While some of the storefronts have been updated over the decades, the brownstone at 632 Carver Street stands over the rest of them as a relic from at least one hundred years ago. The door has an ornate design, more about craftsmanship than artistic ability. The sidewalk in front is cracked and marred. A few years ago, the city replaced the worn concrete walkway. Locals used the opportunity to etch runes and symbols into it while it was still wet. But after the first cold winter rain, the once smooth surface shattered, rendering the new art obsolete, and the walkway a serious tripping hazard.
I shouldn’t look up, but some invisible force drags my eyes to the third-floor window. Movement. My stomach turns.
The stairs from the building jut out into the pathway, even more of a tripping hazard than the sidewalk. I prop my foot on the first step, but I never go any further. It gives me enough reach to put the bag of food on the top step and the white box next to it.
The sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t start to vanish until I’m halfway down the block, with Joey and Kingston a few feet away. I hear the front door strain and creak on its hinges in a banshee wail. I don’t need to look behind me. The food is already gone.
Once we’re two blocks away I say, “Go ahead, ask it.”
“What the hell was that?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m going to overshare, because I think it’ll make more sense with context and you might understand. Or it will solidify any opinion you have of me.”
Joey glances over. It’s not a side-eye of judgment, but more because we’re side by side and that’s the only way he can see me without turning his head.
“Ok, so I get a little hyper focused on things. Sometimes it’s crafts, sometimes it’s topics. I have an alarming amount of useless information about tree frogs crammed in my brain. But that’s neither here nor there. One of my fixations was on a TV show about these two brothers who hunt down monsters and shit. It was on the air for sixteen seasons, and the fan base is, in a word, ravenous.” I should know—I moderated two internet fan groups and read more fanfiction than any other form of literature. “The lore around the show was interesting, and it sent me down a rabbit hole of information. I wasn’t interested in the stories anymore; I wanted to learn about the truth.
“When I moved out here, I did a few ghost tours and eventually started to lead one myself. I got obsessed with researching different ghost stories around the city. Most of them are fine. Basic. A few shadow figures. Lights and orbs. Sometimes a little kid. None of them made me freak out. That is until I came to 632 Carver Street.” I pause as I try to gauge his reaction, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve come this far already, might as well go all in.
“That house makes me feel sick. Sometimes I get headaches, other times I feel like I’m going to vomit.” Okay, here I go. “I’m one hundred percent convinced there’s a demon in there.”
He snorts.
“But there are also a few people who live there. They might be unhoused, I don’t know. I never asked. But if there is a demon in there, I don’t want to piss him off. So, I leave him a little offering every time I walk by, and something for the people too.”
Joey keeps his vision straight ahead. He doesn’t look at me, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He seems…completely unphased.
What the hell? I told him I believe in demons and ghosts and shit, and he’s acting like I said I like ketchup on my hot dogs.
I’m a little encouraged because I’m not seeing that judgy expression I usually get when I mention supernatural stuff, and I let the Narrator Lady slip out, so I continue. “At best, I’m a super nice person who feeds some people who might need a little help. At worst, I’m a paranoid Pagan nerd whose fandom changed their sense of reality.” I sigh. “Maybe context doesn’t help your opinion of me.”
It's another agonizing block in silence. He thinks I’m a freaking weirdo, doesn’t he? He’s trying to figure out the best way to fire me, and I’ll never see my little Kingston again.
Then he says, “In my line of work, I hear a lot of strange shit. Some I believe, most I don’t. But if leaving food on a doorstep makes you feel safe, then I’m not gonna say shit to you about it.”
“But what do you think?”
“Oh, I’m thinking about a lot of stuff. It’s pretty loud in my head, but I know better than to verbalize it.”
“I appreciate that.” It’s better not to know anyway. At least I can live in the delusion that he thinks I’m somewhat normal.
Joey seems to perk up whenever someone passes us. His eyes narrow and he steps a little closer to me. It’s like he’s constantly checking for threats. He frowns when a woman walks past us and she waves at Kingston.
As another woman’s eyes drop toward Kingston, she lights up and says hi. And for the third time, Joey responds back.
“They’re looking at the dog, not you.”
“What?”
“Women like dogs, the cuter the better. But this dog is so cute, you’re invisible. The same thing happens to me when I walk him. It’s like everything else on the street vanishes, and all they see is Kingston. If you had a mid-cute dog, you might be able to use him to get laid. But this little guy will be a cock-block every time.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. He’s the only reason I’ve been hanging out with you and not once have I inappropriately hit on you or made a comment about how cute I think your butt is.”
He sniffs. “You think I’ve got a cute ass?”
“Call me Tina Belcher, I’m butt crazy. And the whole point of that tangent is how I’m keeping my intrusive thoughts to myself. For once.”
