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Of course, it is when you move into your new house that everything starts to go wrong. For starters, the entire thing has been built backwards—front facing South; entrance-ways and lounge-windows exposed for the southerlies to beat and batter. Two stories and a basement, but somehow the four flights of stairs feel like ten, and the basement sprawls like catacombs underneath.
Perhaps you should’ve thought before you bought.
But, in a desperate attempt to escape the city, here you were, and the lady had done a wonderful job of selling the place to you. Besides, nothing could be worse than the city, with its disappearing people and its not-people and what crept on the edges of your conscious. You best friend there was your car. It still is. New town, new people. New problems, hopefully.
It's night by the time you arrive, and all you have the energy to do is flop onto your bed. The boxes can wait until morning.
.
You awake to a drip. Just a bung tap, you think, no need to worry. But the air’s too thick to be water, bitter, the taste of metal on your tongue.
You knew how this ends. It’s your dog.
But you don’t own a dog.
Bloody fingers drag across your palm.
You’ll be fine until you reach the bathroom. You flip on the lamp.
You are there before yourself, impaled to the wall, sceptre through chest, limbs spread like an insect’s, knives through each one.
Blood drips down.
Tink, tink, tink.
Wham! Your head bangs the floor. You’ve jolted off your bed. You’re half tempted to smash your head there again; wake yourself from this nightmare. The wall. Oh god, you’re—
—nothing. Not even the stench of blood remains.
You check it again, flip the lights on and off, check it once more.
Nothing.
Moist lingers on your palm.
.
You’re running out of coffee.You don’t even like the drink, but if your dreams are going to be like that, well... Significant precautions must be undertaken.
You go for a drive. You need it. The road is clear, and your head is foggy. Or maybe it's the other way around—mist seeping in through the dashboard. But that's not how cars work. You should ignore it. Instead, you turn on the defogger.
"Hey!"
A man reminiscent of Johnny from The Room calls our to you. Mattered hair, black clothes, and an unidentifiable glint in his eye. Bad acting, or incomprehensible emotion, you don't know. He tries to speak to you; you roll down the window.
“Your tire doesn’t have any bolts,” he says. “That one.”
Somehow, this stranger is the only thing that feels real. Not even your car does.
“Shit. I’m glad you stopped me before it rolled off.”
“There's problem. Do you have any spare bolts?"
“No—awh fuck.”
“They’re four-lug wheels, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re left with four bolts on three wheels. That’s twelve bolts. Why don’t you take a bolt from each of the wheels, and put it on the one without—then you’ll have three bolts on four wheels. It’ll be fine until you get to an autoshop."
The stranger is smart. You hop out and change the bolts. He watches you; you catch him out of the corner of your eye.
“Thank you, sir. Is there anything I can do—"
“Just being able to see me is enough.”
In your rear-view mirror, he vanishes into the night.
Click clack slide chases you home.
.
You almost forget to call the mechanic. But when you go to check your tires, it’s like nothing ever happened. The four bolts sitting squat in each tire mock you. Sixteen bolts, you count.
“You sure,” the mechanic asks.
You count again. Sixteen. And four more with your spare tire. Twenty. That makes twenty. It doesn't make sense.
“Sorry to bother you.”
.
The next day passes without incident. You down about five cups of coffee in the morning, and leave the place as illuminated as possible. You have boxes to unpack, carrying what few reminders of the city you brought with you.
After you've unpacked, you go for a drive. Your car feels more like a home than your house does, but the spare tire is strapped to your passenger seat, the bolts in your glove-box. Reassurance. That's all it is.
It's late, when you get home, and you shove your car-keys on the hook. You go to brush your teeth, but the “you” in the mirror raises the wrong hand. Instead of being reflected, it’s like they’re standing opposite you.
Bloody Mary.
You don’t speak it, but it’s whispered all the same.
Your toothbrush clatters to the floor, but still their hand is outstretched. Their face turns blue, like they’re being strangled, and you can’t breathe. Their hand presses up against the surface of the mirror, testing it, before plunging straight through.
You’re frozen to the spot. You can’t breathe. Their hands near your face.
Someone sighs.
“Are all mortals really this useless?”
A figure stabs the apparition. It writhes and disappears.
“Hey now, you’re alright,” the figure stranger monster man reassures you.
He had just killed “you.”
You pick up the nearest object—a chair—and hurl it at the mirror. It shatters; the room shatters, and you’re barely out the door before it all comes crashing down.
A dream.
Another dream.
Another fucking dream.
Your palm is bloody from shattered glass. The same one that was moist.
You find yourself back in your car. The world is imploding; nobody notices, and—
“Hello, mortal.”
There is a man in the back of your car. He wasn’t there before, but you can see him outlined in the rear-view mirror.
The man from earlier. The stranger on the side on the road. The figure in your mirror.
“What do you want?” Your voice is quiet, broken, accusatory. It is hard to find the strength to speak.
“You think you’re going crazy. You’re not. You need me. I can help you. Let me help you.” His voice is almost imploring.
You recoil.
“Get the hell out of my car.” You gain volume, but not traction.
“Look, I know this must poleax you, but this is the only way you’ll listen to me.”
You swerve right sharply, suddenly, and the ghost is thrown against the window. Before he can hit it, he vanishes.
This is not worse than the city, you tell yourself. This is nothing.
But it’s not.
.
You like the people of your new town. Sure, the shops that pepper the town run along the lines of “Sorcery Supplies,” and “Maximoff’s Majik Mastery,” lest you forget the good 'ol "Magick Shoppe,” but they don’t try to talk to you. In fact, you mind your own business; they mind theirs. It’s a nice trade-off. Quiet. Just the way you like it.
Apart from this one guy. He seeks you out amongst the few patrons of the cafe, lights up when he sees you. Something crackles around him, shifting, sizzling, settling into a hammer upon his back. You see double, and the hammer is also an umbrella.
“I am Thor,” he says.
“What do you want?”
“My brother is tied between worlds. Your house is the binding point. You may have noticed—”
“How do you know where I live? Who is your brother?”
“You may have noticed strange, or unnatural things.” He checks a piece of paper. “While I no longer hold animosity towards him, and am impartial to his schemes, this realm is already lacking in Sensitives, and it would be a shame to see one fall to his hands. He has already caused enough damage as-is. If you need help, call and ask for Strange."
“Who are you—”
But the man is gone, flying away by his Hammer-brella like some sort of buff Mary Poppins. A buisness card rests in your pocket: 177A Bleecker St.
You don’t want to go home. You know he’ll be there.
.
The ghost is sitting on your table. Smug bastard.
“You look contemplative,” he muses. He rises to his feet, spreading his hands in grandiose. “What crosses your mere mortal mind?”
So he’s feeling ostentatious today. You’ll blunt it.
“I met your brother.”
“Oh, really?” A quirk of his brow. “And what did he tell you?
“He said he no longer hates you, and that he’s indifferent to your schemes. He said that this realm is already lacking in Sensitives, and it would be a shame to see one fall to your hands.”
The ghost mulls it over, taking an inside meaning from the words.
Then he smiles, and it’s the smile a wolf would give to frightened prey.Corned prey; helpless.
“You are my retribution.”
“No,” you breathe, because the last thing you want is to have anything more to do with this man.
“Yes.” He advances. “You’re a Sensitive—no, more than that—my Sensitive, and I will teach you magic beyond your wildest dreams.”
“I’ll leave. I’ll go and never look back. You can't keep me here."
But I can, is unspoken on his tongue.
“To where? The city from where you fled? Plagued by nightmares, no, stuck in your car, you’ll live on the streets. Will you ever escape your fear?” He presses his forehead against yours, eyes boring into your soul. “No—nothing lasts forever.”
“Let me go—!”
“I am not the one who’s been torturing you." He articulates each word, like you can't understand him. You don't, not really—half of what he's saying is going over your head and the other makes too much sense. "Those are the visions of the untapped magic of the Sensitive. It will consume you—do you not notice the bruises and scrapes?” He draws back a little, fingers cupping your face. “I can help you. Let me help you.”
“You’re only doing this to alleviate your sentence.”
“Please.” He doesn't seem like someone who would easily plead.
Would it really be that bad, to be at the mercy of your ghost? He cites you his retribution; would that keep him from harming you? Does he care at all, or are you just a pawn in his renascence?
“Will it get better?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll try.”
“Smart mortal.” His smile shifts into something fonder. A quirk of the lips. A smirk if you squint. “You won’t regret this.”
You hope you won’t.