Page 20 of The Road to Ruined

I superficially agree before disconnecting the call.

Then, I go downstairs, make some popcorn, and start streaming The Omen movies just as the sky darkens and the ever-rare SoCal summer rainstorm rolls in. It's exactly the kind of day I used to enjoy…back when I enjoyed things.

It's been a while since I've been alone in an old house like this…in the dark, at night. That's all it is. That, and I'm losing my mind.

Every creak, every phantom footstep has my hair standing on end. For the tenth time, I pause the television and scan the first floor.

Get your shit together, Teagan.I'm pretty sure there's a word for what's happening to me, and it's not one I want to say aloud.

I go to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and…grab a butcher knife from the counter. Just in case.

When I sink back into the couch and press play, I see it: a glint of gold, a sliver of a mask, a mostly obscured figure standing in the dark hallway. A chill runs up my spine as I turn in that direction. But there's nothing.

Frustrated, I push play again. And again, I hear footsteps coming from that back hallway. I grab the remote and turn up the volume, refusing to look again. But then the scene on the screen shifts from day to night, and there it is—the mask reflecting off the lower left corner. It's almost like the hallucination sees me see it, too, because as I watch, he cocks his head to the side, slowly emerging from behind the doorframe.

I squeeze my eyes shut and will him away just like I did at Rancho San Flores. It always worked, but it doesn't this time.

Seething, I grab the knife and stomp toward the hallway. "You want something, mother fucker? Bring any kiwi this time?"

But when I turn the corner, no one is there. I tear apart that back hallway, flipping on all the lights, throwing back the shower curtain in the bathroom and even turning out the drawers in the guest room, as if there could be an actual human in there. The windows are all locked, which can only be done from the inside. No one slipped through them.

No one is here.

"Fuck!" I scream. I stab the guest room pillow over and over, sending feathers flying through the air. In my mind, I'm in a bathroom in Dallas, and it isn't feathers—it's blood splattering against my face, and I want more. More blood pooling on and around the body. More heat pooling between my legs.

I sink onto the floor beside the bed, drop my head in my hands, and scream again. "Fuck you! Fuck you, Declan De Rossi! Fuck you for breaking my fucking brain."

I stay like that for a while before I realize I'll need to clean this up and get rid of the evidence. I grab the vacuum and suck up allthe feathers, and then dump its contents and the remains of the pillow into the garbage can at the end of the driveway.

And when I get back into the house, there it is again: half of a gold skull face watching me from that darkened hallway.

"Why don't you just come out here and watch the movie?" I ask the delusion. "I'm getting bored with this now."

When he doesn't budge and refuses to dissipate, I turn my attention back to the television, choosing to ignore it. But every time the screen darkens between scenes, I see that mask in the reflection.

This shit's getting old.

I check the time and then open a dating website on my phone, surprised I still remember my password. And twenty minutes later, I've got some guy on the way to my parents' house. It's against the rules, but I only have these hallucinations when I'm alone, and it's not like I have a friend I can call. Besides, I'm drunk and horny and technically, my therapist only advised me againstanonymoussex.

My first name is on the profile. I don't see the issue.

I waste no time once Max, 25, a surfer-looking guy from Huntington Beach gets to the door. I mean, what am I going to do? Tell him about myself?

I don't fucking think so.

I pull him into the dark room by the waistband of his jeans and guide him over to the sofa. I climb on top of him, straddling his waist, and bring my mouth to his. He's overeager, messy. There's too much tongue and saliva, but his chest is hard and so is his cock, and it's been far too long since I've rode one, too long since I've felt someone else's hands on my body. I roll my hips over the hard ridge beneath me and shudder with pleasure.

Yeah, it's been too long.

Max grabs the hemline of my shirt, and, after he pulls it over my head, my eyes dart to the darkened television screen. Nomask in its reflection, no silhouette of a man partially obscured in the hallway.

It worked.

I shrug off my bra and free his cock from his jeans. He's already leaking precum when I pump it in my hands. Tossing my hair over my shoulders, I prepare to take him in my mouth.

"Holy shit," he says, grabbing me by my shoulder to stop me.

"What?"

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