Chapter Text
"So," Plutarch starts. His hands rummage through an open file, pulling out a singular slip of paper. After furrowing his brow and concentrating enough to skim through the information, he nods, strawberry-blonde strands of hair falling over his forehead with the movement. "Allegedly, we have a woman dealing with a poltergeist," Plutarch places the large slip on the desk, turning it to face his employee.
Maysilee's manicured nail scratches the waxy finish of the table, huffing as her blue eyes give the typed information a once over. "A poltergeist?" she strings a blonde brow high, analyzing the panicked report. Some people really are crazy, she thinks, wishing she could admit all their clients into a psych ward. But money was money, right?
A year ago, a friend of hers, Haymitch Abernathy, introduced her to the job of 'paranormal investigating.' Of course, none of the customers she encountered ever had any supernatural beings in their home; each ghost hunter here was a con artist, through and through. Sure, it seemed like a lousy thing to do— scamming clearly unwell people into giving them money for services that do next to nothing— but it gave Maysilee enough money for rent while also being in school.
"Correct— well, that's what I told her it was. Her name is Arachne Crane—claims she needs urgent help," Plutarch sighs. Upon landing his gaze onto Maysilee, the expanse of his forehead crinkles up, looking as if he were a parent scolding their misbehaving child. "Due to your behavior with that last client you took on alone, I've assigned someone else to go with you this time."
When those words intrude her ear drums, her features immediately morph into a scowl—face taut with irritation, pure annoyance, a common expression she always seemed to carry.
Maysilee was somewhat of a hyper independent person. Even when she first started the job, working with Haymitch at every 'haunted' house, she preferred to do things her own way. None of it was real anyway, who cares if she makes her own rules; claims something is more dangerous than it is for an extra bit of cash? But much as it pains her to admit, this punishment was warranted.
The last customer she took on while working solo was a middle aged man. He most certainly needed to be medicated with the way he gripped onto a nineteen-year-old girl, as if she were capable of protecting him more than he could himself. All the sympathy she previously felt for the sad, lonely man quickly shifted into aggravation. This grown man would not stop squealing in her ear at every small creak of his own settling home, and Maysilee snapped—called him all sorts of insulting phrases.
Of course, Plutarch called her into his office, beckoning her close to show her the Google review on his thick, clunky computer. She cursed whoever invented the concept of those reviews. If she had known they'd become a thing when she started, she probably would've at least tried to be more careful with her biting words. On the bright screen read the sentences, "Was in desperate need to expel a dangerous entity from my home, and the rude blonde girl only berated me for twenty minutes straight. DO NOT USE THESE SERVICES!"
Dramatic, much?
Plus, it was only seven minutes, at most.
Whatever, she can't do much about it now, can she? She's in the dog house no matter what she does. Still, she can't help but feel irritated at the prospect of having a babysitter on the job. Maysilee is Nineteen—almost twenty—fully capable of doing any task on her own.
"And you're no longer permitted to drive the work car," adds Plutarch.
"What?" Maysilee scoffs, straightening up in the uncomfortable wooden chair. She swears, it feels like the hard material was carving straight into every bone in her body. "I can drive just fine! You know I got brake checked!"
Plutarch's countenance didn't bother attempting to display any sort of fake niceness to soften any blows. That's how he was with her, blunt, and Maysilee would half appreciate it if every criticism weren't constantly directed towards her. No offense to Haymitch, but she rarely sees him getting pulled into Plutarch's office, and Haymitch is an idiot! "And there's still a dent in the front bumper. You need to work on your anger, Ms. Donner," he informs.
"Just tell me who I'm working with," Maysilee grumbles, having had enough of the subtle scolding tone in Plutarch's voice. "Is it Haymitch?" she questions before giving him a chance to respond. Though she'd never allow Haymitch to find out, she partially hoped it'd be him. The only two other people who are employed at this job are Burdock and Blair—both of whom are Haymitch's friends. People she barely knows. Burdock's nice enough, he's actually her best friend's boyfriend, but both him and Blair have a tendency to be obnoxious. It gives a higher chance for her to snap, potentially resulting in another one star review.
"Not Haymitch," Plutarch shakes his head, busying himself with highlighting the woman's address on the singular sheet of paper. "The new hire."
Maysilee's nose scrunches up, this time not in irritation, but in confusion. "We have a new hire?" she asks, tilting her head just enough for her long light locks to pool to one side. "Since when?"
"Are you serious?" Plutarch blinks, professionalism slightly dwindling out of his chords. "He started over a month ago—you haven't seen him?"
Not that she paid much attention to her coworkers in the first place, but she really doesn't remember any unfamiliar person introducing themselves, or even just roaming around the small brick building. "I haven't seen anyone new here," she insists, light brow ticking, truly perplexed.
"Huh," hums Plutarch, shifting in his cushioned seat. "I can't say I'm surprised. He's… the quiet, type. You'll help him with that—get him to communicate with the client."
Blue orbs that reside on Maysilee's face narrow, glowering at her employer. "So is he babysitting me, or am I babysitting him?" she inquires, impatiently tapping her foot on the dreadful rug beneath her. Really, it was an eye sore; a loud burgundy shade, accompanied by a beige trim that was frayed to no return. If you ask Maysilee, the stringed up circle belongs in a dumpster.
"Both," declares Plutarch, sliding the slip back across the dark umber desk. "All her information is on that paper. Bring that tomorrow when you come in— your new partner will meet you in the car."
Exhaling an audible breath that bordered on a groan, Maysilee's Mary-jane platforms planted themselves firmly on the floor, ready to carry herself out of the stuffy office air. Just as she goes to pull open the heavy door, Plutarch gives her some final words. "His name is Wyatt, by the way," he utters, to which Maysilee only responds with a small tip of her skull.
Wyatt. Easy enough to remember.
♡
When the following day arrives, Maysilee finds herself leaned against the silver work car, pretending like she doesn't see the large mark at the front. On the side, in bright green letters read, Heavensbee's Hauntings, along with the phone number to the business.
The positive end of not having to work alone tonight is that she doesn't have to carry the beyond hefty backpack. She swears, every time she throws that monstrous luggage over her shoulders, a new dent forms—definitely not at all good for the perfect posture she loved to display.
On the negative end, though, she had to wait for this Wyatt boy to haul himself out of the building to actually unlock the car door for her. With the short, cotton dress she wore, (black fabric, of course, abiding by Plutarch's dress code), gooseflesh scattered up her bare legs, prickling up the pale skin of her arms. Perhaps she should've made a point to open her apartment window before she left; maybe then she'd have noticed the nippy weather of the late fall evening.
Finally, the familiar, agitating sound of the archaic door opens, grating loudly against Maysilee's ears. Cringing at the awful noise, her vision darts to where it emits, only to be graced with the sight of a quite beautiful boy. Like her, he was dressed in all black, yet actually dressed for the frigid night ahead; clad in black jeans and a black, long-sleeve thermal shirt. The only thing that wasn't black was the gray zip-up he wore, an article of clothing that was definitely too large on him. It proved to be quite impossible to stop her gaze from trailing all over the newcomer, with that dark, slightly grown out hair, and even deeper eyes—she has to force herself to tear her captivated gaze away.
Luckily for her, he's slung the bulky bag over his back, taking away Maysilee's lone responsibility of handling everything.
"Hi. I'm Wyatt and you're Maysilee—Plutarch told me," he greets, though his voice is nothing over a mutter. Scrabbling for the keys in his deep pockets, he unlocks the car, strangely putting in the effort of bucking the backpack into its assigned seat. Evidently, her boss was right. Wyatt is quiet. With his barely there introduction, it's clear how awkward he is.
Great. An hour of listening to each other breathe. This should be fun.
Putting the boy's attractiveness aside, Maysilee resists the urge to scowl, and has to consciously force herself to keep her brows in a neutral position. The last thing she wants is to scare him off—she's not that mean. Luckily, climbing into the car is enough of a distraction, and she busies herself with expertly braiding a three blonde strands of hair out of her face.
Once Wyatt settles into the drivers seat, his dark eyes land onto Maysilee before flickering to his lap in repeated motions, fumbling as he sticks the keys into the ignition. "Are you okay?" she finally inquires, tying off the small weave she'd crafted.
"Yeah," Wyatt says. His voice is warm, settling over Maysilee like a warm blanket. She can't help but analyze his scuffed up, yet still delicate fingers as he adjusts the mirrors to his liking. "There's just a dent in the car—I didn't know if you knew. In the front. Near the hood."
For a reason she can't comprehend, a small smile creeps onto Maysilee's lips. It's strange, because that stupid indentation has been brought up over a million times these past two weeks, and every single time it only served to distemper her further. Yet oddly, this time, she feels none of that. Not even a sliver. "Might've gotten into a small fender bender," Maysilee explains, tracing patterns on her unclothed knees. She leans her head forward just enough to get a clear view of his features, but his mug doesn't give much away—doesn't give anything away, actually. His eyes were locked in place, focused on the road, and his expression held only a blank, stoic stare. Although, from what she could see, his side profile was certainly something to ogle at.
"It's an easy fix," he only shrugs before teasing his teeth into his bottom lip.
"Really?" Maysilee knits her brows, leaning her heavy skull against the headrest of her seat. "Plutarch was acting like I killed someone when he found out," she grumbles, stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest. "He probably wouldn't have even noticed if Blair didn't snitch."
Maysilee didn't know much about cars at all, avowedly, driving was not her strong suit, but a small depression seemed simple and cheap enough to handle—which reminds her, "He's been taking a cut out of my paychecks for that dent."
"That's stupid," replies Wyatt, blunt as ever. "I'll fix it tomorrow. I work on cars sometimes; know enough about them. It's no great shakes."
"You'd probably make loads more money working on cars than hunting ghosts," snorts Maysilee, immersed in the act of untangling the half dozen necklaces that reside around her neck.
The apprehensiveness she previously felt towards working with this fresh hire had slipped away like sand between her fingers. Shockingly enough, she actually found herself enjoying his company. It's hard to keep her spirits down with Wyatt right beside her, and despite having only been around him for a few minutes, Wyatt's presence has a way of easing her tensed up nature. His voice was a calm; a silent break in the constant, crashing waves of annoyance that always seemed to slam against her brain.
At her comment, Wyatt only sniffs, as if his talents were about as unimportant as a piece of plastic. "I can do both," he said, visage still unmoving, refusing to display any sort of emotion.
"A money making man," Maysilee muses as the corner of her mouth raises into a simper. "What made you decide to work for Heavensbee's Hauntings?" her words capture a mocking tone when she mentions the name of the company, undeniably poking fun at the idiocy of their job.
"I find the concept of ghosts fascinating," articulates Wyatt, frame etched with that stiff reserve he carried.
"Yeah, well, good luck finding one," Maysilee puffs, a bit surprised by his answer. Everyone working for Plutarch, including Plutarch himself, didn't have a care about any ghosts. They all just needed a quick buck.
Still, although she knows every single member of Heavensbee's Hauntings clientele is indisputably just deranged, she's unable to stop the shudder that runs up her spine when they turn down dirt roads like these. The street in front of them is dark, save from the headlights of the vehicle. According to Plutarch, every visit has to be past sunset. Spirits only reveal themselves at night, apparently—it's written on their business' poorly made website. Encompassing them are several trees, too many for Maysilee to comprehend, and if a made up apparition can't kill her, something in these woods certainly can. "Everyone who contacts us is just going through a crisis. Never ran into any ghost," she says, almost mumbling.
"Odds of actually running into a ghost are extremely low, but crazy people are fascinating too," retorts Wyatt, unbothered by her disbelief. "Why're you here if you hate it so much?" the question isn't meant to be rude, and his soft features are consumed by only interest, but his tone is still bland, nonetheless.
Maysilee's vision traces the trees beside them, hand twisting the seatbelt that lies on top of her, tracing the uncomfortable surface. "It's better than being broke. My mother insisted on cutting me off for college, and this job makes enough money," she grouses, unsure as to why she's revealing this to a boy she barely knows.
Perhaps she's been single for too long. The only relationship she's had that's lasted longer than two months was in middle school, so it's a strong possibility she's just grown weak at her first sight of an attractive man.
Clenching the seatbelt in a tight grip, she pulls it far before letting it snap back, like that'd bring her back to reality. And when she notices Wyatt's mouth fixing to hypnotize her further with his soothing voice and simple words, Maysilee quickly beats him to the punch. "How much longer til' we get there?" she blurts, digging her palms into the fabric of the seat in an effort to push her up.
"I don't know," frowns Wyatt, eyeing the map. "Hard to tell with these types of roads. Surprised there's no highway option. That's unusual."
At that, a thick silence worms its way into the car, and Maysilee feels as if she could choke on it. Her heart is racing for reasons she can't identify— close enough to the front of her mind to know she's anxious, far enough to not know why. She feels a bit sick, almost, not to the point of vomiting, but there's an ever present dread forming in her gut. It's an odd feeling; she's never once felt a suffocating fear as intense as this one on her way to any of her other job sites, and about all she wants to do is to grip onto the stranger next to her for dear life, as if he'd be any help. "And you know how to read maps?" Maysilee asks as the rapid bouncing of her knee only grows quicker.
Much to her delight, Wyatt doesn't laugh at her. Though he does give her a funny look, there's visually no sign of mocking in his features. "Uh-huh," he assures. A singular hand moves from the steering wheel, eyes smoothly moving back and forth from the road to the map as he points to the paper that had been resting on the center console. "We're here," he demonstrates softly, trailing a digit to the circle where the client resided. "See? She's just… isolated, I guess. We'll make it there. We've got a full tank. If you want to drive, you can, I trust you, I won't tell Plutarch—"
Maysilee cuts him off with a firm shake of her head. No way she can drive with the condition her feeble heart is in, pumping faster than a jackrabbit in the spring— so fast, it just may crack the ribs that protect it.
For the remaining minutes of the drive, she busies herself with reaching her goose-bump covered arm into the backseat, lugging the heavy backpack filled with equipment into her lap.
EMF reader, check.
Spirit boxes, check.
Night vision cameras, check.
Comically large flashlights that imitated the sensation of holding dumbbells in your palm, check.
Ouija board, check.
"What's the Ouija board meant for?" Wyatt pipes up, quizzical expression etched onto his face. Maysilee unfolds the flat surface, running the pads of her fingers against the cool, almost gleaming texture.
Attempting to lighten her own mood, Maysilee brings the wooden planchette up to one eye, peering at him through the transparent circle in the center. "To contact all the ghouls that torment our very sane patrons," she teases, apprehensive state dwindling just enough for the corners of her mouth to string up. "Just follow my lead when the time comes. I'm great at improv."
Something close enough to a chuckle escapes Wyatt, a simper overtaking his own mouth. In the darkness of the night, no streetlights beside them to brighten the oblivion, her eyes adjust enough to see the slight red hue to Wyatt's full cheeks. Dimples decorate the edges of his smile, and Maysilee decides in that moment that he's undoubtedly the most beautiful, handsome boy she's ever seen; prettier than a magnolia in May.
It's hard to be all of those things at once—even rarer to come into contact with someone as attractive as him in real life. A large part of her believed them to be confined to movie screens. Though she tries to restrain, she can't help but find herself hoping he has no one at home waiting for him—no one that's snatched him up enough to press their lips against his.
In spite of Wyatt's presence being the only thing comforting her through this unfamiliar disquietude, she can't help but partially blame him for her worries. It's the only logical explanation. She's been at this job long enough to not feel any type of way. He's the only outlier.
After swallowing down the lingering lump that persisted in her throat, they approach the house. To say it was huge might be an understatement. The dark-oak-colored building was three stories tall, bigger than any home Maysilee's ever seen in person. And Wyatt too, considering the, "Woah," that was whispered under his breath. "I thought the paper said she lived alone," he remarks as they simultaneously slam their car doors, gaze too entranced by the extravagant home in front of them to look anywhere but there.
Well, no, extravagant may not be the right word for it. Clearly, it was giant, that's a given, but it wasn't very well maintained. With the overgrown garden, grass that bordered Maysilee's knees, and peeling shingles, the place needed a lot of work. "Why does she need such a big house, then?" she mumbles, voice quiet and far away.
Wyatt can only lift his shoulders in a measly shrug, dazed enough to not respond right away—not that he had an answer to her query. After slinging the backpack over his shoulder, they begin their trek towards the large double-doors—doors that had clearly once been painted a deep shade of red, peeled and aged with time.
The first step through the sea of overgrown green feels like one million tiny needles puncturing through her bare legs, and the horripilation from the near frigid air doesn't do anything to ease the sensation. To make matters worse, the next words that leave Wyatt's lips are anything but soothing. "Watch out for ticks," he says. Even in the darkness, she can make out his furrowed brow as he glanced down at her raw shins.
Normally she's fine with bugs, even going far enough to be fascinated by them, but ticks were pure evil. The thought of one potentially leeching onto her skin makes her want to close in on herself. She digs her nails into her palms, resisting the strong urge to jump out of the grass like a frightened rabbit.
Underneath the thick weeds hides the bottom step of the wooden stairs that lead to the porch. Of course, because why would anything go her way, Maysilee's black flat catches on the wood, almost sending her tumbling forward. If it weren't for Wyatt's hands—his warm palms—that closed around her waist, quick enough to catch her, she's sure she would've fallen flat on her face. Disappointingly so, his fingers unclench from the cotton of her dress as fast as they landed. He pulls back in a jerky motion, refusing to look her in the eye. "Sorry," he scrambles, quick, yet quiet.
The small of her abdomen tingled where he briefly touched. It's too overwhelming to ignore. Too flustered to find anything to utter, Maysilee only gifts a curt nod, boring her focus on knocking on the ancient door. When Wyatt settles next to her, the warmth of his knuckles gently graze hers, sending another abrupt shiver through her body that certainly has nothing to do with the cold. Breaking their mutual silence, slabs of the scarily unsteady porch moan under their combined weight, groaning as if it were in pain.
Before them, the decrepit entryway creaks open, revealing their older client. In spite of the alleged spirit that had been tormenting her—according to her own report—she appears to be put together, more-so than any of the other customers Maysilee had the misfortune of dealing with. Though she was clearly in her fifties , and obviously mentally unwell if she were searching for these services, she continued to put effort into her appearance. Her hair was pinned up, color void of any gray strands, too dark to be blonde, too light to be brunette. The skin that expanded across her face was jarringly deprived of wrinkles—undoubtedly that botox fad. A small, exhausted twitch of her cherry painted lips invites a small grin on her face, welcoming the pair inside, "Maysilee and Wyatt, right?" she walks, guiding them to the velvet couch.
The moment Maysilee's footsteps surpassed the threshold, dread plummeted into her stomach, far more intense than before. It was akin to a brewing hurricane, ready to strike at any moment— sudden and extreme— mimicking a heavy handed punch. "Yes, ma'am," she takes a seat, allowing her palms to splay on the velvet texture, foolishly hoping the familiar fabric would lull her dismay. Clearing her throat, she pulls back her shoulders, putting on her confident display as she asks, "So, what seems to be the issue?"
As if on queue, Maysilee's question is answered by a blaring noise.
BANG!
A door from an upper level of the house slams shut, rattling Maysilee even further. Arachne's breath hitches, and Wyatt's fists grip the cushion of the couch, though he doesn't jolt in the same way Maysilee does.
Just before Arachne makes a move to speak, there's a violent, restless knocking. "It's constant!" she snaps over the resonance of the insistent pounding, like a jackhammer that just won't quit. "It won't let me sleep—I haven't gotten a moments rest since my mother passed and left me with this ancient house!" she grumbles, twin orbs rolling in a pure annoyance, though her tightened features are taut with fear.
"Are—" Wyatt starts, only to shake his head. He makes a conscious effort to sit up, leaning closer to his elder as to not have to raise his voice as much; though it's still many octaves higher from his typical mousey nature. "Are you sure there's no one else in the house?" he finally manages, still making fists into the couch beneath him.
Of course, that comment only serves to irritate Arachne further. A scoff surpasses her mouth. "I thought you guys were professional mediums, or something. Do you really think I'd pay for your overpriced services, had I not had an actual ghost in my house?" her eyes narrow, lowering her tone as the knocks finally die down. "Whenever I do get a semblance of sleep, I wake up with it tugging on my hair, or some bullshit like that," she huffs.
Wyatt hunches in on himself a bit. "Yeah, just making sure," he claims, eyes flickering to Maysilee for any bit of help.
"Sorry, we're obligated to ask," lies Maysilee. It's a stupid fib, but if someone were idiotic enough to buy it, then she supposes that's their own fault.
"Whatever," Arachne huffs, dismissing the comment with an exhausted drag of clammy hand down her mug. "Are you gonna contact the ghost, or what?"
The woman's attitude makes Maysilee want to smack the ugly, too smooth skin across her face. For someone so mentally unwell, and for someone who apparently desperately needs their help, she's acting quite insufferable. But Maysilee can't exactly afford to lose this job, and any more negative reviews might have her booted from the company, so she sits up at last, pulling the Ouija board back out of the bag.
"A board game? Seriously?" Arachne sneers.
It appears Plutarch was onto something with sending Wyatt to keep her in check, because just as the vile words are about to spill from Maysilee's bitter mouth, he takes over. "Not a board game," he claims, moving to flatten the alphabet slab on the short coffee table. "It sells for over a thousand dollars—this helps the spirits speak to us. A seance."
Luckily, the woman is old enough to not question their antics, and just passes a dismissive nod their way, ready for them to begin their seance.
With each member of the duo holding two digits from each hand on the planchette, Maysilee greets the supposed ghost, "If there's any spirit in this home who would like to peacefully communicate, please move the piece to yes."
Only, her usual routine doesn't work in the slightest. Just as she goes to move the planchette herself, Wyatt moves it instead with a force much stronger than her own. The exertion made little sense, considering the visible lack of pressure he held on the piece. Still, brain rattling too quickly to have any time to question the matter further, her light eyes snap to Wyatt, who only looks perplexed. Then, too fast for her mind to comprehend, the planchette moves again, spelling out, NEED YOUNG ENERGY.
An odd choice, but it'll do. Though it slightly annoyed her, she figured Wyatt wanted to take the whole improv bit into his own hands. If it were anyone else next to her— god forbid, Haymitch— she certainly would've gotten angry enough to expel a grunt. Putting aside the fact that Wyatt's strangely an exception to her anger, she asks another question, "Are you related to Ms. Crane in any type of way?"
With swiftness, the small glass circle spells out the words, NEED YOU.
Regardless of her stubborn skepticism, an unavoidable spike of ice cold fear crawls far into her lungs, permeating her breathing with an ever present pressure, as if she'd grown too frozen to move. Suddenly, when the planchette reads, YOU'RE SCARED, the board launches off the table at a break-neck speed, landing pathetically on the floor. Inside of Maysilee, something was tightening, terror ready to snap like a rubber band.
And snap she does.
She bolts up from the couch, nails digging into Wyatt's wrist as she yanks him up beside her. There's suddenly a sickly sweet scent that invades her nostrils, an unwelcome intruder. She wants to gag, and when Wyatt raises a hand to pinch his nose, forehead wrinkled with disgust, she realizes it's not just her. The smell is so thick, unyielding through the air, so present that it felt solid, as if it were taunting her—touching her.
The dining table, only about ten feet away from them is attacked. Every single plate of china flies off the table, shattering instantly. Pieces of glass sharper than a blade fly towards all three members in the home, one shard in particular lodging itself into Wyatt's already worn down shoe.
"Better start praying," Arachne comments, a sickening smirk presented on her face, a look of I told you so.
"Absolutely not," Maysilee retorts, glass crunching under the black bottoms of her shoes as she picks up the Ouija board, shoving it far into the backpack. She's so rough, so urgent, the seams almost pop with the force of the push. "Fuck this, we're leaving."
"What?" snaps Arachne, now standing up with her. "I'm paying for you guys to get that thing out of my house!"
"Fuck that," Maysilee scoffs, hoicking Wyatt with her towards the rusted hinges of the large double-doors. "Call my manager and get your money back, we're leaving," her voice is firm and definite, giving the door handle a sharp tug before slamming it shut behind her. The only thing she's praying for is that the lady, despite only being in her fifties, is too senile to know how to work Google reviews.
Following her to the silver glint of their work vehicle, Wyatt shoves the keys into the ignition, somehow calmly driving out of there. "Why'd you spell out that stuff?" he asks, Adam's apple visibly bobbing in his throat. "Are we gonna get fired—"
"I didn't spell out anything," Maysilee cuts off, erratic heart dropping into her stomach, mixing with every drop of dread. "I thought that was you. I swear, if you're messing with me—"
Her voice abruptly severs as her eyes catch on the dark figure present in the woods outside of her closed window, unfathomably still. Somehow, Maysilee is able to grasp that the figure it staring right at them, despite the chilling lack of eyes. Was is human? Almost, but not quite. With those long limbs, hunched over posture, and lack of describable facial features, Maysilee can only clamp her eyelids shut, swallowing the sickly feeling that rises in her throat. The image sits in the front of her mind, something dark dripped from every crevice of the being's body, audibly falling to the firmly packed dirt.
Drip, drip, drip.
As she focuses on her breathing, attempting to convince herself the figure was only an odd looking tree, it's then that she notices the lack of sound at all. Despite it not yet being winter, and despite the never ending trees around them, it's silent. No crickets, no shuffling, no wind, no branches brushing against one another.
In front of them, the dirt road is barely visible, despite the headlights feeble attempt to brighten up the night ahead. Like staring into an abyss, a never ending pit, the sight becomes hypnotic. The once odd gelidity of the autumn-air wraps around her like a blanket. Inconceivable. Her limbs are trapped, unable to urge her tendons to move, as if a weight was dropped on top of her. It's not darkness, no, not the familiar lack of light when she closes her eyes, or the comforting sense of drowsiness whenever she clicks off the lamp on her bedside table. Darkness is a shade, existing as a concept that humans have the ability to grasp, yet in this moment, it's not that by any capacity. It's just nothing. A lack of anything at all.
Everything comes to a halt. Maysilee doesn't remember when it stopped, but the sound of the car is no longer rumbling in her ear drums. Her fingers, once clenched into the fabric of the passenger seat cushion, feel only void. It's all gone.
"—Maysilee," the note of Wyatt's voice brings her back, urgency in his tone making her dig her claws into her bare knees, desperate for any bit of reality to seep back in. "Are you…" he trails off, taking note of the lack of color in Maysilee's cheeks. She's whiter than paper, any trace of blood drained from her body, as if her heart had stopped pumping entirely.
It's hard properly inhale, wind catching in her throat with each attempt at a gasp. Yet the moment her breathing picks up, filling her chest with some much needed air, her mouth waters. Saliva pools under her tongue at lightning speed, congregating in the corners of her mouth, dribbling down the pout of her bottom lip.
Maysilee's going to vomit, she's sure of it. At a fast-track pace, the lingering bile delivered by nauseating fear becomes too difficult to suppress.
Rolling down the window isn't an option—no, that would be too slow. With Wyatt's foot still pressed on the gas pedal, she kicks the car door wide enough to lean outside. Before her coworker can question what she's doing, a sludge-like substance spews out of her lips, streaming like a garden hose.
Liquid gunk spills all over the road, down the side of their vehicle, onto her pale leg and white socks, staining them with an unnatural color—surely uncommon in vomit. Gray, so dark it's almost black. The thick goo trickles all over her chin when she finally finishes, it's temperature remarkably cold and sticky, like a bottle of Elmer's glue she remembers using in Elementary school.
The puke-fest stops as soon as it starts, and though it felt like an eternity, it truly only lasted a few seconds, at most. Too spent to do anything but slump over, the door hangs open in the wind, hitting her knee when Wyatt jerks the car to a stop. He's panicking—that much is obvious— and Maysilee's sure she would be as well, had she not been so exhausted. When he loops around the car, peeling off his zip-up that harnessed a similar shade to the sludge she'd just expelled from her body, the scent of her sickness hits her. Again, nothing about this holds any ordinariness, vomit smelling of burnt rubber.
What the hell did she eat?
Wyatt's selfless attempt at cleaning her with his own hoodie is futile. Her puke marked everywhere it landed, staining like charcoal. "Are you okay?" his trembling hands fumble for a plastic water bottle, unscrewing the cap before holding it to her mouth. "Sip," he orders.
Obeying the request, she greedily downs the much needed liquid, plastic crinkling and crunching under the force of her chugs. Her blissful exhaustion doesn't last for long—not with the lack of streetlights beside them—not with the stretch of tall, dark trees. Her overworked heart spikes again, "We need to leave. Something's wrong."
"What's wrong—"
"Just drive, Wyatt!"
Fortunately for Maysilee, Wyatt happens to be the sweetest boy she's ever met. He's better than her—doesn't argue or combat her frustrations—only nods at her command, shuffling back into the drivers seat. He doesn't bother buckling the seatbelt, focused only on getting Maysilee anywhere but here. Wyatt's warm, gentle hand, contrasting the nippy air, grasps onto her own. His relaxing, slightly calloused thumb caresses her knuckles, his other palm wrapped in a vice grip on the steering wheel.
Once streetlights fill her view, along with the comforting sight of other cars, she's finally settled enough to not be so petrified.
Should she be embarrassed?
Wyatt doesn't appear to be judging her. In fact, his face doesn't give away anything at all. Stoic, unreadable, just as it had been on the drive to the wretched house.
"This is so fucking weird," she grumbles under her breath, wincing in shame as she flips the mirror down, examining the ink-like blots on her chin. Redness trickles up her cheeks, embarrassment clear as day, yet she still makes an effort to exude confidence, straightening her spine.
Lengthily lashes brush Wyatt's cheeks when his lids nervously flutter, an anxious tic, resembling that of a butterfly's wings. "Black vomit can mean blood," he informs, flexing his palm before closing it once again. "Maybe we should get you to a hospital."
Maysilee doesn't bother responding to that, only granting an uncompromising shake of her skull. She rubs her eyes hard enough to see stars, not caring if her mascara smudges, willing herself to undo everything that just happened. If she were smart enough, she'd build a time machine in an effort to stop herself from ever accepting this job in the first place.
Why would listening to Haymitch Abernathy ever be a good idea?
Her already existing cringe creases into her features even further when she thinks of Plutarch's reaction to their antics. "Plutarch's gonna kill us," she groans.
"You're sick," responds Wyatt, his tone an instant ointment on her cut up soul. "That's not your fault."
For a long moment, neither of them bring up the elephant in the room, the undeniable fact that something else was there with them. Something inhumane. Maysilee wonders if Wyatt witnessed the same abyss she had, the lack of everything, something nothing on this Earth can properly describe. A part of her selfishly hopes he experienced the discomforting sight of the long-limbed creature that curved forward on the tree-line, somehow starting without eyes. "Really?" Maysilee puffs as she tilts her head, gaining enough courage to examine his blank stature for longer than a few seconds.
Without putting a name to what they saw, and while avoiding mentioning anything at all, he sighs. It's the closest thing Wyatt's shown of any sort of obvious emotion. "I don't know," he murmurs, right handed fingers reaching down to pick at the fabric his jeans. "If you want, I can drive you straight home," offered Wyatt after a beat of silence, too frazzled to come up with anything else. "You shouldn't have to drive… after all that."
That's something she's unable to say no to. It's not the act of driving that scares her—that's not it at all—it's being alone after all that, in her own car, in the dead of night. Preferably, she'd like to grasp onto Wyatt like a koala, feeling his physical presence. At least until she made it to the safety of her own apartment. At home, her twin sister would thankfully be there, another anchor to keep Maysilee sane until dawn.
Her typical headstrong nature was still there—that's something that'd never truly leave—but she felt too clingy. It was too bizarre. Shame seeps into her body when her blue globes fall back onto his ruined hoodie. Maybe she was sick—maybe this is all in her head. In all honesty, that might just be the best case scenario. Or perhaps she's going crazy, after too many instances of her judging their several customers. That's a cruel case of karma.
Upon parking the car, the dim lighting of her apartment's parking garage grants enough illumination for her to also clearly see the mess her stomach made on the light floor. It's as prominent as a wine spill, and if this doesn't get her fired, she doesn't know what will.
"I'll clean it," Wyatt pipes up, leaning an arm on the center console—an arm filled with lean muscle, might she add. "My brothers have spilled worse in my own car. They've puked in there more times than I can count. It'll come out."
Maysilee's light eyes lazily drifts towards Wyatt, face muddled with unbridled exhaustion. "I'd kill my sister if she puked in my car. You're a good person, Wyatt," as those words enter the air, a tinge of a rosy hue shimmies up the apples of Wyatt's cheeks. If Maysilee didn't have to pry her own lids open to stay awake, maybe she'd have been brave enough to mention the sudden color—to poke the silky, tan skin that resided on his face. But she couldn't, suddenly nervous for entirely different reasons. "I'm not usually like this," she sighs, twisting around her dangling earrings.
With a deep breath, Wyatt nods, tone gentle as ever. "It's okay. Really—don't worry about it," he manages, teeth sinking back into his bottom lip. "Even though I was kind of freaked out the whole night, I liked being around you."
Now that's a shocker. Other than her sister, her best friend, and Haymitch, she really had zero friends. Sure, Burdock and Blair were acquaintances, but she could tell her personality turned them away. Whenever she'd linger on their shared university, or catch a glimpse of them at their job, they'd make an obvious effort to not have to chat with her. At times, she was jealous of the way Haymitch so easily made friends—the way he could control his tone so well.
Wyatt's view is no longer on Maysilee, too skittish to stare at her for longer than necessary, despite how strongly they mutually feel that strong pull. Though, the back of his head doesn't break Maysilee's gaze. In fact, her eyes only burn into him further, as if she were trying to stare a hole into his head. She's unsure it’s his baseline attractiveness, or the knowledge that he's been so sweet this entire trip, but she craves his presence in anyway possible.
Finally, Wyatt clears his throat, turning his head back towards her. "I'll see you tomorrow… to report to Plutarch, and whatnot," he mutters, rolling a large coin between his knuckles in an almost frantic fashion.
The rhythmic dancing of the coin admittedly hypnotizes her for longer than she intends before Maysilee partially grows her brain back enough to un-click her seatbelt, sliding out of the now rubber-scented vehicle. With fists clenched into the hem of her dress, tight enough for her knuckles to lose all color, she strays from Wyatt, feet carrying her to the uneasy solitude of her apartment hallway.