If someone were to ask Wilfred what he saw in the corner of Lottie's living room, he'd just scoff and claim it to be her roommate.
Her roommate was as fickle as Lottie was, the two clutching hands and skipping down an abyss of witches and occult-like black magic. Wilfred was certain that one day, he'd walk in and see a rift between here and the underworld with the two cloaked in shadows and chanting some bizarre Latin spell.
However, as he trudged through the dismal streets, he heaved a long sigh knowing that it would probably be a long while until he would be allowed to visit her again.
Lottie had a short-temper; Wilfred was an adamant people-pleaser due to his incessant fear of being hated. The two blended together like oil and water, with Lottie frequently getting mad and venting all her tragic tales to Wilfred, who'd just quietly listen. When she was happy, she'd forget about him for a while.
Wilfred didn't mind the toxicity of the friendship, only being grateful that someone as pretty as her would even lower her lashes to cast an eye on someone measly like him. He'd often mess up in her presence – tragically, the Ouija board incident wasn't the first time Wilfred had broken or 'insulted' her tools of darkness.
He once tore a voodoo doll in half after underestimating how feeble the straw was.
A jack-in-the-box that contained the so-called 'resentful energy', in which Wilfred got startled by the grotesque expression of the jester and dropped it, making the music eerily distorted and the spring to break off.
But that provided Wilfred with a bit of solace since he's been breaking possessed artifacts or spiritual tools since high school – the fact that he hasn't been dragged into the spiritual world or got possessed is enough proof that it simply doesn't exist.
However, he still couldn't shake off the chill down his spine from the pressure on his shoulder, nor could he forget the piercing, bloodshot eyes in the darkness.
What was that?
No, not 'what', it was definitely a 'who'.
If he called it a 'what', it may suggest that his beliefs were crumbling on the adamant disbelief of the supernatural.
So, once again, he repeatedly comforted himself on the way home by claiming it to be Lottie's bizarre roommate attempting to scare the wits out of him. He wasn't going to let her do such a thing, so he let the cold night breeze hit his skin, as if it were attempting to slap him back to reality.
Despite it being a Sunday night, the streets were bustling with people rushing here and there in oddly coloured clothing and a seeming glow of eagerness surrounding them. There were far more people than usual, the streets buzzing with sound that would enter one ear and exit through the next, conversations about little trivial nothings.
Wilfred kept his eyes lowered.
The dreadful feeling of feeling congested in a crowd consumed him, clawing up his skin and making him feel extremely sensitive. Luckily, not even a hand or a shoulder grazed Wilfred, so he attempted to keep minimal contact with anyone and finally made it to the outside of his apartment complex.
The paint had begun to peel off the outside, the brick layers illuminating under the watchful gaze of the streetlamp, in which it's hunched figure was like a spotlight of accusation to Wilfred.
His mind had been conflicted the whole way, from the seething expression of Lottie to the burnt ashes of the board between his fingertips, to the pressure on his shoulder and the figure cast in the shadows. The spotlight cast upon him now felt like someone was blaming him – was it his consciousness? He was a naturally clumsy person who had trouble making friends and keeping up with employment options.
It was as if the water behind the dam had been collecting for a while, about to break it open and overflow. Too many emotions whirled in Wilfred's head, making him slightly unstable and unable to punch the pin numbers to the door without trembling fingers.
Each step felt as if the weight of the world was resting on it, making him immeasurably exhausted by the time he got to his door. He fumbled for his keys and failed to place it in multiple times, irritation clawing up his skin. Tears begun to well up in his eyes, and he suddenly felt immensely ashamed.
There was no reason to cry, yet he felt like all the trifles of the past few months begun to catch up to him. He could no longer grin it away.
Anxious thoughts would crawl up his skin often, so he grew accustomed to it.
'Breathe in, breathe out', Wilfred mentally reminded himself, taking slow yet quivering breaths before the door clicked open.
The strange scent of a burning pot wafted in, making Wilfred panic momentarily before he realized that he had burnt a pot earlier in the day due to forgetting about the noodles on the stove. Disliking the scent greatly, he stumbled past the carboard boxes stacked from the corridor to the living room and pushed open a window, letting the city breeze tickle his skin and help the pungent stench escape the apartment.
Afterwards, he disregarded the thought of changing his clothes and immediately crashed into his mattress on the floor of his supposed bedroom that was scattered with cardboard moving boxes labelled 'living room' or 'comic books'.
The bedroom was a small space, just enough to fit a single bed and a few cupboards that he could use to store his comic books – or maybe the living room would be a better display? He pushed aside the thought – as well as his limited clothes and blazers. The whole 'moving out' thing was his parents' idea since they finally decided that their 23-year-old son is officially screwed up and now they can focus on their next child.
He silently prayed his little sister had a larger mental fortitude than him.
Apartment hunting was a pain with his reluctance, and the fact that at the time he had just got out of university with a low paying temp job, so he settled for a one-bedroom apartment in the rather bad side of town. Although he wouldn't admit it to his parents due to his ego, he actually felt that rush of adrenaline they described as the thought sunk in. 'I'm finally on my own, everything I do is my choice, and I don't take orders from anyone!'
The confidence was short-lasting.
'I'm on my own.'
'I don't take orders from anyone.'
Wilfred was, obviously, a people-pleaser. It was an issue he was yet to address, but never got around to it because he simply liked being liked. So much so that he was always pushed around to cover shifts for people who would ignore his requests to hang out, help them with a mindset that they were friends, buy things off his salary for others and do things he didn't want to just to please them – the whole Ouija board incidents, per say.
He then pictured Lottie. Her face illuminated from the candlelight.
After staring at the ceiling until his vision grew hazy, he reluctantly let out a groan and sat up. His back hit the wall as he crossed his legs, taking out his phone and switching it on, wincing slightly at the light.
Adjusting his glasses, he hesitated before clicking on the Instagram icon, knowing that Lottie spends a majority of her time mindlessly scrolling through it – no doubt, she'd be online.
Squinting his eyes in the darkness, he began typing a long apology along the lines of 'I won't do it again' and 'I'm really sorry' but buttered down to make sure that pity was visible. Which ended up filling the entire screen.
He paused for a moment, his thumb hovering over the 'send' button before he sighed once more, deleted the entire paragraph and stared at the chat for a few moments. Perhaps he shouldn't message her again. How many times would she let him come back if he were to be this clumsy again?
Tugging his hair lightly, he decided he'd let it be for now and decide in the morning. He began to scroll through Instagram for the sake of not feeling alone in his own mind, and to shake the creepy sensation that he was being watched.
Stupid, shouldn't have meddled with that board. He knew it was fake, some marketing thing set out to scare rebellious teens who loved to dabble in the occult, or just some creepy aesthetic.
However, he just didn't like the sinking pit setting in his stomach, feeling unnerved by the eyes cast upon him from the darkness.
When he was about to exit the app, his finger slipped.
This resulted in him entering the camera mode, his face reflecting back in a dejected fashion, the light of the screen blaring from the darkness of the room with the moonlight streaming through the open window as slits of weak illumination.
Except there was an issue.
What should have just been his dejected face staring back at him wasn't all that he saw. Yes, his face was there, but so was another one.
Another face was hunched over Wilfred's shoulder, examining his phone with the upmost of concentration in deep, hollow eyes.
Wilfred's breathing hitched momentarily, but the person beside him didn't seem fazed in the slightest, murmuring something.
There was someone else there.
But Wilfred's next thought wasn't about the person, it was about what they were murmuring.
"Does he not notice the spider?"