It's still raining. I begged God for one break, and he couldn't even give me that.
I park my blue Volkswagen Beetle on a residential street and glance in the rear-view mirror.
Odds are, Ted is looking for me already. He knows practically everyone at school, not necessarily by name but by their car, make, and model. He's driven my car a couple of times and pointed out dings and scratches. Mocked and complained. The whole bit. If he sees my car, even at a distance, he won't mistake it for someone else's.
The Winchester area isn't exactly a sprawling metropolis. Ted is from around here, too. His family has lived here since, well, colonization. He knows plenty of "people" like him. So, it's only a matter of time. He will find me.
Maybe I should leave the area. I could go home instead…
Norfolk is about four hours away, on the Virginia coast. Although it's a Thursday, and I can't deny that I'm tempted, I have a midterm first thing in the morning and a game tomorrow night. The available room on Craigslist is my only option if I intend to take the exam, somewhat well rested, and fulfill my obligation to my school.
I did study while I was avoiding Ted in the library, the least likely place he'd be. But who am I trying to kid? I should drop out of school and try again later, somewhere far from here.
What's stopping me? My reasons to stay are getting weaker by the day, but there's one that never fails to surface. I don't want my parents to be right about me. I received an athletic scholarship to cover some of the cost, but otherwise, I'm on my own. I don't have their financial or ideological support. They don't think I'm ready for college, or college material in general. I'm too trusting, too distractible, too nice to the wrong people, and they will take advantage of me, loosening my morals while they're at it. And, of course, they're filling my head with "lies."
You get the idea…
I look in my rear-view mirror again, this time to check my eye. Even in the dim streetlight, I catch a glimpse of the proof. My parents are right. They just can't find out about it. If I can minimize public exposure and avoid future damage—and this apartment seems like my only hope—perhaps they'll never have to know.
Pulling up my hood, I make a run for it.
On each step to the porch, there's an intricately carved pumpkin. Beneath the shelter of a second-story balcony, I pause to catch my breath. It's a modest, two-family house. The paint is chipping on the pillars, and the wood planks are warped, but it's not too shabby for the neighborhood, which, I admit, isn't the best.
Through a hole in the shades, I peek inside the first-floor apartment. I can't see much. It looks vacant, though. No furniture. No decoration. In what would probably be the living room, there are bags, bottles, balls of paper, and a few crates in a roughly circular shape.
Beside the door leading to the second floor, a mechanical witch cackles in response to my movement. Dry ice puffs out of her cauldron.
Halloween isn't for another two weeks…
Whatever. Immediate vacancy. And I almost have enough money for it. I will by tomorrow, anyway. My paycheck should cover the first two weeks, at the very least.
I ring the doorbell. My phone buzzes at exactly the same time.
Jael: Enter at your own risk. 👻
He must have seen or heard me coming. I glance up and spot a camera in the crook above the door.
It's a red flag, one of probably many.
From what "Jael" has told me via text, which wasn't much, it's a peculiar arrangement. He's not the landlord. He's not related to the landlord. He is, however, the only tenant—at the moment—and the property manager.
There's no lease. No security deposit or anything. It's "month to month" and I'm supposed to pay him the rent in cash. If I have a problem, I go to him. If I have a problem with him? He's my only point of contact, so I guess I don't complain. Or I leave, whenever I feel like it. It's $400 a month and half that for my first two weeks. It's a lot of money for "work study" and bussing tables on the side, but it is actually doable.
I realize this is like the unicorn of living arrangements. And when things are too good to be true, they probably are and all, but it's at least worth a look, right?
What's the worst that can happen? Uh, yeah, please don't answer that…
As instructed, I let myself in and head up the "creepy" stairway. My movement is accompanied by strobe lights and the cries of the "dead."
"Come in," I hear before I have a chance to knock on the door at the top.
At this moment of indecision, I can practically hear my stepfather's deep, condescending voice—for whatever one sows, that which she will also reap. Still, I go right in, pretending none of this is weird.
"Hello, you must be Sam," Jael greets me from behind a desk like he's a receptionist in a lobby. What would be the dining room is set up as an office. He looks more tech savvy than I will ever be. I have a printer curse that's rather severe, so I'd say this is a point in his favor.
He seems tall, even from a chair, slender but strong. His fitted black shirt draws attention to all of the above. His black hair is overgrown. He shaves, just not often, and looks deathly pale in the greenish light of his computer. And I cannot get past the dog collar. But, to the right girl, someone edgy and rebellious, he'd be, well, kind of hot, I guess. Beyond that, he looks content and comfortable—not nervous at all. He has a steaming hot beverage on a coaster, a half-eaten omelet, and a pile of bacon on a plate, like it's breakfast time and not ten o'clock at night.
"That's girl Sam, not boy Sam." His voice is playful, pleasant. It seems to contradict his appearance. I'd expect some rasp and some growl, even when he's being "nice."
"And you're boy Jael," I reply, not knowing what else to say. I suppose "Jael" could be a girl's name. But I already had a strong feeling it wasn't. I'm not that lucky.
My parents are going to disown me. A male roommate and one they'd hate at first sight?
Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
"Is that a problem?" He glances me over. His lips quirk into a slight frown. Tiny. Blond. A little young for this—I'm barely 18. And I'm obviously a cheerleader. Everyone always says that, and it pains me to say, they're right. And I'm a flyer at that—the girl who gets thrown around, on the field and off apparently, too. I have a black eye to bolster the stereotype that even my hoodie can't hide.
"Um . . . no?" I take a gulp and start again. "Uh, wasn't there supposed to be a 'Lexi' looking at the third bedroom?"
If there's a two to one girl-boy ratio, I could live with that and hopefully my parents will at least try to understand.
"She stopped by earlier. She declined," he states, cool and dry as his ice downstairs. It's just a meaningless fact to him.
This girl probably took one look at the place—Halloween decorations literally everywhere—and went screaming into the night.
"I hope you don't mind the ambiance." It's as if he read my mind. "Halloween's my favorite holiday."
"I can see that."
He smirks and lets out a muffled chuckle. At the same time, I burst out laughing. Next thing I know, I'm hunched over, sobbing uncontrollably in this strange boy's lair. Man, I should say. He rises from his chair, and my eyes scan upward, and dawdle downward. He is certainly no boy.
"You can say no." He takes two long strides to his right, like he wants to comfort me, and then he pauses beside his desk, as if he's conflicted about it. "I don't mind. I'm used to it."
He doesn't want to crowd me? He's not the touchy-feely type? Whatever. It's probably for the best. I'm just as torn over what's right and what's necessary. It's a constant battle.
"It's not that." I reach into my pocket and pull out twenty-seven dollars and forty-three cents. "I don't have enough for the half-month of rent yet. I get paid…"
As I'm about to put every cent to my name on his desk, he puts up his hand. "Keep it. I'll give you a week or two to figure it out."
I wipe my face dry with my sleeve. "Thank you."
An uncomfortable silence billows into the room. Fortunately, he breaks it before it gets oppressive. "It's not a bad night once you're out of the rain. Why don't you have a seat on the balcony?" He points to his right, through an archway. In the candle-lit living room, there's a glass set of double doors behind the couch. "Can I make you some tea?"
Did he say tea?
Does he know me?
I could drink it around the clock, almost any flavor, and since he's doing me a favor, I should accept his hospitality, right? We are roommates now.
"That'd be great." I manage a polite smile and bend to the suggestion.
The balcony is open-air but covered. I'm pleasantly surprised by the decent patio furniture and clean cushions, probably no more than a year old.
I sit down on the "loveseat"—and try not to think of the pitfalls of that—and stare at the rain like I'm the apartment's very own zombie mascot. If I lean forward and extend my spine, I have a decent view of the neighborhood and can just make out my car on the other side of the street.
I try not to peek at it more than once . . . or twice. I'm not usually paranoid, but today, I can't help it.
It takes Jael a few minutes to meet me out here. "Witch's brew," he says, handing me the steaming mug. "I added a dash of milk and a half-teaspoon of sugar. I hope that's all right."
"It's perfect. Thank you," I tell him, and I mean it.
How did he know how I take my tea? Rather than question it, I take a sip and read the label. It's pumpkin chai, a kind you can buy at any grocery store. Still, it's like a balm to my fractured soul. I haven't eaten anything since daybreak. I can't remember the last time I had something to drink. And I've been crying half the night, pleading for a calm and clean release—to no avail—when I should have been studying.
Jael lingers in the doorway sipping his own tea, furtively concerned or curious—I can't tell which.
He's thoughtful. Reserved, maybe. His eyes give a lot away, though. He reminds me of a puppy, one that misses its owner, or doesn't and feels guilty about it. Dark, sad, mysterious . . . lonely? I don't know. Maybe I'm overthinking it. They're just eyes. Nice eyes, I admit, but…
He eventually turns to go. It's my gasp that calls him back outside not more than a second later.
Wheels suddenly squeal. After a reckless U-turn, Ted, my ex-boyfriend of two weeks—yeah, only two weeks—slams his massive pickup truck into park about an inch behind my bumper.
No matter what I say or do . . . I need space . . . this isn't working out . . . you're hurting me . . . I can't . . . I won't . . . it's over . . . he thinks I'm his and always will be.
Ted slams the car door. His eyes dart to where I'm sitting. I'm too slow to crouch back down before he sees me. "Sam, I know you're up there," he shouts from the street. "25B, goddamnit. I know all about it!"
How did he find out? I've been careful. I planned ahead. Jael is the only one who knew I'd be here. Did he sell me out? Or say the wrong thing to the wrong person?
Ted crosses the street, his fists already clenched.
Jael disappears in the blink of an eye. I can't say I blame him. Not my problem is probably the first thought that comes to his mind. And yet, the next thing I know, he's facing Ted on the sidewalk. He's not built like Ted, the linebacker, but he is tall when he straightens that spine of his. They are eye to eye, and that seems to startle Ted. It's not something he's used to.
Jael's lips move. What does he say? I wish I knew. He doesn't ever raise his voice. I guess he doesn't have to.
As his words are said, his eyes flare open, a clear back off. I catch a flicker of red and gold in the warning, like a fire is smoldering deep within and the flue was just opened, letting the flames lick out.
Ted jerks away and steps back without a fight, something I've never seen him do.
Jael takes a stance on the sidewalk, guarding his territory until Ted's truck speeds away. He then whirls around, stares up at me, his expression hard and unreadable, and after he takes an explosive breath, he comes back inside.
He never returns to the balcony to say anything more to me. I just sit there, trying to make sense of it all, hoping the monster who vanquished the monster won't turn that power back on me again, harder than the first time.
Soon, I can't process it anymore. I'm cold, damp, exhausted. The rain has only let up by about half. I don't even want to bother getting my stuff out of the car. I can survive the night without it.
I finish the last of my tea and go inside, ready to ask about the furnished room Jael supposedly has waiting for me.
He's sitting at his computer again like nothing ever happened. If his safety is on the line too, he deserves a complete confession, from the beginning, and I'd be willing to give it to him for the kindness he's shown. But he doesn't ask for one. He simply gets up and shows me to my room. It has an institutional-looking setup—double bed, white sheets, one of those warm but cheap blankets with fake satin on the trim—but it's a luxury to me.
I kick off my wet sneakers and plop down on the bed like Ted is on top of me. He'd like that I thought of him in this context, and I wish it could have been avoided…
"Well, I'm off," Jael says from the doorway, his toe placement strategic, like there's an invisible barrier he's too polite to breach.
Off to bed? Off to guard duty? Off to save the world? Or to plan my undoing, the "ritual" yet to be determined?
"Sleep tight," he adds.
"Yeah," I sigh, already maneuvering myself under the covers. "You too."
Sleep tight. Those are ominous final words, but…
Once he closes the door, I hear just two footsteps and then . . . nothing beyond the rain drumming against the roof. Before long, I stop trying to figure out what he's up to and close my eyes.
Could Jael be the perfect roommate? He's quiet, kind to me, terrifying when it matters most, doesn't expect any "reward" for his behavior or even an explanation for Ted's, and he's respectful of my space and privacy.
Will I'll survive to see another day?
If I'm his human sacrifice, he'd probably wait until Halloween, right? That gives me two weeks to plan accordingly.
The thought isn't comforting, but still, I fall asleep and sleep soundly, until, in my dreams, Jael points that fiery gaze at me. And what's worse, I like it . . . a little too much!