I’ll give them a video on my twitch channel. That’s whatSquad Ghoulswants anyway. So why not give it to them?
By the time I’ve made it to the van, Blake is finally finished and rushes out behind me, his camera and mine in his grip.Trevor looks at me with a blank face as I climb into the back, and this time I sit at the end of the bench seat instead of the middle, making it clear where I’ll be sitting and that it’s not a request.
Blake doesn’t even attempt conversation. The drive back to the gas station is silent except for my seething and the slow rhythm of my breathing, with the few attempts at conversation being awkward and stilted, or strictly necessary when Trevor has to ask for something like a timestamp on whatever he’s editing together from the livestream.
“You should find more convincing dust.” My dry voice cuts through the tentative conversation between Trevor and Leah, leaving both of them immediately quiet. “Spray paint is obvious when you touch it. And I don’t think anyone in the 1800s had access to Sharpies to write on jar lids.” I turn just enough to pin Blake’s gaze with mine, my voice less than friendly and not particularly amused.
“I don’t know what?—”
“And you should’ve aged the nails too.” I don’t let him finish. I don’t need to, when he’s the one who turned this into something it never had to be. “Makes it pretty obvious when they’re the only shiny fucking thing in that shed.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Alice chewing on her lower lip as she looks at Blake. The van pulls into the parking lot of the gas station, and even before Blake has really put it into park, I’m up and unlocking the van door.
“Wait.” Trevor grabs my arm suddenly, his confidence failing. It causes me to stumble slightly on my way out, though I manage to catch myself on the outside of the door. “You won’t say that, will you? On your blog?”
“You want me to lie?” I turn, looking at him over my shoulder with what I’m sure is an unfriendly expression at best. There’s no trace of my act, my persona, or the character I play for theScaredy Catrole whenever I’m on camera. Seeing as Inever intend to collaborate withSquad Ghoulsagain, I’m not interested in leaving a good impression.
But they have more to lose here than I do, which is a fact both of us know.
The silence stretches between us, until Trevor lets go of me and I take the final step so both of my boots are on pavement instead of the step of the van. “We didn’t think it would bother you this much,” Blake calls from the front. “If it did…well, I’m sorry, okay? We’re just trying to host a good stream. We thought?—”
“That you’d remind me to do my yearly PSA on dangerous locations with bad reputations that aren’t the best for your mental health?” I ask in a mockingly cheerful voice. “Good news, then. I feel properly reminded.” With one more unhappy grin I stride away from the van, fishing for my keys in the pocket of my skirt so that when I get to the car, I can just jerk the door open and slide into the driver’s seat.
“Coffee,” I sigh to myself, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. “Coffee. Gas station coffee, even.” That would be better than fixing it myself at home, where I can only seem to make things I don’t want to drink. “Coffee and a sweet treat.”
Or ten sugar filled sweet treats.
Even with the pitstop for a large iced coffee from my favorite service station, the drive home goes more quickly than I could’ve expected. By the time I’m walking up my front porch, iced coffee in one hand and plastic bag full of junk dangling from my fingers, I’ve cooled off enough to glance across the road at the only neighbor I can see from my house.
My nightly proof of life check goes just as it usually does. I can see the silhouette of Mrs. Elmore sitting at her window, rocking back and forth in her living room. I can’t tell what she’s doing, though I’d be willing to bet she’s crocheting. Even atninety-six, her fingers are agile and quick with the long needles in her hands, creating patterns in yarn that dazzle me every time.
While I’m not sure she can even see this far in the dark, I raise one hand and wave at her, before unlocking my door just long enough to slip inside. As always, my porch light stays on. It’s a habit, and the one thing I need in the dark to keep my stomach from doing the little anxious twirls that it would if I were walking up here in the pitch black, with only my phone for light. I don’t need it when I’m in the house for the night, sure.
But I can never bring myself to turn it off.
With my coffee in hand, I trudge through the small fixer-upper that’s currently a bit morefixerthanupper, all things considered. But the fact I bought my little thousand square foot house on a half acre yard myself makes up for that. So what if there are some worn places in the carpet or the porch needs to be redone? Yeah, the kitchen appliances are a few years older and a few decibels louder than I’d prefer, but overall this place is perfect.
It got me away from my family, after all, and provides me a sanctuary on nights like tonight, when I just need to strip out of my clothes and collapse into bed.
Not that I can go to sleep just yet.
Still, I give myself a few minutes to just lie there, face down against my pillow with a few groans that go unheard by anyone other than me.
I should get a pet.
I’m home enough, I reason, not for the first time. I miss having animals, though my dad’s hunting dogs and the feral barn cats back home weren’t exactlylovingorfriendlyto people. Thinking of home makes my stomach twist, and it’s reason enough for me to sit up in my boxer shorts and t-shirt, needing something to distract myself from thoughts of my parents and the life I happily left behind.
My laptop is close by, as always, so I drag it to the bed and run my fingers through my hair as I wait for it to turn on. Normally I would never shut it off, so there must have been some kind of update I completely forgot about.
Finally, tabs start popping back open, with my social medias glaring at me even though there’s nothing I really need to do tonight other than this post. Normally I’d wait. I’d give myself some time to process whateverScaredy Catactivity I did. But instead of waiting until morning, I plan on getting this over with now. The longer I wait, the pettier I’ll be when I finally write it.
I’m not doing a video for them. They don’t deserve it, and I’m too lazy to put on makeup, brush my hair, and look like a real human instead of a gremlin who’s only sometimes awake during daylight hours. Instead, my fingers tap quickly over the keys, the room silent save for the quiet lo-fi music from the live channel I always have open.
To anyone who saw tonight’s livestream, I want to apologize about how it ended. I type the words and don’t let myself cushion them, wanting them to be sharp so that maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to deal with this for the rest of the season. At least in person. I know I’ll get comments about my refusal to visit Miscreant Manor, but those I can’t help.
As you all know by now, I advocate for a safe haunt experience, and I wholeheartedly believe scares can be created without having to hurt your customers. As I have stated before, it is not my intention to visit Miscreant Manor. I don’t go to extreme haunts that require my signature on a waiver, or ones famous only for sending guests to the hospital.
Maybe that last part is a little too specific, but I don’t care tonight. Giving the whole thing a quick re-read, I correct a couple errors and fix some wording before copying it and posting it on my blog without many of the flourishes that usuallygo along with my posts. Well, at least my followers will get notified, but I doubt this is the post they were really waiting for.
