Page 2 of Magpie
Still, I peer closer, studying the username of the person claiming that their friend made it through:HauntLuvr<3. I try to pick it apart, desperate to see through to the soul typing on the other side. I try to imagine Jessica’s perfectly painted nails clicking across the keyboard. I picture her eyes, bright with excitement, her braids falling into her face as she stares intently at the screen. Like she did whenever she was too engrossed in her writing.
I hover the cursor over the message button, wondering if I’ll have the courage to type up a message to her. To ask if she remembers a lifelong friend who entered the House with her.
Do you remember that she didn’t come back out?
I close the window, turning my eyes to a different forum. I don’t message the user. I never do. Because I know it will be useless. Even if I stumble upon luck for the first time inmy miserable existence and actually find Jessica, no amount of reminding her will rouse the memory of me in her mind.
Because I don’t exist. Not anymore. Not since him.
Does anyone think there’s something weird about this haunt?
I click instantly on the post, scrolling by the top comments, full of trolls and barbed insults at the user. The House’s fanbase doesn’t take kindly to anyone who isn’t as zealously obsessed as they are. Pausing, my eyes hover over a comment, narrowing in on it.
There’s definitely something off about this haunt. I went when I was younger, and I haven’t been able to scrub the feel of it from my mind. It’s like an infection, or an addiction. I can’t help but feel like I lost something when I left it.
I glance at the username.JamesDarling. Furrowing my brow, I wonder if that could be Tim. I try to picture the mop of shaggy blonde hair falling into bright blue eyes. The easy smile that was never far from his face. Except in those last few months, when his expression turned worried, and his smile looked pained. When he was desperately trying to cling to me as I drifted further and further away.
How far did he make it that fateful night? Did he see the second floor? The third? I wonder, not for the first time, which room it was that sent him to his breaking point. Which creation chased him out of the House? Did either Tim or Jessica even make it to the room beneath the attic?
The bright screen in front of me fades to the memory of a dark room, a white-gloved hand holding a black key, and eyes that were far too hungry, holding my gaze.
No, they did not make it to the attic. Of that I am certain.
I try desperately to make myself focus on the chatroom, but my willful brain betrays me and drifts back to thoughts of that night, like it always does when I’m alone in the darkness, unable to hide from what I’ve done.
What I have become.
What Ilethim make me.
I wonder about my friends, as I always do on these endless nights as I wait for the sun and the safety it brings. That familiar jolt of sadness hits my heart when I think too much about them, but I’m unable to stop the deluge of thoughts as they cascade through my tired mind.
Did they see the House the same way I did, in a haze of longing and desperation, or did they witness only whathewanted them to see? I can perfectly imagine their faces etched in lines of silent screams as they bolted from the exit, before dissolving into nervous giggles, desperate for joy to chase away the leaching dark of the House. They would have gushed to each other about the different rooms, the various scenes and visions that played out before them. Did they even realize that as they walked back to their car, their pace was maybe a bit too fast, a bit too eager to put distance between them and the looming beast they left behind?
I think of Tim, the carefree boy I fell easily in love with in high school. As they drove away, did he feel a sad confusion, like a part of his mind was missing? Did the ghost of a memory plague either of them, whispering that there had been another member of their party?
I never let myself dwell on those thoughts too long. I know that path well, know that it is only filled with heartache. They won’t remember standing in line with me, their excited chatter blowing out puffs of cold air as we shivered in the deep night. They won’t remember us getting separated. They won’t remember crying out to me, their last desperate attempt to bring me back from that shrouded abyss I jumped willingly into.
In the quiet of the night, I can almost imagine I am hearing their voices calling for me. I wish so badly that I answered them.
It is all useless to think back on, I remind myself forcefully as I close my laptop. The bright glow of the screen dies, encasing me in shadows once again. I sit with my morose thoughts, leaning against the wall as I study the starry sky outside of my window. The waxing crescent moon grins at me, and I shiver at the sight.
Even if I were to message any of the many users I have suspected of being my old friends, it wouldn’t do any good. I could describe to them portions of their life that only a friend would know, and it still wouldn’t make a difference. They won’t remember me.
They can’t remember me.
Because I’m not alive. Not anymore. He made sure of that. He’s a great jealous beast, and when he takes something, he takes every last bit of it, savoring each bite like it is his last meal. He removed me from all worlds that existed beyond the walls of the House. No one will ever remember me again, not after that night.
The night the House took me. The nighthetook me.
The night I became Magpie.
“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay on?” Mr. Mortimer asks me for the third time this afternoon. I smile, clearing away coffee cups and paper napkins from the last guest to leave after the late-afternoon rush. I don’t answer Mr. Mortimer as I haul the bus tub with me to the kitchen. I don’t need to answer him; he knows what I’ll say. But it doesn’t stop him from asking.
My smile turns sad as I busy myself with putting away the dishes and tossing the trash out in the back alley. Walking back into the sunlit diner, I untie my frilly apron covered in mystery stains from the many waitresses before me. I’ve added a few of my own to carry on after me, and the sight alone fills me with a sharp longing. To leave behind a part of me, however little, that will beremembered…
I give myself a shake and stuff the apron into my ratty backpack. It’s going to be hard enough to say goodbye to Mr. Mortimer and Peggy; I don’t need to add to it by becoming attached to an apron.
I glance up at Mr. Mortimer as he opens the small rotating tower that contains the day’s pie selection. “Lemon meringue, if we have any left,” I call. He might know it is useless to ask me to stay, but I know it is useless to refuse him feeding me.
