. It wasn't like they had to keep saying it over and over again.

You should've died when you had the chance. But you didn't, did you? You wanted to be here. Take up a bunch of space and be fucking useless.

There was a face in the doorway of the bathroom. They stared at it. It stared back.

"Now you're stuck here with me," the face said. It sounded like their mom. It grinned. Its entire face was teeth and eyes.

All the blood had drained from their face and they felt slightly dizzy, even sitting on the floor. They knew this feeling, the entire room wobbling around them. Whatever they were seeing, it wasn't real.

"Oh, yes I am," it replied, and it inched the door open. Fucking moved the door. With a hand. A hand? It had hands. It was still looking at them, or maybe straight through them.

"Karma," it said, and they shuddered hearing their name. That was them? "I promise you, you can't run away from me. You can't deny me anymore. You woke me up."

They were shaking all over now, tears stinging behind their eyes. "No," they said, half whispered, no bite behind the words. They couldn't even pretend to mean it.

"Yes, you did. Got scared and ran off and thought you could end it. Too little, too late, baby."

Did it look like him? It did look like him. Vaguely. The shape of his face was there, but the rest disappeared into shadow. You're hallucinating right now. The stress is driving you nuts.

"No, I am, actually. Just a little bit, though. You're fighting with me here." It was getting closer now, still staring, still grinning. They shrunk back into the door.

"Why fight? You know what you were made for. It wasn't to play pretend your whole life, was it?"

"I wasn't made for anything," they replied, knowing it was useless to argue.

"You were. You were made to be my perfect little host. Now, I need to use you. Can't you do me that favor? I've kept you alive all these years."

"Fuck you," they spluttered, not having the brainpower to think of anything else. "Fuck you. Fuck you. Get the hell away from me."

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't," it cooed. It was so close now. If they squinted, maybe, they could pretend it was his outline. Would it hurt less if he was the one insulting them? Berating them? Could they stand this if it were him?

"I'm your body. Your blood, your veins, your skin, your brain, your nervous system, your everything. I'm as much a part of you as you are of me. Can't escape your DNA."

They shut their eyes, squeezing them like they were afraid this thing was going to pry them open. It neared their face with its own, and they could feel some alien warmth emanate from it, almost like the heat from inside their body. It went past their face and to their ear, foreign breath tickling their skin.

"You're never going back home. I'm home, now."

With a shriek, they opened their eyes and flung out their arms, intending to push whatever the fuck it was away from them. Yet, their hands touched nothing, and they realized there was nothing there. Chest heaving, they pushed themselves to their feet, ripping across the room and sending the bathroom door flying open.

Nothing. And-- hadn't it already been open? It opened the door. It didn't shut it after. Or maybe they didn't see it.

No. They'd been fucking hallucinating, that was what happened. They were just stressed. Keep denying it. There was a black hole growing in their chest, threatening to consume them whole, but they'd keep denying it. Deny, deny, deny. Is that all you know how to do?


"Shut UP!" They screamed again, and without thinking, launched their fist into the wall closest to them, immediately crushing the drywall and creating a gigantic hole. Great. Now they'd have to pay some kind of deposit for being a fucking tweaker in the room.

Pulling their hand from the wreckage, they pinched their nose and sighed. This was fine. It would all be fine, if they could just — go the hell to sleep. What a great idea, Karma. Thanks, Karma, I'm here all week and for the rest of forever until I hopefully die.

They peeled their shirt and pants off, not wanting to spend another second in them, and threw them into the corner of the room. They didn't even bother entertaining the thought of a shower yet, even though they felt the grime against their skin. It could wait. They were going to sleep.

With the blinds closed and the air conditioner slammed with a fist for the crime of not having a "heat" option, they crawled into bed, under covers that probably hadn't been washed since the last tenant, and laid their head on the brick of a pillow provided to them.

It felt lonely. Sleeping in the car was uncomfortable, but in a bed, they could distinctly feel how alone they were in this. They wished he was there. They always slept better with him by their side.

A hand caressed the side of their head, carding fingers through their hair. It said nothing, but they felt the bed sag slightly behind them, a presence lingering just above their body.

Just like he did.

Just like home.