Page 25 of Come Out, Come Out

The man in my house cries out throwing his hands up to protect his eyes. I’m impressed with the spraying distance and effectiveness of this little thing;five stars. He falls to the ground and I take the opportunity to stomp on his groin several times. I spray a shit ton of the mace in his face again for good measure.

“Wait, stop, I’m your landlord,” the man says between shuddering breaths.

My foot freezes midair as I process those words. “What the fuck? What are you doing here?” I take a step back. “Wait, how do I know you’re not lying?” I study his face, trying to recall the features of the man I’ve only seen in online pictures of on the rental website.

“My ID is in my pocket.” His voice is shrill with pain.

Reluctantly, I reach into his shorts pocket and grab his wallet. When I take out the ID the name Mike Randolphe is right there next to his picture. The name matches the signature on the lease. “Again, why the fuck are you here?”

“I wanted to see if everything was to your liking since you’d only seen it through the virtual tour before.” He hasn’t even tried to get off the ground.

“And you just decided to let yourself in?” I don’t give him a chance to respond. “Why would you hide in the hallway then?” When he attempts to lean up on his elbows, I hold the mace up. He slumps back down to the floor.

“I …” he draws the word out, raising my suspicions, “used to just walk in with the old tenant, I didn’t really think about it. Then I tripped on the box and didn’t want to scare you.”

“Yeah, because lurking in the hallway in the dark isn’t scary. I’m calling bullshit.” I pull out my phone and press record. When his mouth pops open, I raise a brow and shake the little canister in my hand. “It was dark in here, so why would you come into a house when it looked empty?”

I look him over again, looking for any clue that he might be here for something practical. But there aren’t any tools sticking out his pockets and there isn’t mail or paperwork scattered on the ground. To my utter horror, what I do finally notice is that his pants are unzipped.

Disgust overrides fear.How did I actually end up with a creepy ass landlord?That cam fantasy I’d conjured up before is feeling a little too real and way less sexy than I’d imagined. “You know what I think?” I squat down, mace still extended. “I think that you’re a sick fuck who likes to watch your tenants without their knowledge. Thought you’d crank one out while I was sleeping?” I tilt my head, waiting for whatever lies are about to come out of his mouth.

He shakes his head back and forth, mouth gaping uselessly like a dying fish, so I raise my foot like I’m going to kick him again.

“Shit, okay, look, I’m sorry. What do I have to do for us to pretend like this never happened? Free rent for a month?” His red, tear-stained face is tight with worry.

I laugh at his audacity. “A free month of rent? You have got to be kidding me. I’m not fucking staying here.”

“You signed a lease,” he protests.

“A lease that you’re going to nullify with zero complaints.”

“Come on—”

I cut him off; there’s no fucking way I’m living here. “You’re going to nullify the lease and you’re going to pay for my movers to get me out of here.” I stand. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

I back up to put some space between us as he picks himself off the floor.

“Can’t we work something out?” The desperation in his voice only disgusts me more.

“We already did. If you don’t do what I asked, I will make sure everyone knows what a sad, pathetic pervert you are.”

He looks like he wants to strangle me, but instead, he turns to leave.

“And Mike,” I wait for him to look over his shoulder, “You’re not going to rent this house to any single people again. I will be keeping tabs on this place.”

“Fucking bitch,” he mumbles under his breath. I choose to ignore it because I have far bigger things to worry about, like what I’m supposed to do now.

As soon as he’s out the door, I lock it behind him. Poor Binx slinks out from under the couch, wide-eyed and crouched down. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe now.” I stroke his silky fur; the soothing motion is just as much for me as it is for him. I swear, I can’t catch a damn break. When Binx pushes against my chest to jump down, I let him go and walk back to my room to grab my computer. For a moment, I consider staying back here, but I want to make sure that asshole doesn’t come back.

Once my computer fires up, I bring back up the listings I’d previously viewed. Of course, nothing is available anymore, that’s California rentals for you. With a heavy sigh, I go back to the search and add all my filters. Surprisingly, the old house pops up on the first page of listings. Even more shocking is the sense of fondness that washes over me when I look at the photos of the worn exterior and antique interior. Looking at the exterior shots, I squint to see if there’s any sign of spirits lingering in windows. It’s silly, but I’m a bit disappointed when I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.

I chew at my nails. This entire situation has really made the whole haunted house thing seem like a walk in the park. I would rather deal with a ghost than a living and breathing creep. The surreal conversation we scrawled across that steamy mirror comes to mind again. The ghost apologized. Maybe they really were just lonely. Maybe they were as desperate as I was for someone who could stand being around them. Indecision gnaws at my insides.

After several anxiety-ridden minutes of staring at my screen, I decide to add it to my love list and keep moving. I continue to scroll through the available listings, but there’s not much to choose from, especially in my price range. It was hard enough to find this place; most people aren’t moving during the busy holiday season. I could move farther, I guess, but this area has become my comfort zone. I know all the streets, I have my regular food places and the grocery store with the tolerable overhead lights, everything is just a few minutes apart. Moving somewhere else would totally disrupt my life. It takes me so long to adjust and I’m already struggling to meet the bare-minimum demands of my existence.

With only four plausible options—if you can call a haunted house that—I close my laptop and decide to sleep on it. I messaged the other three places. If they respond overnight, I’ll schedule a viewing.

I walk to the kitchen, double-check the slider lock, and then grab one of the short barstools I’d bought specifically to fit this house and wedge it under the front door. Once the windows are all closed and locked, I head back to my room. Even with the house all locked up, I find unease slithering under my skin. Everything in me is screaming at me to drown it out, but I know better than to drink or use anything tonight. Who knows if this fucking weirdo is going to try anything. So, instead, I sit with the discomfort, the fear, and the indecision. I don’t get any sleep, but I do knock out some projects I’ve been neglecting because of the moving process. At least that will help my bank account, which is majorly suffering.

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