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Merely eight days of it, and the homeowner was already sick of all this. Sleeping through the morning, questioning every interaction he has, watching the news each day with a growing sense of impending doom. He’d let strangers into his home, too many for his own comfort. But if he rejected their entry, he felt a lingering sense of guilt. There was always the question: if he let them continue trying to survive outside, would he be guilty for their scorching demise?
Yet, when these mysterious people reside within his residence, he goes to sleep worrying if he’ll wake up to the stench of death.
There was no good way to handle the situation. He makes his decisions and hopes for the best.
The best doesn’t always happen, though. He’s already had to kill two … individuals. A fortune teller, first. She’d shown up only two days prior to her death. She was an odd one, but you learn not to judge too quickly. Her teeth were awfully white, though, and her eyes irritated in an off-putting fashion. The homeowner wonders if he made the right decision with her, or if she was right about the moon.
Then, an old lady, late in the fifth day of the muss. She talked of her husband, she talked of loneliness—she seemed human enough. But what really makes someone human enough? It certainly wasn’t her bare, hairless armpits, or her odd story regarding her teeth… the pure whiteness of them, despite how few she had left. Or was that story proof she was just another soul who had lost so much?
The homeowner hated thinking about it. He hated thinking about how maybe he made a mistake, maybe his hands were covered in more human blood than he’d ever pictured. The scarlet that stained his armchair, the brains splattered against his kitchen wall. It made him sick.
Maybe he had truly saved his other guests, or maybe he’d be sent to Hell for what he’d done. Was it a sin? Was he looking out for himself or the others? Or was it that fear had rid him of his humanity, of his consideration? Would that be against God’s will?
Would God let this happen?
He sighs to himself. He sits up in his bed. The heat has made it difficult to comfortably sleep beneath the covers now.
He should probably check on the people still alive. The man from the bar was sick of him sticking his nose in places it wouldn't usually belong, and he appeared awfully human. The homeowner decided he should leave the guy alone.
There were three others.
A red-haired girl who had buried herself in the corner of the room he used for storage, shrinking in on herself as if it would make the world around her disappear. He was worried about her. Her teeth were pearly white, her fingernails had collected an off-putting amount of dirt, and her eyes were bloodshot and inflamed. The only thing that stopped him from pulling the trigger on her was the fear that seemed to radiate from her trembling frame each time she uttered anything. Shallow breaths would wrack through her as she spoke, growing more panicked by the second. Every conversation wore her down, and she got more anxious by the day. He knew he’d have to… make the decision, if it came to it.
A mostly bold woman. Covered in tattoos and piercings, a former radio host. She seemed she couldn’t figure out if she was confident or nervous. Oversharing, yet talking down on the people she used to share an occupation with. The homeowner had checked her teeth the day after she arrived. Sharp and filed down to sharp points, something he hadn’t seen up close before. Although yellowed, as he had hoped.
And a man who had shown up four days ago, ish? His mouth had been sewn shut. He showed no signs he’d fought back. The homeowner had expected strange things, but he never expected a foreigner who had faced such an act of hate to appear at his doorstep. His teeth were bloody, but not white beneath that. His fingernails held no dirt, and his eyes were green and clear of any irritation. He seemed alright. Despite their lack of communication, the homeowner found himself trusting the foreigner more than any of the other guests he held in his home. He seemed optimistic despite what had happened to him, and he communicated this attitude, this presence, through their language barrier.
The homeowner decides that after he watches the news, he’ll check the tattooed woman and the red-haired girl. He hopes he’ll be proven wrong. He doesn’t need another mess; he doesn’t need another scream trapped in his skull, echoing between his ears.
He sits on the corner of his bed. He doesn’t bother pulling out the chair that stays tucked beneath the TV stand. It hurts his back.
“Good afternoon. This is the news. We bring you an important update. New details have emerged regarding a recent incident that unfolded in the city. It seems one of the city's quarantine zones came under attack from an armed individual. The suspect's motive remains unclear at this time, and it's unknown if the attacker had any accomplices. Notably, several unverified individuals also escaped the quarantine zone.”
The homeowner sighs. It seems like every day, new shit is breaking loose. Everyone is losing it.
The screen cuts to a rippling static. Then, to a news reporter whom he doesn’t recognize.
“Silence is the harbinger of death. A sinister quiet that drains the soul.”
The homeowner leans closer to the TV. Intrigue and confusion mingle as he reads the words twice over before they disappear.
“But worse than the emptiness… is the ringing. A distant funeral knell growing ever louder. The bells toll for us all, filling our ears with endless din.”
A picture pops up. The headlines are glitchy and unnerving. Centered was an image of an ear and an image of a diagram of an ear and its innards. A photo of bugs sits unmoving beside it, a red arrow circling it and pointing at the diagram. At the entrance of the ear.
The news channel’s symbol lurks in the upper corner, like this is normal, like this is them. Is it? What kind of propaganda does this count as?
“Filthy thoughts caught in webs of wax. An infernal nest where Visitors thrive. Tangled deep in sticky sustenance. Cerumen inundans. Cerumen inundans. Cerumen inundans.”
Static flashes, and the channel is back to normal. The original news reporter is going on as if nothing happened. The homeowner briefly considers whether he is hallucinating. Typical text is on the screen again, something about the suspension of corpse disposal. That’ll definitely work out great.
He decides that he was not hallucinating. He’s not that sleep deprived yet.
A familiar blue turtleneck is pulled over his torso. Despite the discomfort of the warmth, it hugs his skin in a consoling fashion.
He steps out of his room and through the beams of light that slip past his curtains. Sometimes he misses being able to step outside during a calm, summer day. He never thought he was the kind of person to find peace in it, but now, oddly enough, he longed for the ability to do so once more.
With a gentle touch, he quietly opens the door to the living room. His eyes find the cushioned chair before the tall man who sits on his couch. The man from the bar looks the same as always. Tired, angry, and as if he’s masking some deep, hidden sadness. Exhausted eyes meet his own. The homeowner steps out.
He taps a gentle knock on the bathroom door before he enters. The tattooed woman looks up with a trite look on her face.
“I need to test you,” he says. She mutters something about info reports, as she did the last time. “Your armpits.”
She gives him a look.
“I don't mind showing my armpits. It's just...not a nice sight,” she sighs.
Briefly, she shuffles around. She lifts her arm, and a knowing gaze lingers on the homeowner.
It’s hard to tell. They look bare, and he’d love to give her the benefit of the doubt, but the redness and irritation make it difficult to tell if there is hair growing back.
“Told you.”
The homeowner lets out a shaky breath. He fears the lives that could be lost if he makes the wrong decision. His hand drifts towards his shotgun. The tattooed woman’s eyes widen.
“Hey—don't freak out, I was fading a tattoo, and the heat made something weird happen. Try removing ink in this heat yourself. Hurts like hell, and your whole body's sweating nonstop,” she explains. The homeowner wouldn’t know; he’s never gotten a tattoo, nor has he ever considered it.
His hand falls away from the gun.
It isn’t good enough proof. He can’t. It isn’t worth it. A small part of him feels guilty for scaring her. He knows what it’s like to fear for his life. Everyone does, now.
The tattooed woman sighs quietly, small enough that he nearly doesn’t notice. Relief, he guesses.
“Best not to get tattoos in the wrong places, really.”
He nods. And he leaves.
Right, red-haired girl. He opens the door to his storage room. The foreigner leans against the wall, hands toying with the hem of his shirt. He regards the homeowner with a more-than-usual look of concern. The homeowner glances over at the red-haired girl.
She seems distressed. A hand is buried in her bright hair, tugging away at strands of it.
He considers making conversation. Checking in on her. His gut tells him to get on with what is necessary.
“Hey. I need to test you,” he says, hovering above her.
She peeks through her opposing hand, which had been covering her face. She stands shakily, clutching at the wall for balance. He looks at her for a long second, spotting the slight tremor she carries.
“W—what do you want to check?”
The homeowner thinks. He thinks about the news broadcast he saw just earlier.
“...Ears.”
The girl frowns.
“Wh—Why are there so many signs?”
The homeowner wonders how many will be discovered. If they even mean anything.
“WHY DO I FIT EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM?! HAHAHA!”
He wishes he knew. Her dazed laughter makes him tense up. She pushes her hair behind her ear and turns her head.
He watches. One second. Two seconds. He’s reconsidering his theory from earlier.
A bug crawls out from inside her ear. It skitters about her scalp for a moment and then climbs back in. He flinches. She doesn’t appear to notice it at all.
He can’t keep making excuses; every sign matches up with her, and he cannot keep endangering himself and the people he offered shelter to. He pulls his gun from his back and points it at her. He hears the foreigner make a sound of alarm from behind him.
“Was that the last straw? A—Am I going to die? Are you going to shoot me? Oh no... oh God, I'm scared! I'm so scared!”
The homeowner swallows his guilt. He swallows the questions he wants to ask.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks in this small, quaking voice.
He isn’t sure.
“I'm scared of dying… w—wait, can you cover my eyes? Do you have some kind of bandage? Or... or... let me have just a little longer…”
It’s now, or he’ll never do it.
He fires the gun.
Blood and guts spray out against the back corner of the storage room. White boxes are stained with a gory crimson hue. He doesn’t hear what remains of her when it falls back into the corner.
He feels ill. He hates it, he hates caring so much, he hates all of this.
He hates not knowing if this is the right thing to do, or if that’s even up to him to decide. His arms drop, and his gun clatters to the ground. He takes a sharp and uneven breath, steps back and presses himself against the wall behind him, and slides down it until he is sitting just far away from the blood to not stain his clothing further. He usually isn’t one to get emotional.
It wasn’t very welcome when he was younger.
But despite all the times he’s held himself together, despite the times he’s pushed through anger, sadness, and crushing guilt, he just can’t do it. He’s taken three lives, and he has no idea if he made the correct decision about any of them. Tears well up and spill silently, before he can even think about stopping them.
The foreigner silently sits beside him. The homeowner feels bad for making him witness that. Though based on now-healing injuries, it isn’t the first time he’s dealt with something so gruesome in the past week.
He considers pulling his legs up, hiding his face like he would when he was a child. But he isn’t a child anymore. He doesn’t know if that gives him more incentive to do so or not.
The foreigner sighs.
The homeowner knows he can’t understand him, and he can’t understand the foreigner. Still, the words gush out of him.
“She could’ve been fine. She could’ve been human, she might just’ve been, and her blood is on my hands. Her human blood could be on my walls,” he chokes, hand gesturing weakly to the drying blood on the yellowed surface.
“The others, they could have been human as well. I could have killed a lonely old woman who hadn’t yet found company since she last lost it,” he groaned. “That… fortune teller. I killed her and her passion, and it could’ve all been for nothing.”
He throws his head back. It hits the wall with a painful thump, which lingers as a dull, throbbing ache.
“Where does this get me? Do I earn praise for looking out for others? Or have I… sinned for not picking a better option? If I throw a… Visitor out of my house, won’t I just be causing the death of whoever owns the next residence they fake their way into?”
His eyes burn from salty tears. He wipes them from his face, smearing blood across his cheek in the process.
“What am I expected to do?”
The foreigner looks sickeningly sympathetic. The homeowner doesn’t want to be pitied, but what more can he earn from showing this? A warm hand rests on his shoulder.
“Veviblmv rh hfuuvirmt glwzb. Blf ziv mlg zolmv,” the foreigner says. His thumb shifts back and forth. Such a simple act of care, yet it’s more than the homeowner has received in ages. He croaks out a sob, shivering as he cries. It’s embarrassing.
Is it?
The foreigner shifts closer, leaning in. He leaves his hand there. Understanding eyes watch every second. There is no judgment within them.
The homeowner fights to catch his breath, trying to calm down. His eyes dart to the foreigner when the man moves. He turns to face the homeowner, extending his arms and tilting his head. So much care for someone he only met a few days ago.
“R wl mlg pmld blf, yfg R wl mlg gsrmp blf wvhviev gl hfuuvi gsrh dzb,” he says with a brief pause. He gives a small smile before gesturing wider with his arms. His voice is warm, welcoming.
The homeowner considers rejecting it. He considers picking up his gun, standing, and walking away. He considers doing that and never bringing it up again.
Not for long, though. He accepts the show of affection. It’s a warm embrace, because of course it is, but it’s also a comfort that the homeowner cannot put a name to. It is soothing in a frighteningly intimate way.
They sit like that for a moment. The latter buries his head against the foreigner’s neck.
“Thank you,” he says, hoping the meaning can get through.
The foreigner hums in understanding, thumb rubbing the spot on the homeowner’s back where his hand now rests.
The homeowner exhales, letting some of the tension in his body drain out.