Page 5

five

I ’m definitely not sad to see my friends go, even though we stand on the front porch for fifteen minutes talking and pretending the night hadn’t gone to shit. Well, I’m not sad to see Mads specifically leave and get into Em’s car with her vape in her hand as she takes a drag on it. I stand in my doorway, arms crossed, and lean in the halo of my porch light as Em waves at me with a soft, wan smile on her face.

I wouldn’t mind if she wanted to stay, but I know she wouldn’t let Madalyn go home on her own. As much as they’re both my friends, I know that at the end of the day, I’m the third wheel. Normally, it doesn’t bother me. I’m used to feeling on the outs in most friend groups—all three I’ve had—but it still hurts once in a while.

Like now.

Watching them drive away leaves me alone in the humid April air, and I glance up at the sky for any sign of the moon behind the thick, oppressive clouds. “I forgot it’s going to storm,” I murmur to myself, gaze flicking down to the house directly across the street. Sure enough, I see Patrice’s living room light on behind the curtains, and instead of flipping her off like I’d prefer doing, I give her a small wave on the off chance she’s watching through a tiny, invisible gap.

It wouldn’t surprise me if she was. Not one bit. I stand there for a few more seconds, still leaning on the doorframe, and sigh heavily to myself. I’m used to my own company. Used to being alone, and in a lot of ways, usually prefer it. Just…not always. Not tonight, though I’m definitely not looking for the company of my two best friends after the shit Mads pulled. “You know it’s not out of character for her,” I mumble to myself, finally stepping back into my small house. Aunt Hortense leaving it to me is probably the best thing that’s ever happened in my life, apart from actually graduating college after my dad told me many times I would never make it.

Closing the door with the ball of my foot, I snag my phone from the end table in the living room, then notice my TV is still on and sitting on the homepage of a streaming service. I hesitate, considering watching something, or actually going through with putting RV on like I’d hoped to do with my friends. Ultimately, however, I snag one of the Dr. Pepper cans from the counter and head to the door at the back of my small kitchen, pulling open the slider to head out to my covered back patio.

This might be my favorite part of the house. Like the rest of it, the patio is furnished with pretty modern furniture, and I’ve wondered sometimes if Aunt Hortense refurbished the whole place not long before she died. Everything seemed new when I moved in a year and a half ago, and nothing seemed like it was used very much.

It’s…thoughtful. But somehow it hurts a little bit when I think too hard about the idea of the aunt I only met a few times caring enough to provide for me after her death without me even knowing her that well.

A groan leaves my lips as I settle in my favorite padded chair, then drag my legs up under me to stare out at the backyard that’s lit by strings of lights in glass bulbs. They are one of the few additions I made, and it’s still almost surreal to me that the aesthetic I’ve loved to look at in magazines and online for years is finally something I own. Sometimes, I imagine putting a pool back here. Or revitalizing the garden that was long dead before I moved in. Hell, I could even get a dog considering how big this yard is, and the fact it’s already perfectly fenced in.

I could get something scary. Like a Rottweiler, or a German Shepherd.

Or a chihuahua.

Noise from the yard beyond mine, one that’s separated by my fence and a single line of decorative trees, makes me look up toward it. A patio light flicks on, and I stare through the trees, wondering who’s still up and out in their yard this late. Not that I’m judging, obviously, since I’m sitting here in the dark, too. I watch and listen, searching for any sign of anything at all as an instinctual anxiety tingles down my spine. I’m not afraid of the dark. Not really. But I think every human has some fear of the shadows, deep down. After all, aren’t we all afraid of the things we can’t see?

God, I don’t know why I’m being so existential tonight.

Downing my Dr. Pepper, I listen to the quiet sounds of the suburb, which this late at night is from just a few insects. The birds all have the good sense to be asleep, and with the storm coming, I doubt even the insects will be active for very much longer. As if to echo my thoughts, a roll of thunder sounds in the distance, heralding the slow arrival of more. Sure enough, when I glance at my phone, I see it’s supposed to storm from one am until tomorrow morning, and then again tomorrow afternoon.

“Great…” I sigh. My head goes back just as another sound reaches my ears, but I know when I look up, I won’t see anything. It’s probably a cat or a raccoon on its evening rounds. Both are pretty common occurrences here, especially since we’re so close to the local park.

Sure enough, there’s nothing at all to see. I get to my feet with a groan, setting the now empty can in my hand on the small table by the door. On a whim, I walk out into my yard instead of heading for the door. It’s simply to prove the fear in my gut wrong that I stride toward the shed and the fence in front of the ornamental trees.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting, as the leaves and grass crunch under my bare feet. It’s probably bold of me to be out here without shoes, but I haven’t paid for it yet. That’s not to say I won’t, especially tonight as I move around the shed to press my face to the smooth, lacquered wooden slats of the fence.

From there I just listen. My eyes even drift closed as I try to hear if anyone at all in the well-manicured neighborhood is awake after midnight. Well, other than Patrice. But she’s usually quiet enough that I barely hear her unless she’s yelling at one of our neighbors for some HOA violation she’s pulled out of her ass.

I take a breath.

Then another.

I’m jumpy tonight, though I really can’t blame myself. Thunder sounds again and the breeze picks up to ruffle my hair lightly. The wind shifts the branches of the ornamental trees, causing their leaves to make soft, almost soundless noises I can barely hear. The night air is starting to smell like rain, though it’s a distinct smell here than it was down in Florida.

I used to believe I could smell the salt coming in off the water when it rained in Pensacola. Especially given that we were so damn close to the ocean. But here, all I smell is petrichor on the building breeze in the backyard of my little house in a little suburb in Lexington, Kentucky.

“You need to sleep, Kai,” I murmur to myself as I extricate myself off the fence. I’m sure I look like I’ve collapsed back here, or like I’ve gone nuts and am listening to the wooden planks talking to me. But I still give one more look around the yard as my steps carry me back to the patio. I barely hesitate this time as thunder sounds once more, and I close my glass patio door behind me with a smooth, practiced motion. Unlike the door in my parents’ house, this one doesn’t need to be yanked on and dragged in order for it to close.

But then again, most things in their house never worked properly, and they never particularly cared.

Just as I’m doing the last of my dishes and deciding between collapsing on the couch or eating another handful of nachos and then collapsing on the couch, a sudden, swift knocking on my door makes me jump. I’m sure I was close to levitating, frankly, and I stare at the door like it’ll suddenly open of its own accord, as my heart pounds.

It’s so late.

Who the hell could be knocking on my door at this hour?

Irrationally, my mind flashes back to the man on the phone. How he said he’d give me the attention I was clearly asking for.

How he called me little rabbit.

“That’s not an appropriate thing to remember,” I mutter, yet again carrying on a conversation with myself. After all, who else am I going to talk to most of the time? Drying my hands off on a black towel that reads, Live, Laugh, Lobotomy and is embroidered with pink flowers, I glance at the door again.

As if on cue, the rapid knocking sounds once more, and this time I toss my towel on the counter before striding across the open area between my kitchen and living room. My steps slow past the sectional couch, and I reach my hand out to drag against the fabric of it, as if for comfort.

There’s no peephole on Aunt Hortense’s door, and immediately I decide that’ll be my first and only renovation. Except maybe a dog door for my future guard dog. If I had one, I’m sure they’d be startled enough to chase away whoever is here at?—

I glance at the television sitting on the streaming service’s home screen.

Twelve thirty-seven am.

My fingers fumble with the lock and I yank it open, surprised when I’m greeted with darkness. “U-umm—” My hand slaps the switch beside me, but I realize it is on just as a voice cracks through the air, worse than any thunder.

“Your porch light is out.” Patrice’s words are sour, and I can hear the accusation in them, like I somehow did it on purpose. “You know we require?—”

“Yeah, Patrice, I know. Can’t you hear me trying to flip it on?” I mumble, making loud, dramatic gestures so she hears my hand on the wall. “Fuck.” I reach for the pockets of my shorts, but my phone isn’t in them. Right, I remember. It’s back on the counter with the towel and my courage. “Do you have your phone on you? Could you?—?”

Light blinds me and I blink rapidly, groaning and covering my face with my hand. “At the light please, Patrice?” I ask. How this woman is too stupid not to shine that in my eyes but still be alive is far beyond me. But she does what I ask, and when I look up, my expression turns quizzical.

I’d expected a shattered bulb, or signs of it being burnt out. But it looks…fine. Stupidly, I reach my hand up, pressing my fingers to the still-warm bulb, and by accident, just by brushing it before I intend to, I realize it’s loose.

“What the hell?” I mutter, twisting it with my fingers gingerly. When it’s tight again, I flip the switch beside me, and the light flares back to life as if that were the answer all along. “That’s…so weird. Did you touch it?” I ask curiously, barely looking at Patrice.

The old woman scoffs, and she shoves her phone back into the pocket of her high waters. She really hasn’t left the late 2000s, with her hair in a stacked cut and frosted almost-blonde. Her light, colorless eyes are sharp, and even without looking down at her, I can feel the vehemence of her glare on me.

“Of course I didn’t touch your light,” she snapped. “It was probably one of your friends.”

I glance behind me at what feels like a breeze, but there’s nothing. It hadn’t even been anything, really. Just a movement of air, like something passing me by.

God, I hope I’m not about to be haunted by the ghost of Aunt Hortense. Because by that logic, if I were to off Patrice, she’d come back to haunt me too and I can’t handle that emotionally.

“Yeah…” I murmur, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, Patrice. Because that’s absolutely their idea of fun. Haven’t you heard?” I can’t help the sarcasm in my voice, or the way I add a drawl to my words. “That’s my generation’s new idea of fun. Lightbulb twisting. The one who gets burned the worst wins.”

She is not amused by my sarcasm, but I’m not amused by her presence, so I’m going to assume it evens out. Patrice shifts in place on my porch, and I just know she’s going through her mental list of half made up HOA violations to try to slap me with something after twelve thirty in the fucking morning.

“At least it was an easy fix. I take it you’re done for the night? No more friends coming and going? No more trucks stopping in front of your house, then creeping off?” she asks dryly.

I roll my eyes at her. “Yeah, Patrice. No more friends. No more trucks.” She’s already turning as I consider her words and mine.

Wait, trucks ? Who the hell has a truck that would stop in front of my house? I consider calling out and asking her when that happened or what she was talking about, but I can’t bring myself to face my grand nemesis again.

But still… truck ?

“Whatever.” I sigh under my breath as I watch her cross the street without fear or hesitation in her heart, shaking my head at the audacity. Sure, this road isn’t traveled much at night, but sometimes stupid teenagers try to gun it through here. Even so, I always look at both intersections a block away on each side just to make sure. When she reaches her porch, Patrice turns to me and I wave, fixing a smile on my face like I’m just being neighborly and not hoping some act of nature will smite her on the spot.

“You have a good night now, Patrice,” I mutter, glad she can’t hear me. “You drink your orange juice and suck up that spite so you’ll live another seventy goddamn years.” When she closes her door, I do as well, gazing down at it as I automatically lock the knob and flip the lever on the deadbolt. Now that she’s gone, I can?—

A black shape in the corner of my vision moves, drawing attention to it for the first time. With my eyes still on the door, I freeze, and my heart suddenly races in my chest. My fingers tighten, and slowly I force myself to look up, just as the shape leans more comfortably on the wall just beside my door, only inches from me.

For a few seconds, my brain refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing. Black jeans, a black sweatshirt. A black hood pulled up over dark hair and a face obscured by a shiny black mask, suddenly lit by a garish grin of glowing red lines.

I stand there, completely frozen, with my feet rooted to the floor.

I can’t move.

I can barely breathe.

But then the figure moves, just to tilt his head and cross his arms loosely over his chest.

He’s wearing a mask , and something tells me that’s not good.

But when I see the glint of the knife in his hand, I realize that really isn’t good, and my brain kicks into high gear.

I turn toward the kitchen and run .