Kit does probably the least surprising thing and beelines for the spray paint. It’s locked behind a plastic case, and for a moment I think he’s going to break into it, but he finds an employee to open the case with her key.
He picks out two large cans of both white and black and small cans of purple, green, and pink then thanks the employee. As soon as the case is relocked and the employee is out of sight,Kit drops the cans of paint in his bag and strolls right on out of the store without paying. There is not even an ounce of me that is shocked. I am annoyed, however, because I know for a fact that Michael’s has security cameras. So, looks like I’ll never be able to go there again. They’ll probably post a freeze-frame shot of me in the breakroom with solid red letters reading:shoplifter.And what if someone recognizes me and posts it on the internet? Say goodbye to ParanormalAugust—or at least my reputation. Ugh.
As he exits the store, the sun is starting to set. Another day nearly gone with someone else controlling my body. I wonder…I squeeze my eyes shut and conjure up a small chalkboard and a piece of white chalk. I draw two lines on it and prop it up against the wall beside my window. Counting the days will keep me sane. Or perhaps it will have the opposite effect. Guess we’ll have to wait around and see.
Kit drives past the exit that would take us back to my apartment and keeps going. He eventually pulls off and parks along a dirt road. After he gets out of the car, we walk for a while before we end up back along the highway, arriving at a billboard. With his hands on his hips, he stares up at it.
No. No way.
But, yes. Yes way. He begins to climb. If he falls and breaks every bone in my body, I’m going to find a way to break every bone in his. Even if he doesn’t technically have a body that is not also my body. I will find a way.
He reaches the top, and I let out a shaky breath. On the small ledge acting as a stand for him, he crouches and retrieves thepaint one can at a time, lining them up side by side. He seriously is about to vandalize this billboard.
Okay—I understand that shoplifting, vandalism, and stealing cars are all crimes, but for a demon? This is literally so boring. And the two places he’s shoplifted from are major corporations, so they’re victimless crimes. I’m sure the person he stole the car from had groceries they were wanting to take home, but Kit left the car at the club in perfect condition. They’ve likely found it by now. Or if not, they will soon.
It’s not that I want him racking up a bunch of victims in my body, but every single choice he makes is more perplexing than the last. Also, to be clear, I don’t want him racking up a bunch of victims inanybody, but he’s currently in mine, so that is my main focus.
Kit first uncaps the purple paint can, tossing the cap to the ground. Let’s addlitteringto his list of delinquencies. He presses down hard on the nozzle, a dab of purple paint staining his pointer finger as he sprays widely over the billboard, covering a smiling woman running for state government. When the can is empty, he tosses that too to the ground. He moves on to the green next and layers that over the purple, creating a tie-dye of sorts. Once that can runs out, he tosses it over his shoulder and sits down, staring at his creation (if one could call it that). He stares and stares, almost like we’re waiting for something.
Perhaps he’s created a portal to another realm with spray paint and is awaiting a scary friend. But wouldn’t there be chanting of some sort and-slash-or various types of blood involved in that? What do I know? I’m not a portal expert.
Nothing happens.
Oh, good lord. I realize what’s actually going on. We’re watching paint dry.
I collapse back in my chair and consider the very real possibility that Kit is trying to kill me with boredom. Or at the very least, drive me insane.
After about thirty minutes, Kit reaches a finger out and taps it against the paint. It comes off wet and green, so he sits back and continues to stare. Another thirty minutes pass, and this time when he reaches out a finger, it comes away dry. He pushes himself back up to his feet and picks up one of the white cans. He uncaps it, again dropping the cap to the ground, and starts to spray in a more distinct shape. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but it’s an oval with a squiggly bottom. He fills it in so it’s standing stark and solid against the green and purple background. He uses up the entire first can of white paint and moves on to the next. Once he’s satisfied with the result of his white blob, he moves on to the black paint. He applies the black paint more cautiously than he did the white, tracing a careful outline around the white, the squiggly bottom becoming sharper with the black lines.
Only then do I realize what he’s drawing. A ghost. He adds eyes, oval outlines with solid black circles in the bottom, Casper-esque, and a wide-open mouth.
He again sits down and stares at the painting that must not yet be complete, waiting for it to dry. After another hour of waiting, he picks up the pink paint and draws a tongue inside the mouth. Then he adds a flash of white in each pupil, and lastly, outlines the tongue in black.
It’s a ridiculous painting. But it’s also weirdly good. Like, is this a masterpiece? No. But does it show actual skill? Oddly enough, yes.
Still holding the black paint, he backs up as far as he can on the ledge, which is not that far, to assess his work. “Nice,” he says in my voice. He pivots so he can climb down the ladder. Once his feet hit the ground, he jogs back far enough to fully consider the ghost. “Nice,” he says again. He takes out my phone and pulls up the camera. Still muttering to himself, he says, “I can show her later,” as he snaps a few pics.
“Show who?” I ask.
He nearly drops the phone but recovers quickly enough to catch it in mid-air.
“Lacy,” he says in my void. “Hi. Show you.”
Did he…? No way. I ask softly, “Did you paint this for me?”
“Um, well, you like ghosts. So”—he gestures to the billboard—“ghost.”
I can’t control the smile or the incredulous laugh that escapes. This is oddly…sweet? The gesture makes my face warm. “Wow. No one has ever defaced private property for me before. It’s very nice, Kit.”
“I mean, it wasn’tforyou.”
“Liar,” I accuse.
He starts to sputter. “It wasinspiredby you. I always get a little something from anyone I possess. I find myself with a new interest in ghosts.”
I’m still smiling. “Of course. And who’d you take the artistic abilities from?”
He chuckles. “That’s left over from another life.”
