Ghosts of Halloween: A Dark Why Choose Romance

Clean and dressed, I dig out my entire Oxy supply from a hollow behind the fridge. Janet knows nothing about my secret stash. She’d swap my meds for her brand of drugs any time, so I’ve pretended for years I don’t get them anymore.

I lie about my disability benefits, too. She demands I give over everything I get, bitching about living expenses and how much I eat. She spends what she gets from me on cheap tequila and drugs. I spend the leftover money on condoms, lube, and running shoes.

I go through a pair every few months. The condoms and lube used to run out fast, too. But now that I’ve lost the spark, I don’t need as much.

And tomorrow, I won’t need anything at all.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

My hand throbs dully when I put the Oxy in my bag. It holds everything I usually bring when I go out, so tissues, condoms, a beat-up thermos with some tequila I swiped from Janet. The bottle of lube is almost full and weighs me down, so I consider leaving it behind. But no. I might have a chance to use it yet.

One last time.

I leave my keys behind, hiding them under a couch pillow in case Janet comes back early and is sober enough to notice. I don’t want her looking for me tonight. Not that she would, but I’m not taking any chances.

Everything is ready. All that remains is to walk out of the apartment. It’s not a far walk, either. I’ll get there in twenty minutes, tops. Under ten if I run.

And yet, I waver.

The pain grows stronger, pins and needles jabbing my palm and arm, fire burning my skin, hammers crushing my bones. That’s the memory I have of how it happened. That, and Noah’s frantic voice.

“I’ve got you. You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”

I sigh and turn back to my dresser. Hand shaking, I take out a faded photograph with soft, worn edges and give it a glance.

There’s me, still whole, laughing in a swing, and Noah behind me, pushing it. I was six then. He was twelve, and already the best big brother I could wish for. When Mom lay drunk on the couch, dried vomit caking her mouth, he would always take me out to the playground. We spent hours there, doing what we could to ignore our grumbling stomachs.

This photo was taken by a woman who often came by with her son. Thankfully, he wasn’t caught in the frame, but I feel him in it all the same. His presence is cold and slimy, spoiling the memory for me.

I tuck the photo in my bag, doing my best not to follow that train of thought. Forget all about Michael.

And even though my mind is rigid and under control, there is this sick humiliation sitting in my stomach like a brick. It pushes me out the door, though, so it’s not all bad.

Anything to get me moving.

Outside, the biting cold makes me shiver. I didn’t bring a jacket, not as an oversight, but because I’d rather be cold now. It makes the pain manageable. I open and close my fist, and the prosthetic responds with minimal delay, as it always does.

I feel the phantom pain release just a little and sigh with relief. Time to get going.

It’s after ten pm, and the streets are noticeably emptier. Most kids are back home, and the parties for adults take place on the other side of town. Where I’m going, there is only eerie silence.

Which is ironic. Before the tragedy, the house at 12 Sycamore Street was a popular hangout spot and a place of teenage Halloween dares. It’s a dark, stooping structure with black walls, a caved in steep roof, and a decorative gable.

The chimneys are half-collapsed, their jagged edges cutting into the light-polluted sky.

It looks like a haunted house, and not just at night. When I was a kid, we used to cross to the other side of the street whenever we passed number twelve, even at noon on high summer days. Scared something would reach out through the rusty iron fence and drag us inside.

I smile bitterly, thinking how innocent I used to be. Nowadays, I know what to be afraid of. I will take ghosts and boogeymen over the fears I carry now.

Any time.

I stop in front of the wrought iron gate and just look at the house. It’s dark and dead, oozing a cold, menacing aura. I know the aura is only in my head because of what happened here, but I shiver anyway. I’ve seen the photos, and the images are etched into my brain.

The black body bags rolled out through this gate. The blood stains on the dusty hardwood floors inside.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. My palm sweats while the other pulses with a horrible, bone-crushing pain as I step closer.

The gate hangs lopsided, one wing off its hinge, creating a crack just wide enough for me to step through. I clench my fists, harden my jaw, and go.

The path leading up to the house is steep and neglected, trash and debris strewn over the lot. I weave my way among the obstacles, finally coming to the porch steps. I climb them, my heart hammering harder and harder the closer I get to the door. The steps creak ominously under my feet.

Surprisingly, the door looks solid enough, but it’s not locked. It stands invitingly ajar, and I see some shriveled leaves the wind must have blown inside.

Last chance to back out.

I walk over the creaking porch, my black sneakers thudding lightly over the wood, and push the door open. It creaks so loudly, I look over my shoulder, suddenly afraid someone might hear. But the house is far from the street, and besides, will the neighbors really come to check if they suspect someone is here on Halloween?

Of course not. I’m safe.

With my left hand pressed to my chest to contain the wild beating of my heart, I walk inside, stopping right after I cross the threshold. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the musty darkness of the abandoned house.

No, not darkness. Fuck.

I notice a glow of a candle coming from an open door to my right. When I turn to leave, knowing I can’t stay if someone else is here, the door slams shut in my face.

And when I turn back with a whimper, the glow of the candle is gone.

I’m trapped in the pitch black darkness, my stomach roiling with nausea, my body petrified.

Someone whispers in the dark.

“She’s here.”