Page 53 of Monsters Like Us
The van rattleslike its bolts want out, the whole vehicle thrumming under us as if it knows what it carries. My hands won’t stop shaking. Micah drives one-handed, the other anchored on my knee like a vow. He hasn’t said a word since we left the house. But his silence doesn’t scare me. It steadies me. Just like his presence grounds me.
We only slow to eat in breathless bites—an apple split between us, a sandwich that tastes bland. The headlights carve a tunnel through the trees: black trunks, dark gaps, the road a thread we refuse to let go of. I roll the window down just enough for cold air to slice against my cheeks. The scent of smoke, pine, and a sour hint of old diesel baked into the van’s bones wafts over me.
A gas station blinks into existence like a mirage.
While Micah pumps gas, I head into the small convenience store to pay. The bell jingles over the door, making me tense. A string of orange Halloween lights sag around the counter like tired smiles.
It must be close to Halloween.
I roam the store like an alien. The bright lights, hummingrefrigerators, and aisles of food are all jarring after captivity. I grab snacks and sodas. The woman at the register barely looks at me as I pay.
When I step outside, I see a small dark laundromat and beside it, a few houses. In the lights along the street, I catch a glimpse of some clothing swaying on the line—flannel, denim, an oversized gray sweater. No decorations or any sign of life on the porch. The house is dark.
I nod to it when I climb inside the van.
“Already saw it.” Micah pulls away from the gas pump and into the shadows at the edge of the lot. The engine ticks when he kills it; the sudden quiet a living thing.
“Meet you at the store in five minutes.” He nods in the direction of it, and I nod.
“Five minutes,” I whisper.
He nods once. That’s all.
We split. I ghost behind the laundromat. Wet grass licks my ankles, and my breath fogs white. I glance at the back door of the house. It’s dark. Still. Then I move.
The clothes are cold and damp and exactly right. I take what we can wear and what we can layer: jeans that might fit me, a black hoodie that’ll swallow me, two flannels soft from a hundred washes, and jeans that I hope will fit Micah. I leave clothespins clipped to the lines, and send a silent apology to a stranger I’ll never meet.
I toss the clothing inside the van, then hurry to the store.
Micah’s already outside the store’s rear door, his palm open, holding the two phones. My brows furrow until I meet his gaze, then I understand. I pop each SIM card out with a fingernail, curling it in my fist, and set the bodies of the phones on the cinderblock curb. He steps once, hard. Glass crunches and plastic gives way beneath his foot. We toss them in the large, green dumpster behind the brick shop.
Inside, the bell over the doordings. The fluorescent light is bright against my eyes. The place smells like cheap Halloween costumes and décor.
A cardboard tombstone by the register reads HAPPY HAUNTING in glitter. Behind it, a spinning rack of masks and nylon capes squeaks whenever the heater kicks on.
In the restroom, I flush the SIM cards down the toilet.
I grab what we need fast: bottled water, a pack of protein bars, a roll of gauze, antiseptic, a tube of ibuprofen, a small first aid kit with a pair of tweezers and tiny scissors. A wig hangs limply on a plastic head—dark and blunt-cut with bangs. I grab it, along with a soft, red scarf, my favorite color. Because I can’t help myself, I grab a plastic knife and a Michael Myers mask. I almost laugh out loud as I take my items to the register. Micah doesn’t need a mask—people become masks around him.Maybe I’m the one who needs it.
At the counter, a crooked sign in orange marker reads:HALLOWEEN BASH — OCT 31. A smaller one under it:DEVIL’S NIGHT SPECIALS 10/30.
“October thirtieth,” I breathe.
The clerk—mid-sixties, eyes like unlit coals—rings me up and slides my things into a paper sack. “That it?”
“That’s it.” I fish in Vale’s wallet, pulling out cash. The bills leave my fingers like secrets. The clerk glances at my frayed sweatshirt, at the bruises blooming along my wrists, and looks away like he didn’t see anything.
Outside, the air bites stronger. I tug the wig over my hair and wrap the scarf twice. Micah stands there with his arms crossed, watching me. His eyes are dark, a storm rolling in his skull. But he smirks as he takes me in.
“It’s Devil’s Night,” I tell him, my voice low.
A smirk curls his lips. “Seems appropriate.”
I hand him the Myers mask and the knife from the bag. He looks at it, then at me, his eye glimmering with hunger.
“Someone got a mask kink, huh?”
I grin. “Something like that.”
