Page 7 of Come Out, Come Out

The door bouncing against the wall frays my nerves as I want for . . . something. “Hello?” I call out in a trembling voice before I can think about how bad of an idea that is. It’s such a naive-girl-in-a-horror-movie mistake. God dammit. I’ve watched all the classics; I always thought I’d be a final girl. Guess I was wrong.

I sit up silently, putting my clothes back on quickly. My eyes search everywhere for some kind of weapon. I grab the sheers I recently used on my DIY haircut from my vanity. These will do. My cat, Binx, meows his dissent as I prepare to leave the room, but he remains crouched down on his haunches and staring at me with wide, green eyes.

A deep breath rattles my chest as I work up the courage to peek around the corner of my open door. When I see there’s no one immediately outside I creep forward to try to see over the bannister to the living room. Nothing. Maybe it was just the wind that blew the door open. If someone broke in, wouldn’t they have gone directly to where the music was blaring from? If the ghost wanted my attention, wouldn’t it have done more?

Seconds pass as I hold my breath and strain my ears, waiting for any sound to confirm or deny whether someone is here.

I can’t sit up here and ignore the fact that best case scenario, my front door is inviting any weirdo to walk in, or worst case scenario, a potential murderer is lurking around my house waiting to kill me. My pussy wakes up a bit at the first idea and I scold myself. What the fuck is wrong with me? A lot honestly but that’s nothing new. Coming from a family where nobody wants to talk about emotions unless it’s an outburst of explosive anger, I learned to keep everything locked up inside, apparently that really fucks a person up. And when that emotional repression makes you lose your interest in opening up to or investing in other people? Well then, you’re really done for. I’ve gone through several therapists who can confirm that I’m a difficult case who continues to get in my own way. Honestly, I’m just fucking tired.

I refocus and start down the staircase, careful to avoid the two stairs after the first landing that groan whenever I step on them. The door is wide open and the wind is whistling through the trees. It bounces off the wall as I stare into the darkness that is the woods outside the house. I do a quick sweep of the porch then come back in, slamming and locking it behind me.

I let out a laugh at my own expense. I should really stop watching scary movies, but I won’t – no way I could give up my regular rewatches of the Ring and Midsommar. My heart is pounding like it might actually claw its way through my chest. Cold sweat coats my skin uncomfortably. I need a damn drink.

I walk back through the living room towards the kitchen, but as I step onto the freezing tile floor, my stomach drops and true fear spikes through me. The hottest guy I’ve ever seen is sitting at my kitchen table drinking straight from the bottle of dark rum I’d left out. My eyes travel over his tattooed arms on display, thanks to his sleeveless black tee, that has a bleeding hand covered in thorns holding a rose on fire in the center. On one arm, fluid ink creates a marbled effect that reminds me of an oil spill. The dark ink is a striking contrast to his pale skin. On the bicep of his other arm sits a pair of open lips with protruding fangs over a long tongue winding out, bleeding into long drips down his forearm, forming the word ‘ART’ on his wrist. The drips flow down onto the back of his hand to an eye in the center of an intricate spider web. I continue my exploration, briefly landing on the one that says ‘GONER’ on his throat, then the thin hoop that accents his otherwise symmetrical nose, and finally I find his gorgeous blue-grey eyes framed by messy brown hair drinking me in with equal parts desire and something that looks like shock. As if he isn’t the one who broke intomyhouse? I’m both startled and intrigued by his audacity.

There go those stellar self-preservation instincts.

He doesn’t move or say anything to me, he just sets the bottle on the table and rakes his eyes over me in a way that makes heat flush up my neck into my face. My mind is stumbling over itself, processing the fact that someone broke into my house and that this person is unbelievably fucking hot. When he leans forward and hangs his ring-laden hands between his legs like he belongs here, words finally find their way to my mouth.

“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?” I half-yell over the music that I forgot to turn off. On second thought, I pull the sheers back out of my sweatshirt pocket, pointing them in his direction.

He looks up at me through the unruly hair hanging in his face. “It sounded like a party, thought I’d crash it.” He shrugs like he didn’t break and enter into a single woman’s home in the middle of basically nowhere.

I take a step back when he sits up straight. “What are you even doing out this way? We’re, like, at least half a mile from the next house and there isn’t anything else around here. There’s literally no reason for someone to be in this area.”

The left side of his unfairly plump lips turn up, equal parts flirtation and danger. The seduction of his smile causes a chill to spread over my skin and my heart to start pumping faster. But it’s not fear, it’s so much worse.I want him.“I was out for a walk. It’s peaceful out here.”

“You really expect me to believe that? You’re just out here for a casual stroll. Give me a fucking break.”

The intruder picks up the shot glass I’d set out for myself and pours rum almost all the way to the rim. I shift on my feet momentarily. I can feel my anxiety creeping back in and I can’t have that.If he was going to kill me, he would have already done it, right?I weigh the pros and cons of having one shot — just to take the edge off.

I have a high tolerance, it’ll be fine. I reason.

I sigh and take a seat across from him, not dropping my sheers. This might be questionable but I’m not letting my guard down yet.

His blue eyes narrow on them and he has the gall to smirk. “Thinking about using those on me? I thought those were just for you?”

The question stumps me for a minute, and I quickly search the blades for blood from the last time I brought them across my ankle. Nothing. A weird thing someone could guess, unless he meant using them to stab me. Fear turns my stomach momentarily, but then Binx finally turns up, winding through my legs. He doesn’t react negatively to the stranger sitting at my table – he barely takes note of his presence at all – which slightly puts me at ease even though it probably shouldn’t. But animals can usually sense people who are going to harm you, right?

Our fingers touch briefly, his hands are a bit chilly and I feel the electricity of our clear mutual attraction zip through me. I try to ignore it. It’s one thing to take a shot with a stranger who broke into your house, it’s a whole other thing to fuck them. The spicy rum burns down my throat as it makes its way to my empty belly.

The intruder pours another, his intent eyes daring me to deny him. It’s then that I notice the dark navy polish on his nails.Hot.

My leg bounces under the table. I want to feel numb so badly. Losing myself in the all-encompassing feeling of someone’s body on mine is such an easy way to escape my thoughts, to disappear, even if it’s only for a little while. But I also don’t want to end up in chopped-up pieces beneath my floorboards. If I’m going to be taken out, I want it to be on my own terms.

His raspy voice breaks through my indecision. Somehow, it’s a balm on my nerves; there’s a familiarity to it. “Just drink it. Unless you want me to leave? I will if that’s what you want?”

My gut twists and my leg bounces faster. As much as I know I should tell him to get the fuck out and not come back, I find that I truly don’t want him to leave. How sad that I’m that lonely and desperate. Another reason to just take the fucking shot.

It tastes like bad decisions.

“You can stay for now. But if I say you have to leave, you leave. Got it?”

He holds his hands up in feigned innocence. “Of course, pretty girl.”

“Ew. Another rule, don’t fucking call me that.”

“God, I love that fucking mouth.” Tenderness softens his gaze.

---