SpaceytheBee

It was stupid to assume anyone could be as those monsters when they were likely just trying to go about their day. At worst, they might be on the prowl for a purse. But your neighbours too had appeared human upon first glance. Instinct rattled like crazy the second they had met your eyes all those months ago. You tried to recall—it had been cool, but not freezing cold, flowers had begun blooming and the first insects braved the world again. Spring.

Had it really been that long?

Their hands had been firm as they shook yours, smiles broad and unmoving.

In hindsight, you should’ve stuck to your own place. Ignoring her after she asked for help with tools she held incorrectly could’ve saved you a lot of trouble. Should’ve told them both off when they made small talk whenever they saw you. Smiling. Always smiling.

But she had been kind, if a little strange. How often she expressed sympathy when you came out to leave, or help her, sore from the day before. Back straining and strength failing you. She’d frown, tilt her head and say odd things. Joking, but…

If only we could remain young forever without these aches.

You work too hard, dear. Perhaps you’d enjoy a vacation. A proper one.

Have you ever dreamed of being a stay at home—?

Your features twitched, feet sharply protesting with each and every impact on the pavement, flat shoesoles scarcely appropriate for the long trek. By the time you reached the better part of town, the sun had risen high in the sky, and your legs wanted to fall off and crawl in misery.

That man’s face sat burned into your mind, fighting with your neighbours monstrous ones for the spotlight. But he won purely because of the sheer dissonance. His agony, his complete disregard for himself as he tried to get you to leave.

As if he already gave up on himself.

Despite the chilly wind tugging at your clothes, brushing over clammy skin, it refrained from cooling you down. Sweat heated you and raked shivers along your spine, bumping up your heartrate for the sake of self preservation.

The crowd from the mainstreet dwindled as you neared more civilised neighbours and its restaurants. The difference was palpable. People never fully lost the flinty eyes, but shoulders sat a tick more relaxed and laughter rang freely. Their conversations were still infected with the same thing, the same dread.

A gaggle of mothers at a small cafe spoke of their children as proud hens, gushing over one or another accomplishment. But the fear sat threaded through their more loving commentary.

…doesn’t understand curfew…

…tries to sneak out to see his friends…

…mine are the same…

You quickly looked away, heart clenching. Children weren’t often found. But they certainly didn’t get the mercy treatment.

Underneath their fear sat a bitterness.

Not too long ago you shared the overall frustration stinking up the city. That for once in their damn existence, the police would actually do their job and catch the evil bastards responsible. That was before this morning. They’d need some fucking silver bullets or some shit to fight these fuckers, study them in a damn lab and contain them in Area 51.

Your back stiffened when a group of boisterous teenage boys, high on hormones, passed too closely. Shoving at each other, laughing obnoxiously and glancing at girls with the hope they’d be noticed. Their appearance cutting through your thoughts with the same elegance as their sagging pants, underwear on full display.

Shoving your hands deeper in your pockets, you pushed your legs on, ignoring the pain lancing up your calves and went to search for your hotel. Not the ones close to the mainstreet. Those wouldn’t tolerate you, nor would your purse their prizes. It may not be in their job description, but the faces of bellboys and other personnel twisted with distaste when seeing you, as if to scare anyone ‘pauper’ away. With your scuffed shoes and simple work clothes, you’d deter their usual clients.

Let them. Herman, the old son a bitch, wouldn’t pass a paying guest up, properly attired or not. As long as you got a place far from home, you didn’t care about the questionable stains in the carpet and mattress of his cheaper rooms. His place sat in a quieter spot, as if camouflaged, concrete walls hiding his motel away. The big red letters at the top of the building was the only thing truly distinguishing it from everything else.

You hurried up to the glass doors, ignoring the few seated guests outside enjoying their lunch. Warm air blew down as you rushed through the dimly lit hall, green carpet guiding you past dark oak walls into the reception area.

And there, frowning down his glasses at some papers, sat Herman, his greying moustache and beard neatly trimmed. He glanced up, did a double take, and lit up, face smoothening out in a broad, warm smile when you neared the counter.

“Kid! Finally decided to take up the offer?”

Your lips quirked up, the smile fighting its own existence as it trembled. “Still not brave enough to face picky eaters.”

The warmth on his face couldn’t hide the calculative glint in his eyes. “Damn shame.” The air around him turned serious as he studied your surroundings. “Is it about the, you know…” He made a clicking sound, slicing a finger across his throat.

Whatever expression you made, had sympathy grow on him. He nodded his head a few times, leaning back. “Was about time you developed some sense.” He ducked behind the counter, coming back up with some papers. “How long you staying for?"

“Just one day.”

His brows shot up, a searching look thrown your way. But he, and any other receptionist in this town, learned not to ask too many questions. He wrote out the papers for you, stood up and grabbed a key.

You frowned, then saw the number, eyes widening. “No, I can’t pay that—”

He gestured with it. “If this is the last time I see you, then take this. Pay is for a small room.”

The man was dead serious, silently imploring you take this small act of kindness. Your chest simultaneously warmed up and clenched. “Thanks Herman,” you muttered, voice thick.

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” he said gruffly. “If I’m reading you right, you need some damn sleep, kid.”

A huff blew past your lips. “You have no idea.” you rubbed at an eye, fighting the way they tried to flutter shut.

He send you off, but not without—

“And remember, if room service comes knocking at night—”

“Always check with reception first,” you interrupted, grinning over your shoulders.

He huffed out a laugh, fishing a cigarette from his chest pocket. “Damn straight.”

You turned away, trudging up the flight of stairs to the first floor, not for the first time cursing the lack of an elevator with every sting of your feet. Twirling the key with its blocky, wooden fob, you yawned, the fatigue slipping in as if it recognised a safe haven. The hallway was deserted, light green carpet cushioning your slumping feet.

Herman had been right. Sleep was all your head could think about. You opened the door, struggling with inserting the key as your actions grew sluggish. But inside, industrial laundry cleaner and a hint of bleach greeted you, the barest hint of citrus spicing things up.

Shoving the door shut, locking it, you trudged to the queen-sized bed, and plopped down on an actual clean and proper blanket. No weird stains or smells reserved for lowlifes unwilling to walk all the way home. You kicked your shoes off, promising yourself a warm shower later, and laid down. Your mind blipped out not much later.

Except.

Except…

Rhythmic, disruptive noise pierced the black nothingness of sleep. One, two, three. A pause. Then it would repeat.

Honking and skidding tires blew the blackness apart like a cloud of smoke, your eyes snapping open with a start. Your heart thrummed loudly, darkness having crept inside the room, streetlight pouring through open curtains. Blindly grasping, your fingers found your phone, turning the screen on. You blinked blearily at the light. At…

19:23

You had slept pretty long then. You licked your lips, grimacing at the dryness.

Tap, tap, tap.

Your head shot towards the door.

“Hello? Roomservice.”

The fatigue slipped its inky tendrils out of your mind. Ice burrowing deeply in its place.

Should you say something? But the man chose then to say your last name. “Herman sent me. The room hadn’t been fully prepared for a guest.”

Glancing at the phone on the opposite bedside table, closer to the window and small balcony. You inched over, muscles refusing to go any faster as you swallowed your heart rate down.

“Wait a moment,” you called, voice raspy with sleep, but kept stubbornly steady.

“Of course, standard protocol.” He chuckled, and your hairs rose at the quiet sound.

Your hand trembled as it wrapped around the plastic, lifting the receiver to your ear and pressing the button that would send you straight to reception.

Then waited. Hearing it beep. And beep. Your attention drifted to the outside. A light drizzle tapped on the window, racing to soak into the pavement. You followed it down—

Swayed as blood crept from your face, vision sharpening alongside your pulse. Standing before the hotel, clad in white with red stains smudging the front, was the same man from yesterday.

Looking right at you.

The receiver still beeped at your ear. But you barely heard. The man couldn't possibly see you, right? It was dark in here and the sheer curtains covered you partly.

Then he tipped his hat with a nod, his smile the same as the first time. You didn’t breathe as he looked away, shook when he walked out of sight and presumably inside the building—

You stumbled back, tumbling to the bed. The phone jostled, beeped then clicked.

“Hello, how can I help you?” A woman’s voice said.

Simultaneously, the man, whose voice was so familiar, asked, “Are you alright? I heard you stumble.”

“I, I—” You swallowed, sweat breaking out over your skin, forehead cold. She said something, tone concerned. “Where’s Herman?”

She paused. “He’s retired to his room. Is something troubling you?”

The phrasing was odd. Too formal. And Herman would’ve told you if any new personnel had been hired.

“Did you see a strange man enter the hotel?” you rushed out.

“...Strange man?”

“A milkman with bloody clothes.”

“I’m… afraid I haven’t seen anyone like that.”

Not? Your brows knit together, lip wrung between your teeth. But you swore he…

You shook it off.

“Okay, then… Did you send room service?"

There was some rustling on her end. Papers, a pen rolling over the counter. “You must be the one he spoke of.” She paused as if to read something. “Yes, Herman said you’d probably want a shower first thing in the morning. There aren’t any towels there, correct?”

“I… haven’t checked.” A nagging feeling churned inside your gut. There was something missing, something off. “You know what, I don’t need them.”

She remained quiet. “Are you sure? It is really no problem—”

“Yes, I am sure,” you snapped, sharply placing the phone down. Panting as if you ran a marathon. You glanced outside again, but no one was there. The drizzle having become a steady pour.

Your name, your first name, rang from behind the door. “Are you really sure? I can leave the towels outside for you?”

“Sure,” you said dismissively, frowning. Did you talk so loud that he could hear? Rustling followed, the gap below the door swallowed by more shadows as he crouched. You shivered. The shadow straightened, only a pair of feet visible.

“Then goodnight,” the gentle voiced man said as a final bid of farewell, footsteps fading and ceasing to bar the light of the hallway.

You stared at it. At the small sliver of light. No one walked there anymore, quiet settling in. You spun, grabbing onto the curtains and swiftly closing them. Only then did you click on the bedside lamp, blinking spots away. Dialing a well-known number, you waited for it to go over.

Seconds ticked by, the receiver ringing dully. As the seconds reached a minute, two minutes, the ice seeped deeper in your organs.

Herman would have picked up by now.

Swallowing, you peered over at the door. Locked, only offering an illusion of protection. Anyone dedicated could get inside if they wanted to.

Placing the receiver down, you rose, patting at the taser you had stupidly kept on you as you slept.

Herman’s room wasn’t too far from here. Above the reception area. But that place…

Was it safe there now? The milkman guy could've walked down the street, out of sight. The receptionist and the room-delivery however…

You went to the bathroom, flicking the lights on.

And as the coiling dread predicted—

White towels sat neatly folded inside the open sink cabinet. Your knees buckled, energy zapping away. One of your palms found the doorframe, steadying yourself before you could fall.

Herman…

You needed to find him.

Stumbling back, you shoved your phone in your pocket. It was at twenty-nine percent. Not ideal. Not yet panic-inducingly low. You cursed the lack of a peeping hole, placing your ear near the door to listen for a lack of better options. It was quiet aside from distant cars and the rhythmic ticking of rain on the roof.

Breathing deeply, you grabbed the key, twisted it as quietly as you could, the lock springing open with a click. Pushed the door open, peeking around the corner along both sides of the hall.

Nobody around. Stepping out, you locked the door behind you. If you needed to get back, the likelihood of someone waiting to ambush you would be smaller. That milkman freak might hide inside and steal your organs…

Could it be… that he was one of them?

You brushed it off for now. Herman took priority, the old bastard. Each step in the reception's direction was tentative, but the town’s rules refused you to show any of the nerves beating under your skin. Peering cautiously down the staircase, you found no one walking there. No creaking boards, no voices beyond the ones drifting from the restaurant in an ambient murmur.

The way to enter his room was down there. Beside the reception area. Your hands shook as it slid over the taser. Pushing your shoulders back, you took the first step down. Paused. Then continued a few more. Stopped. Continued. Reached the lower floor, still hearing nothing aside from clinking glass and cutlery and ringing laughter and conversation fueled by alcohol.

Standing against the wall closest to the counter, you sneaked a glance. A young woman sat behind the counter, wearing a grey plaid dress with a large white collar. Light brown hair curled loosely around her shoulders, her skin pale and fingers deft as she… did nothing.

She sat, lightly smiling at nothing, her hands pretending to busy themselves. But when you shifted to look past the counter—

There wasn’t anything on the desk. No papers. She wasn’t even fiddling with a pen, the computer screen had gone blank. Cold nails dragged down your spine.

Herman never let a woman have night shift. Especially not a pretty, younger woman. Made him feel uncomfortable with ‘all those drunk bastards’ and ‘greedy folks.’

You gulped, worry worming deeper inside your chest. Nothing added up. If you walked on, she’d see you immediately. But now that you had creepy milkmen running around and monsters pretending to be your friendly neighbours—you could really use a rich bat furry to solve this shit.

Reality was always a let down.

A distraction was needed. You couldn’t stand here, watching her fiddle with nothing forever. You scanned the area, but there wasn't anything to help you.

Then your heart stopped.

Creaking from above. Wood bending under weight. And again. Slowly moving closer.

Your cheeks twitched, fighting to remain neutral, remain in control. It could be a guest. It could be the man from earlier, cooperating with the woman here. You didn’t know his appearance, couldn’t know what he had on his person.

She appeared perfectly average, muscles undeveloped and nothing like a gunholster strapped to her person. From what you could see. She could be like them under the pretty disguise. Hairless. Fanged. But then again, your neighbours had been careful never to let anything trace back to them.

If she was like them… she wouldn’t risk drawing unnecessary attention. Nor would a criminal.

You almost barked a laugh. This couldn’t be reality. Shapeshifting monsters couldn’t actually be real.

A sharp squeek came from behind, raising your hairs.

You had to take the risk. You’d much rather take her on where it was open and people could see, than be cornered in this blind spot.

Firmly grasping your pocketed weapons, you rushed forward, you kept your head turned away from her, hands shoved deep inside your pockets.

From your peripheral, her head turned your way, smile in place. Muscles tensed, pulse skipping a beat. “Good evening,” was all she said, returning to her insistent front of doing nothing. Until her attention was called away by a frazzled looking woman, dressed as a waitress.

You didn’t linger on it, shot away as the person from upstairs neared. The hall was short, but the wall would cover you from her sight. But… had you been overreacting then? Was she simply bored and fucking around with air itself to relief the boredom? You gritted your teeth. No. She had tried to get the man inside your room.

She was not an ally.

Glancing back, making sure no one followed, you twisted inside the short hallway towards Herman’s room.

And faltered.

The door was open. A mere sliver of light poured from the crack, a news reporter rattling on about the news on tv. Inching towards the door, you dislodged your hand from the pepper spray, placing your slick palm to the cool wood.

Pressed, dread low in your belly.

Eyes shot over every bit of the room revealed. Clean, papers and books scattered over a dresser the only mess to be found.

Your pulse thudded against your throat, breath shivering. The man sat in his green lounging chair before the tv, back to you. Missing faces flashed over the screen, mourning people calling for justice.

Sickness curdled through your stomach.

Please.

You stepped forward, whispering. “Herman.” He didn’t respond, his greying head unmoving.

Please…

Stepping around the chair, your stomach plummeted. Warm brown eyes were cooled over. Dull and lifeless. Mouth slack, cigarette stubbornly clinging between his lips. Smoke curled from its lit end, ash floating down as it reached its end.

Below—

Red. Multiple neat lines had spilled blood over his crisp greenish blouse.

God—

He was dead.

Had been killed swiftly. Neatly.

You reached out a hand, fingers shakingly floating in the air beside his bearded cheek. Tears welled up to blur his pale face. Trailing down your cheeks and dripping down. Hitting…something on his lap. Sniffling, hastily wiping at your eyes, you took in a notebook. Free of blood. As if placed there after Herman was—

Your lip wobbled, a sob swallowed down.

Slowly, you picked it up, turning it to check both sides. Nothing. And despite the screaming inside, begging you to run, run, run—

You cracked it open. Read the neat, looping script that was almost impossible to discern. It niggled at your memory.

‘We were told that a great start to an experiment was to start with a hypothesis. That, if we are to start by trial and error, every step should be properly documented. Another should read this and be able to perfectly replicate it.’

The tugging at your memory got worse. It reminded of a conversation once held. You read on, clenching the book tighter. The first paragraph didn’t reveal much more beyond babbling insanity.

Except...

‘Can humanity be furthered into an immortal state. It hasn't ever truly crossed our minds to test such a hypothesis, but our bodies have been granted such a state. By sharing parts of ourselves, fueled by other substances, perhaps we will see the day where you, neighbour, can stand by our side in ways you had never imagined.'

Neighbour…

This was—

It was her writing. Her writing that had looped on a birthday card, wishing you a long and prosperous life. Blood drained from your face. A conversation sparked inside your mind. About school, running tests and what you’d learned. With him and his stupid fucking cowboy hat and shitty posturing.

That was you… You who told them how to write an experiment.

A floorboard creaked behind you—

The taser ripped free from your pocket, the book shoved aside. You spun. Pressed the button, hit a chest. It shook as the taser lighted up, zapping energy through the man.

But no cry left him.

Your eyes crossed, familiar eyes, a familiar wide grin. Pale cheeks curling up, ginger brows lowered in a mean expression.

The man who stalked the halls at work, busying himself with safety protocols. Quiet. Always smiling, watching. Sneaking up behind you, laughing at your jumps, listening to you as you ranted or simply made conversation

Now his chest shook under your attack, brows furrowing as he blinked down at you. The taser worked—it functioned—light snapped from it, the low rattle of electricity loud and clear.

But he didn’t react. Stood upright when he should’ve crumpled to the ground in pain.

You ripped your arm away, stumbling back, betrayal caving your heart into pieces. Him—it had been him at your door. Stumbling away. He looked down at his chest, back up.

“That felt funny.”

His pupils were blown. Like your neighbours. Unnatural. It never had been under the fluorescent lights at work.

Behind him came a shuffling sound. Deliberate. The receptionist. Smiling, eyes glittering. Blocking the entrance.

“You don’t need to fight us,” she said, warm and friendly. And now that you saw the front of her face, you could see the resemblance she had to a bartender of a place you used to frequent. A pretty woman, always happy to lend an ear. Any small talk shared faded into background noise as the daily drudge kicked back in.

One had been at your work. One a friendly face in a place you loitered about. Two were your neighbours.

How many more people were like them? How many had infiltrated your life and for what?

You backed away. To a window. Wind drifted from the gap, snaking through your clothes to worsen the goosebumps already there. But as you neared—

It squeeked. Snapping your head towards it, neck muscles tingling painfully at the awkward twist, your legs nearly caved.

The pleasantly smiling man, rain soaking through his white uniform, had pushed the window open all the way, stepped inside. Milkman cap proud on his head.

The tv droned on, having moved on from missing people to the weather. Rain, storms, thunder.

Perfect weather for a bat signal to be shot into the air, and for evil plots to be dismantled.

But…

As you pressed further into a corner, mind working and working, Herman’s wounds trickling fresh blood down his front, taser useless in hand, and the two males slowly closing in…

You would be on your own this time.

With a final bid resting on the last trick up your sleeve, fingers clenching on a canister inside, you held their smug grins in sight.

And…

● The creatures are communal sharers when it comes to prey. But that prey dies. Played with and left broken beyond repair. You’re never supposed to. It complicates things.

● As a collective, they all want something from you—your company, time and even approval and affection. Individually, they may want different things. Some want you with them when you sleep. Another may desire the same but specifically inside their own corner within the cave, where it's just the two of you. Multiple want to… play with you.

● However… You are but one person, with limited energy and a body that can be overloaded. They need to be careful not to overwhelm.

● Usually they operate on first come first serve. That also doesn't quite work with you. Not if they mean to keep you willingly.

● Instead, they wait, they observe and note who you are drawn to most. After that, they fall into a natural order. You’ll spend most time with the ones you seek out, be that a platonic bond or not, and slowly they’ll integrate you into the collective.

● For some it’s integral that you get used to their touch. They’ll always test how far they can go, where the limits are and what they can do to ease you into your place amongst them.

● What they ask is a lot for a human. That much they can understand, despite how much fun it is to make you a little afraid every now and then.

● As for preferences… It depends on the mood. 

● The Nurse may want to be intimate in a way that would feel wrong to show anyone else. She’ll want your attention on her while she devotes hers to you, her lips trailing along your throat, sternum, stomach and even lower. 

● Curling up beside your naked form with an audience has always struck her as off. Not all things need to be shared when it can be just the two of you. Your fatigued body pressed to hers as she wraps you up in her arms, safe and sound.

● She likes more privacy in general. In this case, so you won’t be distracted. And while there is a charm in watching, she likes it more if you’re touching and clawing at her in need or desperation. Being present while others invoke that same response isn’t anywhere as fulfilling. Still fun, but not the same.

● If she is to share, she often searches out someone male. Having you bounce on a male, panting, thighs straining and brows knitted together while she rubs at you from behind, whispering in your ear… Yes, she enjoys that immensely.

● Another creature who likes a healthy dose of privacy is the Cowboy. There is something strange about kissing you when others are looking in. Everything else, he doesn’t mind sharing. If anything, you are the one who gets a little shy under all that attention. But kissing? Long, drawn out session with only your lips locked together, fingers grabbing onto him and your body flush against his? That’s not for sharing.

● Contrarily, he loves watching. Especially when you’re not on top, are fighting your own reactions, or are eventually flipped down and made to take. Not that you aren’t beautiful when in charge, but you don’t cry out the same way, don’t search for purchase and grip around you when reaching the brink. 

● You melt beautifully, and having an audience has you either more flustered or performing more wildly. Either way, it’ll be a show he’d never forget.

● If he has to choose who to directly share you with, it’ll be the Handbag lady. Their desires align well, both enjoying putting you in your place or simply taking care of you. Tying you up, playing with cutting off your senses, seeking where pleasure and pain meet. That his lady friend likes dressing you up, just to turn you into a mess isn’t so bad either.

● The Tough guy is a little different. He enjoys having an audience. Doesn’t care who as long as they desire you as well. Having someone watch as he slowly picks you apart or roughly pounds you into the floor has his non-existent blood boil.

● Getting carried away is a risk when you cry out for him, your body taking him in even deeper. Those hungry eyes on you stir up a competitive streak within him. A sense of heady victory when he is the only one claiming you.

● He’ll growl at anyone getting too close. Not necessarily because he doesn’t want them touching you, but because he wants them to know he’ll fight to remain buried deep within your warm body. If they want a turn, they’ll have to wrestle you away from him. And he loves it when they try, so long as you do too.

● Occasionally, he does want true privacy with you. Not specifically to be intimate. He simply wants to be near, and be the one watching and listening as you do your own things. He’ll touch you softly if you do want intimacy, more gentle without an audience. He won’t grip to bruise, won’t slowly sink his teeth into your flesh or drag a nail down the center of your chest. 

● Like nearly every other creature, showing genuine softness to a human in each other's presence feels strange. These moments are special.

● And of course, there are moments, if you are willing, where they all come together. Circling you. Trapping you. Testing your limits. Yes, they’ll be taking breaks when you’re close to shattering under the constant barrage of demanding monsters. They'll make sure you drink and eat as they deplete your energy and drain your blood. 

The small town never slept. Your nightshifts were actually quite wonderful. Some of the more sketchier people were out and about then. Your own neighbourhood was unruly, college students loitering about seeking their next high or something to break, but recently…

You leafed through the paper, finding pictures of missing people. Many belonging to your corner of town. After finding more than one body in the nearby forest, mauled, horrifically killed…

You blew out air. 

Yeah, night shifts weren’t so bad all of a sudden. Many of those students didn’t dare step outside anymore. Or their parents kept them shackled indoors, fearing whatever freak or freaks ran these murder errands to harvest organs.

Police officers were no exception, one officer found dead as well. It was probably why it got this much coverage now.

Quiet rustling startled you away from the face of a young man, his whole life in front of him—cut short brutally.

“Hi there,” the new neighbour called, well, new-ish. It had been a few months. Close to half a year. “Off to work again?”

“Like every other evening, ma’am.”

She thrilled a laugh, her painted lips stretched uncomfortably wide. “That’s not true, you used to be home during the nights.”

“Yeah, well, we all need money,” you said, straining not to roll your eyes. Her fancy earrings and handbag told you enough. Either she pretended to be of ‘class’, or she and her weird ass husband genuinely had money and chose this dump to live at for whatever inconceivable reason.

No one wanted to live in the shittiest corner of what might as well be Gotham city. All you needed was a green-haired freak and a rich punch-aholic furry and you’d be settled for life.

“Oh,” she crooned sympathetically, “but you are starting to look pallid, dear. Don’t work yourself to death.”

You snorted, folding the paper to take with you to the bus. “Think a murder clown might do me in first at this point. See you later…” you trailed off, brows knitting, her name had still never… been mentioned, “ma’am.” 

Best not to ask. But during the day…

Maybe you could settle an awfully ridiculous hunch.

“Yes, we will.” She waved a steady hand, her grin barely faltering. Maybe she had been at old Henny’s too to get tweaked out. Her pupils sure were wide all the time. Cocaine then, easy to get from your opposite neighbours. “Maybe you could give me some more gardening tips.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, smiling slightly. She was strange, but kind enough. Pretty hot too, but even if she hadn’t been married, her husband scared the crap out of you. Weird ass hillybilly that one. Stared right at you the whole time you stepped inside your car, and as you left the road. Never ceasing with his freaky smirk. Yuck.

Your best shoes crunched on fallen leaves, the forest blessing you with its mess in your garden now that autumn rolled in. You threw a mournful glance at your car, its tires torn to shit by some jackass.

The bus could take you to work, and thankfully the metro station could drive you back most of the way. That fifteen minute walk had gotten simultaneously more terrifying as relaxing now that police patrolled more extensively. Not that you wanted to meet them on a boring night.

That’s why you stuck to the shadow as you walked back home, your workshift having been as mindnumbingly dreadful as always. At least it paid well enough. Your legs were sore, back wishing it was dead so it could curl up.

Your head was held high, your pace brisk and confident despite the screaming in your muscles. Never look like an easy target. Don’t look at your phone. No wearing headphones or earbuds. Don’t turn corners you couldn’t see behind.

Those rules were stomped in anyone’s head in this town.

But every night you shuddered inside, passing the cold, blocky apartment buildings leading to your small home pressed against the forest filled with vermin. Eventually, your luck had to run out. Whoever was behind these sick murders could already have you on their radar, learning your routine no matter how you tried to change the turns you took getting home.

Your pace didn’t change as your heart sped up, pavement grey and cracked and dreadfully long. Your eyes didn’t flick around more wildly even as a stray car raced past, splattering puddles of water around. Anyone who saw you had to believe you weren’t to be messed with. That meant not being a nervous wreck.

And—

You almost froze, feet stumbling a little after someone rounded the corner ahead. Your eyes strained as you took in the stark white cutting through the night with the harshness of a dull saw, streetlights catching on the clothes. His hat… A white cap, with a black brim. An equally black bowtie at his collar.

Was that… a fucking milkman? It wasn’t that far in autumn yet.

Accidentally, your eyes crossed, the close-mouthed, smiling man never bothering to break the contact as he walked down the sidewalk. Your way. As you neared each other—

A bloody handprint sat on his chest. Hairs rose at your neck. Was it real? Was this an early party and a mere costume?

He nodded as he passed, but you were too slow to react. Hopefully he didn't consider it a slight.

You fought not to hurry, calming yourself with his fading steps, the man growing more distant. Your grip on the taser loosened. Not fully, never fully. 

The corner he had turned came next, the dark alleyway close to it too shadowy to peer inside. You glanced inside anyway, as if the earlier man would be spat out, a knife in hand—

You shook your head, swiftly reaching home without any more hiccups.

A light at your neighbour was on. As usual. Nothing ever moved inside the house though. During the day, they were absent too.

Glancing back, finally giving yourself that relief, no one had followed you. No one was around. Walking up your small porch, you unlocked your tiny hut cosplaying a house, that relief seeping into your bones as you closed it behind you. 

Locking the horrors of the world outside.

And if everything went right… then hopefully you could lock that terrible gut feeling away too soon.

You did not sleep. You peeked past the cheap, flaky shutters at the neighbours house, soda in hand and snacks to the side. There was no one inside that house. One night, when your shift ran late, you had come to realize that. 

That woman and her creepy husband went back indoors, either side by side—his hips swaying like he was in a movie and he played some schmuck, thinking he was hot shit—or with time in between.

They never looked at each other. Held their grin in place like it was plastered on permanently. Walked calmly. Didn’t speak.

The uncanniness did away any assumptions of it being a drug induced state. It was consistent, their return eerily timed nearly by the minute. Close to dawn.

You zipped from your drink, darting from one of their windows to the next, each lacking curtains. Except for the lower floor, near where a basement sat. The former inhabitant had you over once when she needed help carrying a couch inside.

Watch your step, honey, basement’s right there.

Close to the back entrance.

You glanced at your phone, the time lighting up in broad letters. It was getting close. You peered back outside, counting the seconds, and—

From the corner they appeared, walking down the streets from opposite sides, meeting smoothly at their porch, turning towards their home. Your skin crawled as they robotically went inside, your attention zeroing in on that one peculiar detail;

The door was unlocked. Each and every night.

Your gut clenched, nervous sweat slicking your palms. 

They moved around the house, passing one window, two windows, then stopped appearing.

You sat, rooted on your chair, keeping the shutters pried open. But like usual, nothing else was out of place. Their, comparably, picture perfect house stood proudly amongst decrepit buildings, their garden snatched into a solid example of addiction to appearance and public approval.

As if they wanted to appear worthy of a thief’s assessment. 

Your eyes roamed the building, dry and itchy with how little you blinked. Watching as the sun eventually rose up, slowly rising along the walls, catching on the windows when it spun over the roof tiles, and hopefully revealing that nothing’s off about your potentially vampiric neighbours—

A shuddering breath escaped you, the shutters finally snapping back in place as you leaned back, chair creaking. The snacks on the white bureau table, scored from a thrift shop, had long cooled down. Your stomach churned. Not out of hunger.

Out of fear.

You rose, pocketing the taser and pepper spray inside your jacket. Big pockets were a savior for when you needed to pull a dirty trick fast.

Making your way downstairs, you left through the backdoor, their backyard connected to yours and the wide forest beyond.

Where you once enjoyed a drink on the tiny steps leading to your backyard—now was avoided entirely during the evening and night. There was that sensation of being watched. Being catalogued. And not by raccoons or squirrels or a rare black bear.

By something more intelligent.

The newspaper didn’t lie. The locations of the murders were disturbingly close to your home occasionally.

You shook it off, swallowing as you quietly closed the door, staring at their dark green one. A mere few feet away. So close, yet the distance seemed insurmountable as you took the first steps, heart thudding with a screeching panic to stop, turn back, call the cops who were useless and corrupt—

All too soon your feet stopped before the simple door, light yellow panels reaching above you as you craned your head up. Powdery algae grew in patches and streaks up the walls.

Your head twisted back forwards. Like with nearly any other windows, there was no curtain here either, letting anyone see inside their home. No movement. No sound. Nothing to signify life.

Slowly, you grasped the handle, the shake in your hand well-contained. Twisted the handle—winching as it creaked. Stilling to listen. Still nothing.

You pushed onward, the door opening smoothly. Unlocked as well.

But why…? Who would keep their doors unlocked at all times? In this city? Unless… They wanted people to come looking.

You shuddered, taking the first step inside, pausing, straining your ears. Continuing as no creepy cowboy lassoed you inside to press a sawblade against your ribs and harvest your insides.

The small utility room held an old washing machine and dryer, the white exterior yellowed. The washing bin sat empty in the corner, collecting dust. Peeking beyond the opening leading to the combined, spartan, kitchen and living room area, you still were alone.

And neither had gone upstairs. Which meant…

You twisted your head to a closed door. A door that led to a staircase.

They had to be there.

Courage fled your frame, your bladder nearly caving as heavy dread fell upon your shoulder. You clamped down on the taser. The white door stood between the truth and you.

Unless they merely slept there, and this was all a misunderstanding.

But they never spoke of a job, never showed up during the day, never yawned, barely blinked, and one time you swore you heard screaming—

Your feet spun away before your brain caught up. Away from that door. Moving back—

A soft groan came from downstairs, a dry sob.

You stilled again. Head slowly swiveling to that door, quiet settling after the disturbing, hair raising sound of misery.

This time, you went forward, using that momentum of bravery to open the door, revealing the cement stairs that led to an unknown space. Grabbing your phone, you shuddered in some air, clicking on the light. It wasn’t a deep space, wasn’t wide, but—

It reeked.

Slowly, you moved over, getting closer to the entrance.

The stench hit you, like rot and stale sweat mixed with feces. A gag tightened your throat. Something shifted at your stifled noise and your muscles locked. Completely. Unmovable as your eyes jumped over what you could see of the small basement.

“Leave,” a croaky voice whispered, as if their throat was too destroyed to muster more. “Don’t…” A deep, shaky inhale interrupted the words, followed by wet coughing. 

Holy shit…

Holy fucking shit.

Someone was there. Someone who clearly needed help. More noise startled you. Creaking boards coming from upstairs.

On instinct, you stumbled forward, the door closing quietly behind you as whatever moved up there settled again. Sweat beaded down your temples. You almost coughed as the stench touched even your tongue.

Spun when another set of lungs heaved a wet breath, raking nails down your spine.

Without proper input, you already moved downstairs, the short staircase swallowed within no time, within an eternity. Your meager light held your taser in sight, pulse thudding in the back of your head.

To the left, someone shifted, to the right, a deeper part of the basement, there was nothing but crates with things you couldn’t properly distinguish. Odd, shadowy shapes sat along the wall.

And that person to your left…

A young, tan man, tied up, upper body bare and ripped open and, and—

Bile rushed up your throat, acrid as it flew inside your mouth. You forced it back down. Blood, dried out and fresh coated his skin, his chest splayed open so terribly, you could see his sternum. His thigh had been torn into by an animal, thick stripes raking down the side.

He should be dead.

This wasn’t possible.

Fear sat deep in his sunken in eyes, a desperation in them that called to your innermost sympathy. You wanted to reach, wanted to run.

His cracked lips opened before yours could. “Leave,” he repeated in that weak, croaking voice. Looking behind you at—

Twisting, you nearly dropped both the phone and taser, stepping back.

The odd shapes…

Monsters…

Those were monsters.

Hairless, pale, blotchy skin and sharp rows of teeth marring their mouths angrily. Dressed in all too familiar clothes. Curled up against the far wall.

Side by side. Asleep.

“Leave.”

You didn’t need to be told twice, instinct kicking in to save your own skin. You fled up the stairs, trying, failing to be entirely quiet. Fled back outside, back to your home, back inside. Sliding down your door with vomit in your mouth and a tremble in your bones.

You had guided that woman’s hands when planting a bulb. Had shook their hands when meeting them. She had patted your shoulder, stroked your back, and held her palm there. Nauseau curled at your stomach.

That man… How wasn’t he dead? Had they done something to him? Was he a monster too?

Cold sweat coated your skin. The tremble reaching your soul, shaking sense into it. 

“Fuck this,” you muttered, springing up. Rushing through your house, grabbing a backpack, you gathered any and all necessities. 

You weren’t staying. 

Fuck your shitty job. Fuck this town. An evil clown would've been preferable to this shit. The stench, the grime and stains coating the cement—they were too real for it to be fake.

Practically running outside, you went to the bus stop. And waited. And waited. Checked the time every few seconds. Until your insides went cold as you checked the website to check if any routes had changed.

They weren’t driving today. No public transport at all. How had you forgotten? You had taken the shift off tonight for a reason.

Glancing around the neighbourhood, you had no one who’d loan you a car. You had no cash to pay for a taxi, ubers weren’t a thing in this fuckass town invested with petty theft and vandalizing assholes.

You had legs. You had time. But autumn had rolled in and the days were short.

You wouldn’t get out of town.

But you weren’t sleeping beside those freakshows. No. Never.

Your brain raced with a solution. Only one really made sense.

Destination in mind, you took your belongings and sped walked to a hotel. Opposite your neighbourhood and the hive of murder activity. A place filled with people.