Page 31 of Come Out, Come Out

A sob escapes my lips and I clamp a hand over them. The act is futile, he could be standing right here watching me fall apart. The potential humiliation is unbearable. I cover my face to at least guard that part of myself. I try to sort through the muddy puddle of shock, disgust, and betrayal, but sifting through the mess for any clarity is useless when my thoughts are flitting around like a disturbed hive of bees.

In an effort to collect myself, I stand. My fingers wrap tentatively around the doorknob. I take a few breaths then crack it open an inch. Pressing my face against the frame, I peer out with one eye, surveying the state of my room. Everything looks just as I left it. I crack the door another inch, flinching at the creaking hinges. When nothing happens, I open it the rest of the way and step into my room, then quickly cross the floor to shut my bedroom door and lock it. I know that a piece of wood isn’t going to keep him out, but the definitive separation of my space from the rest of the house brings me the smallest bit of comfort and I cling to it.

I’m not aware of the plans firing off in my mind, as my feet move to the computer on their own. I turn on my monitor and watch the cursor blink expectantly in the search bar then type in Aiden’s name and drop my fingers from the keys. It becomes glaringly clear how little I know about him. I add in the county name and finally “dead.” My pointer finger hovers ominously over the enter key; my muscles are frozen in indecision. Once I click this button, there’s no returning to the blissful ignorance of the fun I’ve been having. My teeth dig into my lip as I contemplate whether I’m ready to take on the weight of the truth of the disappointment of a fruitless search. My eyes find the welcoming sight of my bed piled high with pillows and my sleeping cat. It would be so easy to drink until I can’t think straight then pull my covers over my head.

With a twitch, I press enter.

My eyes widen as the search results populate.

Local Aiden Murphy dead at twenty-eight after slaying several people in their home.

Aiden Murphy killer stabbed by one of his victims. Both dead on the scene.

SCHS community rocked by the gruesome murder of beloved alumni football stars.

I struggle to swallow against the dryness of my throat. I’d never heard about any of this. I guess it shouldn’t be surprising, people die all the time where I’m from, and without watching the news you’d never know. With a shaking hand, I drag the mouse over to the first link and click. A news article swimming with pop-up ads assaults my eyes, though I still try to focus on the text.

On Friday, December 13th, 2019, local Aiden Murphy was pronounced dead at the scene after stabbing several young men in their home. After further investigation, the police found the link between the killer and his victims. Murphy and one of the deceased, Nate Peters, were found to have a long history, dating as far back as childhood. The two were known to have their disagreements through high school, a classic case of outsider versus the quarterback, but they seemed to have reconciled in recent years, being spotted at the same parties without issue. A source close to the victim reports that she’d seen them in friendly conversation several times. No one is sure what the catalyst was for the attack.

Nestled within the text is a full-color image of Aiden. My Aiden. Beneath that is a picture of the house I currently live in in all its charmingly disheveled glory, down to the Adirondack chairs and peeling shutters.

I lean back, trying to process what I just read.Aiden is a murderer? The ghost might really be Aiden? If that’s true, I’ve not only been fucking a ghost, I’ve been fucking a killer?I lurch out of my seat and throw the toilet lid open just in time to vomit into the bowl. Empty heaving pulses through my body until it finally accepts that there’s nothing else coming up. I flush and brush my teeth, my body sagging against the gravity that threatens to pull me to the ground. My stumbling heartbeat is painful as I shuffle back to my room. I stop several feet shy of my computer, staring into the glowing screen as I debate whether I can handle learning more right now. My churning stomach makes the decision for me.

With unsteady hands, I pull back the covers on my bed and slide beneath them. Absentmindedly, I stroke a bewildered Binx’s head as I pull apart each piece of information I read in the article. But there’s no question, the man in the image was the same man I found sitting in my kitchen uninvited, the same man I let fuck me, the same man I trusted not to hurt me.

The only question now is if the asshole spirit in my house is actually Aiden or if he’s lying. I don’t know if I’m ready for the answer.

Skye

April 30th, 2021 – One and a Half Months Later

Between the falling out with my ghost . . . friend . . . and the information I’d learned about Aiden, it’s been too much. The last month and a half has been a blur of so many days shutting the world out in my bed and a haze of liquor and weed and blow that’s rivaled even my hardest nights of partying. I had to let myself fully shut down. Shit had gotten way too real way too quickly. Thank God I’m my own boss, or I definitely would have been fired by now.

Even Ava, who I rarely hear from, stopped by out of concern based on the text response I sent her that apparently had her mother-bear senses tingling. I let her bring me food and help me clean up a bit, but it’d all gone back to shit within a few days.

The truth was, no matter how hard I tried to put it out of my mind. Ever since I read those news articles, I can barely think of anything else unless I’m gone out of my mind. I’m falling behind on work, I can’t finish a book to save my life, and I can’t even escape the need for an answer when I sleep. All my subconscious thinks about is Aiden, too. The nightmares I was having at first were terrifying, with him covered in blood and faceless dead bodies on the floor, and an ominous ghostly presence following him around. But that nightmare version of him, that’s not the Aiden I know. That’s the version of him I get in my dreams now; the one who sees straight into my soul with that haunting blue gaze. Last night, I dreamed that he was trapped inside the house while it was burning down and I was trying desperately to let him out. I woke up and my face was covered in tears. That was my final push to go after the answers I so clearly needed. I just want to know who he really was.

I tell myself it’s for safety reasons, that if he and the ghost are one and the same, I should know who I’m living with. The more honest part of me knows that my hesitation is due to the inexplicable attachment I feel to him. Any rational person would simply have a ghost–especially one who was most likely the spirit of a homicidal man–cleared out by a professional immediately.

Instead of reading more articles that were likely going to sensationalize all the details, I decide to go straight to the source. It’s scary how easy it is to find someone’s home address. A quick search for Aiden Murphy provides an address just a few miles up the freeway. A more recent one comes up in New York, but hopefully his parents still own the local house. Guess I’ll just have to go over there and find out.

The lump in my throat is hard to breathe around as I walk up the steps of the little green house and knock. Every muscle in my body is tense and ready to run away as soon as they don’t open the door, but just as I’m about to leave, a woman with Aiden’s dark hair and stormy eyes opens the door. There’s no going back now.

“Can I help you?” Aiden’s mother asks kindly. Her voice is light, but I see the deep sorrow set in the dark bags under her eyes and the hollow of her cheeks.

I clear my throat. “Yes, umm . . . I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was friends with your son before he passed. I’m visiting the area on a work trip, and I was hoping I could speak to you about him.”

Her brow furrows and her lips tremble, but she regains composure quickly. “Ah, yes, you must be someone he met in New York. What’s your name?”

“Skye,” I answer, holding her gaze, trying to assure her that she can trust me.

“Hello, Skye, I’m Erin. Please, come in.” She opens the door and steps aside. “Take a seat on the couch. I’ll be right there.”

When she rounds the corner to what I assume is the kitchen, I step closer to the gallery of family photos on the wall. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to look at these every day. One of the oldest photos shows what I assume is Aiden’s sister tackling him to the ground, birthday hats askew. Frosting covers both their smiling faces; it’s obvious they’re twins, barely indistinguishable at that age, except for her slightly softer features and the party dress she wears juxtaposed by his jeans and tee. Some things never change, I suppose.

The clink of glass catches my attention and I quickly seat myself on the couch just before she re-enters the room.

“I hope you like lemonade.” Aiden’s mother extends a glass toward me with a frail, shaking hand, and I take it appreciatively.

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