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The blue light from Sematary's monitor cast harsh shadows across his already gaunt face, accentuating the dark circles under his half-lidded eyes. His bedroom was a disaster—empty energy drink cans, crumpled fast food wrappers, and dirty clothes littered every surface. The blackout curtains were drawn tight despite it being mid-afternoon, the room illuminated only by the glow of the screen and a single desk lamp with a bulb that occasionally flickered.
Ghost Mountain lay sprawled across Sematary's unmade bed, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. The mattress sat directly on the floor—Sematary had broken the bed frame months ago during one of his frustrated outbursts and never bothered to replace it. Ghost's lanky frame was comfortable enough though, used to the chaos that was his best friend's living space.
The rhythmic clicking of Sematary's mouse had been steadily increasing in tempo for the past ten minutes. Ghost noticed it subconsciously at first, the way the clicks became more aggressive, punctuated by the violent clacking of keyboard keys. Then came the muttering—unintelligible at first, but growing in volume.
"Fucking retards... don't know shit..." Sematary muttered under his breath, barely audible over the low hum of his computer fan.
Ghost Mountain sat up, his wavy brown hair falling slightly into his eyes. He brushed it aside, concern etching across his features. "Sem? You good over there?"
A grunt was the only response, followed by more aggressive typing. Sematary's greasy black fringe stuck to his forehead as he hunched forward, mouth slightly agape as he breathed heavily through it.
"Sem," Ghost tried again, his voice soft but firm. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. Fuck off," Sematary snapped, not bothering to turn around.
Ghost sighed, pushing himself off the bed and padding across the cluttered floor in his socked feet. He carefully navigated around a slightly tilted tower of horror DVDs and a half-empty box of pizza from three days ago.
When he reached Sematary's chair, he gently placed a hand on his friend's bony shoulder. Sematary flinched as if he'd been burned, his entire body jerking away from the touch. In a panicked flurry, his fingers flew across the keyboard, frantically closing whatever window he'd been staring at. Ghost caught a glimpse of a 4chan thread before it disappeared, replaced by a SoundCloud page.
"What the fuck, man?" Sematary snapped, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't sneak up on me like that." A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his pale skin.
Ghost didn't remove his hand, but his touch remained light. "Wasn't sneaking. You were just zoned out." He studied Sematary's face, noticing the flush creeping up his pale neck. "What were you looking at anyway?"
"Nothing. Just some beats." Sematary's buck teeth pulled at his lower lip. "SoundCloud shit."
Ghost nodded slowly, not believing him for a second but choosing not to push. "You seemed pretty mad at those beats."
Sematary's bright blue eyes darted nervously from the screen to Ghost's hand on his shoulder, then back again. His mouth hung slightly open, breaths coming in short bursts through his nose.
"Whatever," he mumbled, fidgeting in his chair. "Doesn't matter."
Ghost could tell it was a lie, or at least not the whole truth. Sematary was visibly flustered—a rare state for someone who prided himself on his hardened exterior.
"Hey," Ghost said quietly, giving Sematary's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You know you don't have to—"
Before he could finish, Ghost moved his hand from Sematary's shoulder, intending to touch his friend's hand. But Sematary jerked away, knocking his chair back and nearly colliding with Ghost. He stumbled slightly, his lanky frame awkward in the confined space. "Gonna grab a Bang." He stumbled over a pile of clothes, nearly losing his balance as he made for the door. "You want one?"
"I'm good," Ghost replied, watching as Sematary hurried out of the room without waiting for an answer.
Alone in the room, Ghost glanced at the computer. The browser history tab was tempting, but he respected Sematary's privacy too much to look. Instead, he returned to the bed, sitting on the edge this time, trying to make sense of Sematary's reaction.
Sematary returned five minutes later—longer than it should have taken to grab a drink from the kitchen—he'd clearly splashed water on his face; droplets still clung to his chin and hair. His face was still flushed, but he seemed more composed. He cracked open the Bang Energy can in his hands, the tab making a satisfying snap in the quiet room.
"You didn't touch my computer, did you?" Sematary demanded, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he took a long swig from the can.
"No," Ghost said simply. "Wouldn't do that."
Sematary seemed to deflate slightly, some of the tension leaving his rigid posture. "Sorry," he mumbled, the closest thing to an apology Ghost had heard from him in weeks.
"It's cool," Ghost replied, watching as Sematary settled back into his chair, careful not to meet his eyes.
"Working on a new track," he muttered, staring intently at the floor. "Don't want anyone to hear it yet. It's not—it's not ready."
Ghost nodded, knowing better than to push. "Anything I can help with?"
Sematary's eyes flickered up briefly before darting away again. "Maybe later. It's just... different. Trying something new."
An awkward silence settled between them. Ghost could almost see the wall Sematary was frantically trying to rebuild around himself—the barriers that occasionally slipped when they were alone together.
"Want to watch something?" Ghost offered, changing the subject. "That cult film you mentioned the other day—the one with the cursed VHS tape?"
Relief washed over Sematary's features, though he tried to hide it behind another long sip of his energy drink. "Yeah. Yeah, that would be cool."
As Ghost moved to set up the TV for their impromptu movie session, Sematary quickly closed all the tabs on his computer, shutting it down completely before joining Ghost on the bed. They sat with their backs against the wall, a careful few inches between them.
Halfway through the movie, Ghost noticed Sematary's breathing had finally slowed to normal, The earlier tension not forgotten but carefully set aside. Ghost watched Sematary carefully, noticing how his hands still trembled slightly, how he kept wiping his palms on his True Religion jeans.
Eventually, his friend's body gradually relaxed, the ever-present tension momentarily eased by the familiar comfort of blood and gore flickering across the screen.
"This is sick," Sematary murmured, a rare genuine smile playing at the corners of his mouth. For a brief moment, the perpetual anger that seemed to consume him had subsided.
Ghost smiled too, warmth spreading through his chest. "Yeah, it is."
As the film's protagonist discovered a particularly gruesome scene, Sematary's hand inadvertently brushed against Ghost's on the mattress between them. Neither pulled away immediately. For three heartbeats, their fingers rested side by side, almost but not quite interlaced.
Then Sematary coughed awkwardly and reached for his energy drink, breaking the moment. But the electricity of that brief touch lingered in the air between them—unacknowledged, unspoken, but undeniably present.
Like everything else that mattered, they would bury it beneath layers of music, horror films, and the comfortable illusion that they were nothing more than friends.
They spent the next few hours watching horror movies together, occasionally taking notes of things they could incorporate into their music.
"You staying over?" Sematary asked, glancing at the clock that now read 4:25 AM.
"If that's cool," Ghost replied.
Sematary nodded, standing to pull a spare blanket from his closet. He tossed it toward the beanbag chair. "I'm gonna hit the bathroom."
When the door closed behind him, Ghost let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of running water from the bathroom, thinking about the way Sematary's hands had shaken, the way he'd almost leaned into Ghost's touch before jerking away.
When Sematary returned, he collapsed onto his bed without another word, back turned to the room. Ghost arranged himself as comfortably as possible on the beanbag chair, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
"Night," Ghost said softly.
After a long pause, Sematary's voice came back through the darkness, unusually quiet. "Night, Ghost."
The room fell silent except for the sound of their breathing, eventually synchronizing as they both drifted toward sleep, the space between them both vast and small, unimportant, all at once.