Page 1 of Magpie
“Magpie.”
That single word drags down my skin like talons, sinking deep into my flesh and refusing to let me go. His voice is close, too close, as if his lips rest against my ear, his face nestled in the curve of my neck, his breath snaking icy whispers down my heated flesh. A soft sound escapes my lips, halfway between a gasp and a moan. I can nearly feel his arms wrapping around me; I am almost certain it is his body I feel, rigidly hard against mine. But it is that word that sings in my mind, demanding my attention. It races along my skin as his white-gloved hand grips my chin, turning my face to his, and I am unable to stop myself from melting into his touch.
Melting into the darkness that calls to me.
As his cold lips meet mine, I begin to drown in that suffocating, intoxicating aura that flows off him in misty tendrils. His hand moves to the back of my head, locking me in place as his tongue demands entrance, and I am powerless to stop him. Yet my arms do not reach out for him. My hands do not beg to roam over his body. My body might be defenselessagainst his shadowy call, but my mind is painfully aware of the true cost of his love.
With a strangled cry, one caught between despair and longing, I shove him back with all my might. I get tangled in the twisted sheets and thin blanket covering me as I kick and thrash, waiting for those cold, caging arms. The ones that will surround and bind me.
I shoot upright, my wild eyes searching the place I have called my home these last few months. The only furniture in my small, spartan one-bedroom apartment is the mattress I’m on, tossed haphazardly in the corner. The space is otherwise bare except for a pile of discarded clothes nestled next to my door, waiting for their turn at the laundromat.
Peering through the darkness threatening to close in on me, I find myself entirely alone.
The empty apartment cries out for life, for joy. It begs for attachment that I cannot give it. I’m attached to nothing and no one. It is a cold and vacant tomb, the white walls glaring in the dark, lacking pictures depicting cherished memories. The hollowness calls to the void inside of me. This sad place holds no memories.
Hetook those from me. Hetookeverythingfrom me.
After my brief glance around the room, I’m certain that the shadows will remain empty, and my heart begins to settle. His voice is a figment of my mind, nothing more. I tell myself it is just a dream, a nightmare, a visceral memory pushing through darkness into the waking world. Yet I can’t stop myself from pressing my trembling fingers to my lips, where I still feel his frigid kiss.
I let out a shuddering breath as some of the panicky tension begins to leave my body. The feel of his touch refuses to leave me, like spilled ink seeping into and staining everything it comes in contact with. Shaking my head, I try to rinse the thought frommy mind, desperate to not allow him back in, even in thought only. With a shaking hand, I rub at the hair standing on end on my neck, where I can still feel his breath. Glancing at the illuminated face of my wristwatch, I note that sunrise is still four hours away. Four hours before I will truly be safe.
The night is his domain.
It might be hours before dawn, but I know sleep is beyond me at this point. Sighing, I lean over and grab my old beat-up laptop off the ground by my bed. I pause, letting my fingers trail over the faded and torn stickers that litter the surface. Like most of my belongings, I purchased my laptop from a second-hand store. It might not be my hand that placed the decals on it, but from the faded pastel stickers of various state parks to the brighter neon images of different bands, and even the patches of phrases and quotes, I can see a life fully lived.
Unable to stomach the sight of it any longer, I flip the laptop open. Squinting against the offending bright light of the screen in the darkness of my bedroom, I chew on a nail as it powers up. I type in my passcode, waiting as the many windows from my previous session pop open. Several plead for my attention, the same pages I visit almost nightly and with increasing obsession as September draws to a close. My eyes can’t help but flick to the date at the bottom of my screen. September 29th. So close to another October. So close to another chance forhimto come alive.
Pulling my gaze away from the date, I begin my ritual of scanning the message boards, the Facebook pages, the Reddit threads, and any search engine results for the Wandering House: the famed roaming house known for its immersive horror experience, unique to each patron. Rabid fans will go on diatribes anytime someone so much as mentions the phrase “haunted house” around it.
My eyes scan over a comment from a fan feverishly exalting its praises.
The very nature of the Wandering House is leagues above any other haunt. How they are able to expertly weave actors and scenery together to make an experience so immersive you don’t know which way is down and which way is up sets it on a higher level than the trivial haunts filled with jump scares and bad makeup. The Wandering House isn’t something you leave behind when you exit. It stays with you, refusing to let you truly ever get out.
I shiver as scrawled words flash in my mind.Go Up To Get Out.
I scroll by the post, refusing to read the rest as the user waxes poetic about the Wandering House. Like it is art. Like it isgood. Closing that window, I open a different one, a forum dedicated to tracking the location of the House.
It’s almost October!!! Where is the location?!?
I click on the forum post, my eyes flicking by the various suggestions and hints. Fans will follow clues like bloodhounds, sniffing out any drop to lead them to the famed House. Operating only in October, the Wandering House selects a new location yearly. I watch several tagged videos of people begging it to show up in their town. It has become a trend to showcase dilapidated buildings, old farmhouses, deserted warehouses, any place the user thinks horrific enough to entice the Wandering House to take up residence.
I grimace, a sour feeling settling in my stomach. If only they knew what they were begging for.
If only I had known.
I ignore the videos, unable to stomach their bright faces and the wild anticipation in their eyes. Sliding my finger over the touchpad, I click on another forum. More useless posts, morelinks to trending videos, but nothing to really help me. Nothing to give me even the slightest hint as to whereheis.
My friend made it to the attic on Halloween night.
I freeze, my eyes glued to the words on the glowing screen. Swallowing hard, I click on the link, my heart lodged directly in my throat, making it hard to breathe. It’s known widely throughout the fanbase that the frights become increasingly more intense, lasting for longer, as October creeps steadily closer to the end—to Samhain, when the veil is thinnest and darkness can fully seep in.
He swore to me he made it all the way to the attic. The rooms he entered, the haunts he experienced, they were way too intense for him to have made it all up!
What was in the attic?
Well…he didn’t actually goupto the attic. He just saw the rope dangling from the ceiling. That still counts, right?
I scowl. Making it to the attic isn’t the challenge. Getting out of it is.
