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A party gone right. Now that’s something you don’t hear every day. Sure, there’s the stench of vomit, and it smells like who knows what with a lingering spice of an energy bar, but that comes with the territory. The thumping music (that’ll probably result in the cops getting called), the classic red cups that are knocked over and stain the carpet, the locked bedroom doors, the sense of regret waking up in the morning with a pounding headache (or even worse, a note scratched with a phone number and something embarrassing that’s better left in the past).
Okay, so maybe not exactly a party gone completely right, but it’s better than all the horror stories on campus. It’s a win—a decent night right after finals to get rid of that nagging stress about what exams were bombed and which weren’t.
People are passed out everywhere, inside and outside. Some of their phones are on, with texts riddled with errors that shit-talk the first person that came to mind. There’s even a guy sleeping in a cheap foldup lawn chair with his laptop open; looks like he was trying to write something on a Word document. Unlike the blasting music from insides, the night’s quiet outside, and if it had been any other night, you’re sure that the neighbors would’ve loved it. What’s not to love? The full moon’s out and you can hear a leaf drop from a mile away. It’s the perfect night for getting some well-deserved sleep. That is, if finals weren’t over.
Being the designated driver, while it keeps you away from the alcohol and other things that make parties what they’re known for, it keeps you from doing the walk of shame and being blackmailed (friendly blackmailed, hopefully) later on. So maybe it has some perks. Even better? Your friend’s that you were in charge of are catching other rides. Your vision’s not too bad, surely not as bad as it could’ve been had you given into those persistent guys earlier. And you can walk in a semi-straight line. That’s good enough.
Trees overshadow most of the street and almost bridge together to make a canopy of sorts. Even with the canopy, the theater’s bright red flickering sign’s still visible, despite it being a block or so away.
Click, click, click.
The only noise is from your shoes—an uncomfortable pair that one of your friends loaned you for the sake of fashion, to, as she said it, “not be a total walking disaster.”
Your car comes into view. It’s a beat-up model that’s seen better days; gets the job done well enough, and it has a few notable memories piled away in it somewhere. There’s a metallic jingling as you fish for your keys. The grooves of the keys mull over the pad of your thumb nicely. Briefly, there’s a flash of rationality that bursts in your head, warning you that this looks like a familiar scene, like it’s something to avoid. Before it can do any good, though, it’s gone while you open the car with your keys.
Bristling air pokes and prods at your flesh, tracing a shivering finger down your arm. Your fingers spiral around the handle on the door of your car.
It’s oddly wet. Not wet, wet. Moist if anything, which is still strange because it hasn’t rained in a while.
Closing the door when you’re in the car, a sigh trembles past your lips. Stale air overruns the car while you’re deciding which roads to take and which to avoid. Driving back’s going to be a pain, although the streets aren’t too crowded. That’s good, you suppose. Maybe that power line that fell earlier is fixed, or at least—
“Nice weather we’re having.”
Shit.
That’s a new voice—one you definitely don’t recognize. Low, glossed with a veil of amusement, it feels like it wraps around you in a slimy coating, something like an unshakeable layer of grease. For several trudging moments, your heartbeat’s overwhelmingly loud, repeatedly thundering against the cage that protects it. Nearby pulsating music is immediately as silent as the rest of the area. Stale air hanging around in the car domineeringly forces itself down your throat as little scared huffs of breath keep your body rigid, alive, and most importantly, frozen. And suddenly, the space (or lack thereof) in the car seems nonexistent. Too small. Too small. Too small. Too small.
Okay, you think, I can break the window and crawl out. I can run back and—
“Hey. You alive? I thought I was supposed to be the dead one.”
Dead one?
Slowly, your head turns to the other seat. Your movements are stiff, robotic, even. Instead of seeing the gigantic stain on the seat (a product from one of your friends earlier today) that you’ve yet to wash out, the first thing that your eyes hone in on is a translucent figure. His hair’s a dull red. He’s proudly wearing a grin, lips curled unnervingly (as if he’d just told the best pun ever and eagerly awaited your reaction). Lanky, that’s another description that fits him.
As soon as you shut your eyes to blink, he’s gone.
An icy rush of air embraces you, teasing your flesh with a ghostly gust.
And when you open your eyes again, he’s right there—right in front of you. His eyes seem to scrutinize your features, watching for miniscule movements, observing every pore on your skin. Cocking his head to the side, he blinks a few times before he speaks.
“Huh,” he says, “so you are alive. Too scared to talk? Well, that’s fine, because I can do enough talking for both of us.”
You gulp, and it feels like a bolder just plummeted down your throat.
“What are you?” Your question flies out faster than you expected, yet it feels stronger than you anticipated, too. He knows you’re scared—hell, he just announced moments ago that he knows—but maybe you can work with this. Build up your nerves a bit.
He cocks his head even further, almost comically so. The way he twists around so that his finger guns are right in your face and his back (or rather, what’s left of his back) looks like it’s folding in on itself is the very definition of unnatural.
Forcing a shriek down sounds a lot easier than it actually is, especially when you’re face-to-face with whatever’s going on here. A constricting throat that’s being strangled by the intensity of the situation doesn’t help force back a yell, either.
No, there’s more to it than that. Even with the electric adrenaline zapping throughout the veins spanning your body, it’s easy to consider the paranormal possibilities.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Narrowing his eyes, he unwinds from that spiraling position and moves (floats?) back to the other seat. A click of the tongue sounds before he speaks.
“I thought you’d scream.” His eyes go from scrutinizing to amused in mere seconds. “But it’s okay, because I’m going to stick around for a while.”
Stick around for a while?
No.
Nope.
Not happening. One time is bad enough. You don’t need this to keep you up at night while he does whatever he wants to.
Scrambling around for your phone, you quickly unlock it, opening the Internet.
“Hm?” he says, leaning over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for a way to purge your ass.”
Perhaps you shouldn’t have said that; your phone conveniently dies when he registers what you said.
Now, having your undivided attention and smirking all the while, he theatrically bows. Light from the nearby streetlamps pass through his translucent body. From your angle, he’s glimmering. A bit, at least.
“Tendou Satori. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, [Name].”