Chapter Text
The nighttime air is hot and sticky, humming with the buzz of insects tempted by too-bright lights of a gas station shop. They crash into the ultraviolet lamp hanging above the half-open door, falling to the ground like specks of dust. The night shift is slow as always, time dragging endlessly like the storm clouds in the distance, looming above the flat line of the horizon.
Joey twirls a strand of greasy hair around his index finger, wondering if he can put off washing it for another night, Shawn’s voice a muted noise in the periphery of his thoughts. Shawn’s rambling, as always, about another project of his, this time something involving clown masks and baseball bats, something he will inevitably put too much heart and effort into while anticipating yet another rejection letter from another art school he applied to. He smells like weed and turpentine, and it’s somehow comforting, making Joey feel oddly nostalgic.
“C’mon, Joey, Shawn said he’ll pay you thirty bucks to do it!” the screeching timbre of Sid’s voice breaks the relative peacefulness of the night as he punches Joey in the arm, swaying where he’s sat on the counter.
“Do what?” Joey asks, not because he’s interested in any of Shawn’s business propositions, but only because Sid never takes being ignored for an answer.
“Go check out that old farmhouse, you know, down the dirt road behind the truck stop, you know the one. Take a few photos. Make ‘em look all haunted and shit.”
“And why the fuck would you need me to do that?” Joey turns towards Shawn, suddenly suspicious. As much as he loves his friends, their penchant for getting into all sorts of bullshit and dragging him along for the ride necessitates caution.
“Should have listened when I was talking,” Shawn huffs, almost offended, like his art shit has God given right to hijack any conversation. “Need to scope out locations for a photoshoot. Some assholes who think they’re the next fucking Nirvana want pics for their MySpace, and it’s my fucking job to make sure they’re grunge enough. Like grunge is still a thing. They’re loaded suburban brats though, so they’re paying a hundred for a day-long shoot. One third of which will be yours if you save me the trouble of having to go see if that place is any good.”
Joey takes a second to consider the offer. Sid’s feet thud-thud-thud against the counter, not helping. Shawn crosses his arms in front of his chest and fixes them both with a stern look, clearly expecting Joey to agree to his bullshit and Sid to behave.
“I want fifty.”
“You’re a greedy little shit, Jordison. This glorious weekend vocation doesn’t pay well enough?” Shawn gestures across the expanse of the almost-always-empty shop.
Joey doesn’t answer, choosing to shoot Shawn the best death glare he can muster given the fact that the combination of his hideous white-and-green uniform shirt and the red in his hair makes him look like the world’s grouchiest Christmas elf.
“Thirty bucks is good pay for two hours’ work,” Shawn reasons. “Sure is a lot more than what they give you here.”
“Forty. Forty and I’ll get you as many photos as you want,” Joey tries to haggle, but Shawn doesn’t look too impressed, suggesting that maybe a different strategy is needed. Attempting to make his voice sound as small as possible, Joey tries again, not really ashamed to use pity to get what he wants.
“You know what they say about that house, Shawn. Don’t wanna get jumped by some hobo crackhead for thirty bucks.”
Shawn’s observation of “But you’re fine doing it for forty?” falls flat when Sid suddenly stops his thumping and rocking and general twitching.
“It’s not fucking crackheads. Something lives in that house. Something dangerous.” Joey can’t recall the last time Sid sounded that serious.
Shawn doesn’t even merit the observation with a laugh.
“Fuck off, Sid. Some dude died there way back in the 70s and now everyone has some fucking ghost story about the place. It’s just an old house, nothing more,” Shawn explains, like he’s dealing with a particularly difficult five-year-old.
“Not fucking true,” Sid mutters, knowing Shawn won’t let him have this one. “There’s something about that place, I’m telling you. Something weird.”
“Something weird my ass. Probably a bunch of squatters who, as Joey here mentioned, might or might not be on crack. Which is why Joey is getting paid thirty bucks. For crack-related risks.”
Sid doesn’t look convinced at all. The argument’s going nowhere, and Joey really doesn’t care if the house is occasionally illegally occupied or not. “I’ll do it for forty.”
“Why even bother with the bargaining?” Apparently now is Shawn’s turn to attempt a different approach. Ridicule it is. “In need of urgent cash for more hair dye and tacky Hot Topic shit?” he inquires as he leans forward across the counter, pulling at one of the many bracelets covering Joey’s arms almost up to the elbows. The elastic snaps, hot pink skull-shaped beads smacking against skin. Joey doesn’t flinch.
“No, I’m fine for tacky shit, thank you” Joey answers, deciding not to fall for Shawn’s teasing. “I have plans. Want to do something nice for someone,” he adds, quietly, because they’re his friends and he really needs the money.
“Someone? It’s Mick, isn’t it?” Sid lays down on his stomach, stretching across the counter and getting way up close into Joey’s personal space. He props his head up on his hands and gives Joey his widest smile, the one that shows off all his cavities, like he’s a preteen girl who knows a secret about someone's crush. Shawn looks on like he's everyone’s disappointed father.
“You two really need to get over the fact that literally the whole school knows that Joey has been getting down and dirty with big Mick,” he states matter-of-factly, making Joey blush.
“Fuck off, Shawn. It’s not just down and dirty,” Joey cringes as he pronounces the words. “It’s-… it’s a thing. A couple kind of thing. Boyfriends, I guess.”
Shawn sticks his fingers into his mouth and makes a very convincing gagging noise. Sid smiles even wider, so wide Joey can almost see his fucked up wisdom tooth. They won’t let him get away without elaborating.
“Wanna do something nice for Mick before he leaves for college. Won’t get to see him much for a year, so I though, y’know, might do something. Something nice.”
“Chicago isn’t that fucking far away, not like you can’t drive up every other weekend,” Shawn leans on the counter so that he’s closer to eye-level with Joey. He seems done with the conversation, like he should have just asked Sid to go get him the goddamn photos.
“Don’t want people to think he’s weird. Dating someone who’s still in school.”
“For fuck’s sake, he’s a year older than you, it’s not that big of a deal. And besides, it’s Mick we’re talking about. Bold of you to assume that people won’t think he’s a weirdo just because you’re not in the picture anymore.”
“So, what’s the nice thing you wanna do?” Sid interjects, cutting off Shawn before he gets too argumentative. He’s kicking his feet back and forth again, expression oddly serene, like he’s some sort of fucked up Cupid who actually gives a shit about Joey’s love life.
“Morbid Angel are playing a show in Des Moines in three weeks. Tickets are expensive, and I want us to stay somewhere nicer than a motel.”
“Going all out for your oversized sweetheart, I see. The joys of young love,” Shawn remarks, a smile back on his face, one that would be mocking if there wasn’t an edge of fondness to it.
A minute passes in silence, interrupted only by the sound of Sid slurping on a mostly-melted slushie.
“Fine, I’ll give you thirty-five. If you go tomorrow.”
“Forty. Now fuck off, someone’s just pulled up. Can’t afford to get told off for having you two scaring customers again.”
Cornfields drag for miles and miles along the dirt road, their quiet rustle barely audible beneath the sound of Joey’s car radio. The day is sunny, not a single cloud hanging above the horizon, and he’s content. Morbid Angel still hasn’t sold out the Des Moines show, and if he’s still got money left from his weekend job savings maybe he’ll get new fishnets to wear with his knee-high boots and that plaid skirt Mick said looked cute on him.
The road ends in what could be considered a gravel driveway, if not for the fact that it had long been overtaken by grass and weeds, some of which blossom a light blue, swaying gently in the summer breeze. The building is an old, two-storey farmhouse, sitting abandoned in the middle of nowhere since its owners no doubt got fed up with the combination of boredom and hardship that constitutes country living in the Midwest. The white paint chips and peels off from exposure to wind and sunlight, revealing dark wood underneath, its freckles littering the ground in front of the dilapidated building almost like flower petals. Joey climbs up on to the porch, dry planks of the steps creaking beneath his feet. He takes one look back at his car, digs a disposable camera out of his backpack, and steps inside.
The interior of the house is cool compared to the stifling heat outside, scattered beams of sunlight falling through mostly boarded-up windows, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air. Floral wallpaper is peeling off the walls and there’s water stains on the ceiling, the sickly sweet scent of mildew filling the long hallway. Joey steps into the kitchen and then into the living room, snapping a few quick photos here and there. He’s not too bothered about artistic angles or anything like that – Shawn will have to make do with what he’s given.
For all the talk there is about the house, Joey feels far from frightened. The stained overstuffed sofas and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, dirty doilies and stacks of dusty magazines fill him with a sense of nostalgia, the interior oddly reminiscent of his grandmother’s house. All that’s missing is heirloom china to fill the heavy wooden cabinets, and a scent of mothballs and pot roast to replace the persistent smell of rot. He can picture people living here, kids like his younger self coming to visit their grandparents out in the countryside, spending days helping out with the harvest and the evenings watching game shows on a boxy 80s TV which now stands gutted in the middle of the living room.
The other rooms of the house are similarly uneventful and vaguely sad, a picture of a life left to rot in the middle of fucking nowhere. Joey spots a hypodermic needle and a few empty dime bags near a dirty mattress upstairs, but the thick layer of dust covering them betrays the fact that they’re far from recent. He takes a picture of broken perfume bottles assembled in a line atop a dresser with half its drawers missing, and a rust-stained clawfoot bathtub where a bird attempted to make a nest. A few shots across the landing and out the windows, down the stairs and once again into the living room, and he’s ready to head back.
As he makes his way outside, he notices a door across the kitchen. It opens to a set of stairs leading into a basement. He hasn’t brought a flashlight, so he descends slowly, the room nearly pitch black.
His eyes take a while to get used to the darkness, but he slowly begins to make out shapes of mismatched furniture and shelves stacked with decades-old tins and jars. He makes his way further into the room, feeling almost like he’s in a museum, the smell of old, unwashed clothing and rotting wood permeating the complete silence. There’s stacks of board games and VHS tapes, scratchy blankets and Christmas decorations, all preserved in soundless stillness.
And then, there’s a sound.
A faint scritch-scritch-scritch coming from behind him. It’s rhythmic. Insistent. Holding his breath, Joey turns around as slowly as possible.
It’s nails. Cracked, dirty nails dragging across the floor. Their owner - he – it – is crouched in a corner, on all fours, completely still aside from the minute movement of its fingers. It observes Joey with milky blue eyes surrounded by blackened skin. Like it knew he was inside the house all along, that he would eventually come down here. The rest of its face is bone-white, a single scar running from where its eyebrow should be up towards the forehead. Its hair, twisted into a few sparse dreadlocks, sways gently as it crawls forward, dirty feet dragging across the floor.
It’s human and it’s not, the correct shape and size with all the details just the worst side of off. The thick skin of its face doesn’t betray any emotion as it slowly moves forward, not blinking once. Joey’s not sure if it even has eyelids. A thick line of drool dangles from its lips, falling to the dirty floor.
Joey tries to calm his racing heartbeat, forcing himself not to make any sudden moves. He lifts his hands, attempting to show that he means no harm, as he takes a step backward. His goddamn bracelets make a noise, the tiny skulls jingling against each other. The creature stills in its movement, its eyes instantly drawn to the motion of the beads, and that’s when Joey notices the rings. Big, gaudy, silver-and-fake-gemstone rings, like the ones he sometimes finds in thrift stores, but covered in a layer of black patina, one ring on each dirty finger.
Joey shakes his arm slightly. The bracelets jingle-jangle. The creature tilts its head to the side, like a curious animal. Joey forces a smile.
“Do you like these?” he asks, stretching out his arm, showing off his jewelry. “Here,” he says as he unties a string of black and red beads from his wrist, “take it. It’s yours.” The creature doesn’t react, its eyes still trained on Joey’s wrist. On the tiny hot pink skulls on an elastic band. A gift from Mick, a shy and simple one when they were just getting to know each other. His ticket out of the den of whatever it is that calls this house a home.
Joey crouches down until they’re on eye-level, rolls the bracelet off his hand, and pushes it across the floor.
The creature lifts it up with both hands, oddly gentle, and examines it thoroughly. Its rolls the beads between its blackened fingers, time standing still as bits of cheap plastic move back and forth, back and forth. It doesn’t notice when Joey picks up his camera and turns the wheel which rolls the film forward.
A single burst of camera flash illuminates the basement. The creature startles, clutching the bracelet in its hand as it scampers away into the darkness. Joey skins his knees when he falls running up the basements stairs, back towards the light.