Page 6 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
The wolf-man whipped around, snarling. But as Bishop buckled forward, looking to be caught, the apparition disintegrated, and Bishop fell to their knees in the middle of the hall. Colin glanced at the camera hooked to the ceiling and hoped it managed to catch what he’d just seen.
He crept toward Bishop, crouching in front of them.
“Bishop,” Colin said, softly at first, then louder, “Bishop, hey. Are you awake?”
They blinked, shoulders slumping, expression gentling. “What’re you doin’?”
“You were sleep-walking. We’re in the hall.”
They swiped at their eyes and glanced at the wetness on the back of their hand.
“Oh,” they said, surprised, and sniffled. “Did I say anything?”
“You said you were sorry.”
At that, Bishop’s chin dimpled. “Oh… well, I… Iamsorry for waking you,” they blurted, then stumbled to their feet, walking briskly into their bedroom. The door shut with aclick.
Colin waited there, kneeling on the floor, staring at the place Bishop and the wolf-man had stood. The air thickened, as if the house turned inside out, displaying its vulnerabilities to the night. To Colin. Especially to Bishop. Something had happened there—something terrible and heart wrenching. Something Bishop hadn’t shared. Something brutally personal.
Colin glanced down the staircase and stared into the opaque darkness. He didn’t know what or who, but something stared back at him. Something who knew this place, and knew Bishop, and knew the whole damn story.
“Do you have anything to say?” Colin whispered.
Gently, like a butterfly, two words landed on the shell of his ear.
“Get out.”
Colin woke to the smell of bacon grease and buttermilk batter. He stood at the window, watching dew glint on naked branches, and recalled how the wolf-headed apparition held Bishop, tenderly and lovingly, in the hallway the night before. He glanced at his laptop, seated on the nightstand with his journal, then turned his eyes toward the camera in the corner.
What happened here?He leaned closer to the window, watching a fat finch flutter in the driveway. His breath fanned, fogging the glass, revealing streaks from a fingertip. He blew gently. Messy words appeared—I do I do I do—above a thumbprint heart. He fumbled for his phone. Snapped a picture and watched each word fade.What did you two do to each other?
The staircase wheezed. Knuckles rapped his bedroom door, knocking it ajar. Colin turned, met with Bishop dressed in a slouchy, striped long-sleeve—cliff-edged collarbones and long throat and slender shoulders—leaning on the doorframe.
“Hope you like pancakes,” they said, and wrung their hands. “Anything else happen last night?”
Colin almost pointed to the window. Almost saidyes.“No. Quiet as a church.”
Bishop nodded, but they seemed altogether unconvinced. “And the footage…?”
“I haven’t given it a look yet. I can bring my laptop downstairs, though, if you’d like to do an overview with me.”
“Yeah, I’d, uh, I’d like to see what you saw, if that makes sense.”
“It does,” Colin said. He swallowed, paying mind to his own body, something he rarely put on display. Thin, pink scars beneath his nipples, exposed ink on his bare chest—black sigils and thorny vines, angelic runes, and biblical script. Bishop’s eyes jolted from the low line of his joggers to the inverted cross tattooed in the soft hollow at the base of his throat.
Bishop met his eyes and blinked, suddenly caught. They turned swiftly toward the hall. “I’ll cut some fruit,” they said over their shoulder.
“Be right there,” Colin said.
They’re beautiful.The thought intruded. Honest, but unnecessary. Abrupt and complicated and completely unprofessional. He heaved a sigh, forcing his mind to quiet.
He dressed in black pencil pants, plaid socks, and a brown knitted sweater, and stopped by the guest bathroom to brush his teeth and rake texturizer through his short hair. Unsurprisingly, the house had already printed dark circles beneath his eyes, a sign of sleeplessness he couldn’t shake away. He stared at his black pupils. Scrubbed deodorant under his arms and tipped his head, pressing two fingers to his reshaped jaw, dragging the digits over his slender throat, halting at the place an Adam’s apple should’ve been.
For years, Colin Hart had searched for oddities and spirits, ripped unwelcome breath from between the bones of crowded houses, braced for fangs and claws in demonic dwellings, but he’d never managed to scrape the inconsistencies out of himself. Hips, too wide. Shoulders, too narrow. Wrists, too small. Testosterone be damned, he still felt half-framed and hollow. As if his body was a home with too many unused rooms, too much open space. A place still under construction.
Focus, he thought. Splashing his face and dabbing his skin dry with a towel, vision blurred by his damp eyelashes, Colin noticed something unfurl in the mirror. Glowing, almost. As if a shard of sunlight had cracked through the glass. It blinked. Spread. Became almond-shaped and alive. An eye, assessing him with quick, mindful flicks. Gold and bronze surrounded by black and pitted with an onyx pupil.
“Hello,” Colin whispered.
