Alone

He lingers over his approach to the front door, breathing deeply, filling his dry, creaky lungs with the scent of home. Stone and damp, old tomatoes and dust. His life encapsulated by a perfect smell.

And he’ll never smell it again. The soulbond is drawing to an end, he can feel it, feel the weight lifting. Two days, he estimates. Two days and the bond will be gone. He’ll be alone for the first time in years.

He casts his gaze over the two storeys of the little house, crammed in at the end of a high-walled alleyway—and yet the only place he’s ever been able to breathe. The gang—his family, the ones he chose and raised—are like that. They kept him going when there was nothing else to live for.

He winces. What is he thinking? They need him, his protection—and he needs them. He pauses stiffly on the front step, rubbing the age from his knuckles and the pain from his face.

He opens the door and Tara storms out into the hall. She attacks the stairs without even a glance in his direction. His mouth bunches tightly as he suppresses a laugh. Oh, yes. This is home.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him, smoothing a hand over wood more worn than he is. He takes another deep breath, basking in the warm smells of oak and brass polish.

A sigh, from the living room. Is that her? Fortuitous, if so. The more of them he can avoid today the better. Dying is hard enough without having to say goodbye. Especially when one must die alone.

He creeps across the hallway, floorboards gently protesting, and pauses for a moment in the doorway to drink in the scene. The bay window to his left lets in the little light available in this bottom storey of a back alley, softly illuminating the furniture older than he is—and probably in better condition. His lips twitch in a half smile.

And there, curled in the single armchair by the fireplace, bathed in flickering firelight, sits Jessana. He smiles at the contradiction of the literary novel in her hand and the assassin’s knife lying on the table next to her, loving it even as he hates himself for nurturing the killer in her. But it had been necessary, a choice of her life, the life of his almost-daughter, against the lives of faceless, impersonal others. He’d kept her alive by teaching her his skills.

He tenses, thinking of what he is about to do; it feels precariously like abandoning her. Pain stabs at his ribcage. He sucks in air that tastes like age and smooths the mask over his face. They will never know about the pain—but the goodbye he can’t delay much longer. So he straightens from the wall, squares his shoulders, and enters the room.

Jess glances up and smiles. “Hello!” She unfurls her legs to get to her feet, but he waves her back down.

“No need for that.” He lowers himself into a nearby chair and nods at her clenched fist. “What have you got there?”

Jess sighs and rolls her eyes, putting down her book and offering her other hand. “Tara found it.”

“Unusual.” The glossy black ring seems the antithesis of Jess, shrouded in darkness as she is haloed in light. For a moment he feels as though it tugs at his soulbond; but the moment passes, and it is just a ring, if an unusually deep black one.

“Very,” Jess responds. “And I don’t even want to know where she got it from, especially if it’s where I think she did.”

“And where might that be?”

“A dead body.”

“Oh, Jess,” he says, laughing. “You’ve got your hands full with that one.” He grins; Jess grins back.

“Is there any hope?” she asks in mock despair.

He sobers. “Funny you should say that,” he murmurs. “I was just thinking the other day that she reminded me of someone.” He shoots Jess a significant look.

She responds with a wry smile. “Okay,” she says. “I give in. I’ll persevere with the little monster.”

He chuckles. “Good girl.”

The silence stretches. Jess glances at her novel, then back at him. “Did you want something?”

It’s time. It has to be done. His mind races for things to say, anything other than what needs to be said. Nothing comes, so he inhales and begins. “Yes, Jessana, I do want something.”

Her body language changes, becoming more alert. “Is everything all right?”

He smiles. “Everything is fine. In... in a manner of speaking. You see, it appears that I have...” He swallows, almost choking on the lie. “I have a son.”

Jess jerks in surprise.

“Yes,” he continues, finding his rhythm. “I was somewhat shocked myself to discover it. But the main point is, he is quite unwell, and his mother is unable to support them with all his medical expenses.” A slight pause before the climax of the lie. “I loved his mother very much. I... I have found a job.” He stares at the floor, sick to the stomach. “I'm going to live with them, and support them.”

He risks a glance at Jess, whose shock is written on her face. Shock, but not disbelief. That’s a good sign. He presses on, the hardest part behind him. “The house will need a new leader, Jessana. I want that leader to be you.”

“Me?” she says, incredulous. “Why me? There are others much better qualified. River is the eldest, choose him! Or Patty, she knows how to get everyone moving. Or Alek, or...” She flounders. “Why me?”

He smiles gently. “It has always been you, Jessana. From the moment you arrived. Don’t you notice how they follow you?” The whole world worships the ground you walk on, he doesn’t add.

Jess squirms. “I suppose so...”

He takes her hand. “They will support you. Never alone, remember? Do it for me?” He blinks back the tears that threaten to clog his eyes. Their motto, everything they live by—but he has to throw it away. He can’t cling to false hope, can’t risk having the bond transfer to someone he loves when he passes on.

Jess nods, exhaling. “Okay,” she says. “For you.”

“Then good.” He claps his hands once together and smiles. “That’s settled.” He makes to rise.

“When do you leave?” Jess says softly, and he feels her eyes probing his facade for the truth, pinning him back in his chair.

He shakes off her gaze, stands and closes his eyes; turns away from love and comfort and joy.

“It’s today, isn’t it?” she says.

He nods.

“Oh.” And she is there, beside him, wrapping her arms around him, and the tears that he’d promised he wouldn’t shed are coursing down his cheeks, making rivulets to rival his wrinkles.

Slowly, her soothing works its way into the crevices of his soul and the tears subside like dust settling to the ground. Jess pats him on the shoulder. “You should go, then,” she says. “Wouldn’t want to be late, now, would we?”

He smiles, a false, brittle thing that he erases before it cracks his fragile exterior. He flees to the front door and jerks it open, determined not to look back. He steps out, pulls the door—but Jess catches it and props it open, standing to watch him leave.

He walks away down the alley. Midway, Jess calls. “Wait!”

He steels himself, knowing he can’t deny her the chance for goodbye. He tenses as he meets her gaze, so piercing he thinks it might kill him there and then.

“Wait,” she says again.

“Yes, Jessana?”

“How much longer do you have to live?”

And there it is, the very thing he’s been trying to avoid, the reason he’d concocted the story of the job and the family in the first place. And despite it all, in spite of all his acting and plotting and planning—she knows. She still knows.

He works his tongue to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. “Not... Not much longer,” he says in a voice that rasps like dead leaves.

“How long?”

Those eyes. Stars of Fate, those eyes... He presses his own closed and forces the words out. “Two days.”

The silence and curiosity opens his eyes. Their gazes lock, and she nods. “Two days. Stay nearby. I’ll find you.”

“You can't!” he says, hands clenching. “I won't have the bond jump to you!”

Jess smiles sadly. “It can't. I'm already bound.”

He reels like she's slammed the door in his face. Jess, his precious, perfect Jess, is soul-bound too. No wonder she'd seen through his lies.

He nods. “Nearby.” She deserves that much. He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

Something thuds into the ground behind his feet, and he glances down. Her knife. His gaze flicks to Jess.

“For the pain,” she says.

He nods and picks up the knife. “For the pain.” Tucking it into his belt, he walks out of the alleyway for the last time.

Behind him, words echo down the street that smells like home. “Never alone, Guiro. Never alone.”

Storm in a Graveyard

A storm growled eagerly on the horizon as she passed through the iron gates. The wind could have been the voices of the dead, and she puled her coat tighter around her. Headstones wove in drunken lines, leading inexorably towards the one person she’d sworn she’d never see again. The storm reached the bounds of its patience and broke, fat drops pelting down like bullets. The vibrant red of her mother’s dress ahead seemed even more garishly out of place.

The storm changed the tone of the wind: now, instead of haunting, it sounded angry—or perhaps merely irritated, she amended, listening as it rattled the trees impatiently. She dragged her fingers along the cracked ridge of a headstone, noticing the reddish flecks of hematite embedded in the gunmetal grey. Red had always been her mother’s favourite colour; she hadn’t worn it in twenty years. The red-lipped smile on her mother’s face was equally rare.

“Hello, dear,” her mother called over the storm. “Don’t worry. The police don’t suspect a thing.”

Dragon Tuesday

How can you help? Heh. I’d love to know. More than you, probably. But I doubt you can. I mean sure, you’re more than welcome to try – I’m not keen on being stuck like this forever.

No, not up the tree, I know how to climb out of a tree, thank you. I mean like this, in this body.

Well yes, I suppose it is pretty, in a way. But it’s not… me. It was my great grandmother, actually.

Er, sure, you can touch the scales. If you can reach.

I dunno, they’re probably magical. I really have no idea, though. Oh look, let me tell you the whole story. Sit down.

Comfy? Okay.

It was a hot, sultry Tuesday in that month full of Dragon Tuesdays, and Sham and I were heading out for ice cream. There’s this great little parlour at the end of Beech Avenue that does the real, genuine home-made stuff.

Although we never said it, I knew we were both hoping that this time, we’d be the ones to spot the dragon – the dragon that had appeared with perfect regularity, every Tuesday of that month, somewhere around our tiny town. Seeing a dragon had become my entire goal in life. Yeah, I know. Ironic.

So, we were walking down Main, kicking up dust, laughing and joking and generally having a good time. School was out, summer was on its way, and life was good.

We hit the ice cream parlour – I got raspberry coconut swirl, just for a change – and took our waffle cones outside. There we were, licking our ice creams, giggling and hot and sticky, minding no one but ourselves, glancing casually around every now and then, just in case.

I’d gotten down to the cone and almost given up hope when there was an almighty crash-thud. A blinding flash of light shone from a side street; we ditched our cones and ran towards it.

“Dragon,” Sham exclaimed, eyes all lit up.

I nodded. A great beast, it was said to be, about the size of a wagon, metallic and boxy and roaring and blowing smoke out its end.

Right as we came around the corner, there was another almighty roar, and there before our eyes was the dragon. We were shocked, but not half as shocked as we were when there was a clunk-clunk, and the dragon’s body started opening up.

I shrank back around the corner and clutched at Sham’s arm.

But that wasn’t even the strangest: as the dragon’s body opened up, people emerged. Three of them: two men and a woman. They were wearing strange clothes that gleamed, dark and form-fitting. They stared at the buildings and murmured amongst themselves.

Mayor Francis must’ve heard the noise, ‘coz he came striding out of the Hall across the street, moustache twitching. He ignored us and marched right up to the dragon riders. “And who are you?” he demanded.

Sham and I didn’t hear their answer, so we edged closer.

They said something about there being a leak in time, where they came from, so whenever people drove through this one area, they ended up somewhere else entirely – often here.

Weird.

I think they were a bit you-know in the head, personally. Still, it was the most interesting thing Sham or I had ever seen, so we followed them. Tailed them around from sun up ‘til sundown, mostly without them knowing, while they wandered around town “taking in the sights”.

Things were great until they’d been there about a week. Actually yeah, it was exactly a week; I know ‘coz it was Tuesday again. They’d been driving around in that silver beast of theirs, which we heard them call a ‘car’, and when they stopped at the old theatre, they left the back open.

They didn’t know we was there, of course, or they prolly would’ve made sure it was locked up real tight. But they didn’t, and Sham and I knew opportunity when we saw it, so in we climbed.

We had a good poke around, bouncing on the seats and hanging out the windows – and then I found it.

It was stuffed under one of the front seats, and I saw it pretty easily ‘coz in the darkness of the under-seat, it sparkled. I pulled it out just as Sham hissed at me to shut up, they were coming, get out – and I stuffed it in my pocket without even thinking, and promptly forgot about it as we scurried away, with the ‘car’ riders pelting things at us.

It wasn’t until after dinner, up in my own room, that I pulled it out. It reminded me of the empty lizard skins I’d seen out near the creek, cast off when the lizard grew too big for it. Except this must’ve come from a huge lizar. I draped it over my shoulders, wondering for a moment what it’d be like to be a lizard. The skin was soft, flexible. And the colours…

I twirled and it swung out, sparkling iridescent in the dim evening light.

The skin closed over my shoulders; it fit so well. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to stick my feet through the holes that appeared, to wrap it tight around me, to hug it around my chest –

Until the pain.

I screamed. I screamed until my throat hurt, and then I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore, even though I wanted to. The pain, everywhere – it was insane. Intense. The most horrible thing I’ve ever felt or imagined.

Mum burst in and the look on her face was more terrifying than anything else.

“Oh, Chay,” she said, dropping to her knees. “Oh, Chay.”

“What?” I tried to say. “What is it?” But it came out as a strange sort of rasp. Panicked, I looked down at my hands – only they weren’t hands. They were claws. Like a lizard, only bigger and a shining, rainbow iridescence.

Just like the skin.

So Mum took me down to the kitchen and explained: my great grandmother had been the last of the real dragons, creatures half the size of a horse with wide, barely visible wings and a long scaly tail.

When she’d become the last dragon – when her husband had been murdered – she’d done the only thing she could: she’d shed her skin and taken the form of a human. She’d remarried, had my mother – and my mother had had me.

And I’d somehow gotten my hands on the skin. And because my grandmother’s blood flows through my veins, the skin was able to transform me.

Mum told me all this, and for a moment I was shocked. Then I was just plain horrified. I raced away, half running, half flying, an odd sort of skipping gait that was mostly a stumble. I didn’t have any idea where I was going; I just ran, maybe hoping I could outrun my fate. I’d wanted to see a dragon; not become one.

In my panic, I ran right into the strangers. They took one look at me, and started screaming and hugging each other. “Our dragon!” they shouted. “We found it after all!”

Something even scarier that learning I was a dragon? Learning I wasn’t the only dragon hunter in town.

My heart pounded and I raced off again, barely ahead of them and losing ground. The woman snatched at my tail and I leapt into the air in fright – which is about the time I realised what my new wings could actually do. I flew, circling up and away, and their cries died down behind me.

I could have flown away right then. It might have saved poor Sham if I had. But maybe not. And anyway, I didn’t, so never mind.

I hid that night in the barn out of the back of my house. From up in the loft I could see the light in the kitchen, and every now and then Mum’s silhouette passed by, and I could see her, and feel a little bit like I was home.

I was drifting off when I heard the door creak open, and with my new night vision and sense of smell, I could tell it was Sham. I opened my mouth to speak – but another voice beat me to it.

“Where is she?”

It was one of the strangers, the tallest man – the scary one.

Sham froze. “I… I don’t know.”

“Come now,” said the woman, slinking over to him. “We know it’s her we want, and you know it too. Just tell us where she is, and everything will be all right.”

Sham twitched.

Please, no, I thought desperately. Don’t tell them.

He didn’t. He stared back at them, fists clenched, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know nothing.”

I thought at the time he was pretty brave. Now I’m not sure if he was brave, or just a little stupid. But either way, the man had enough. “We saw the dragon!” he yelled, right in Sham’s face. “We recognized our skin! You stole it, you and that girl. We know you’re friends; we know you know where she is, and you’re going to take us to her. Right. Now.” He hit Sham as he said those last words, smashing a sparking rod across his head and shoulders again and again.

Right then, I realized how much I’d loved having Sham for a friend. He’d been there for me when no one else had, and hadn’t even laughed that afternoon when he’d seen me in my skin. He’d been the best friend a girl could ask for.

And if they didn’t stop soon, they’d kill him for it.

I shivered, wanting to do something, but knowing I was too small and powerless to do a thing. I couldn’t even cry as I watched them beat him to a pulp.

He didn’t get up again.

We shouldn’t have hunted the dragon.

That… that’s it, really. After what I’d seen them do to Sham, I was pretty keen that they didn’t find me, so I ran, and I flew, and I hid. And I got lost.

And so here I am. A shiny little dragon, the very thing I always wanted to see, hiding in a tree, with no friends, and no future.

So, can you help me, or not?

Why are you laughing? It’s really not that funny.

No, it isn’t!

Um, I think you should put that down. No, I really think you should put that…

Regeneration

The metallic scent of blood reached him first through the sharpness of the snow. For a moment, his heart leapt and he thought the battle was still raging, cries of dying men filling his ears and stopping his senses; but no. The mountains up ahead were the foothills of home, and there was no one else around, no sounds, no battle cries.

Easing his shoulders under their heavy mail – he hadn’t dared leave it behind, not when old Tom would curse him halfway to the grave if he didn’t return it – he trudged on.

The path crested and he spotted the source of the blood-scent easily: a great dragon, rear half fully skinned, muscle and sinew left exposed to the elements. Blood had seeped into the snow around it, tinting it pink.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d been at battle for nine and a half months. The war was supposed be over; coming home was supposed to be the end of all the carnage. But no, someone had to drop a stinking great dead dragon in his path. He gritted his teeth, hefted his pack, and trudged towards the beast.

Halfway there the bushes off the side of the path rustled. He barely had time to check that his sword was still in its scabbard before five scruffy-looking bandits appeared, three bearing equally scruffy swords covered in nicks and dings. The other two held rough-hewn bats, and one tried for menacing as he tapped the bat against his free palm.

The soldier sighed and eased his sword free. He could take the five of them on with his eyes closed – but probably not if he tried to keep them all alive. Gods, he was so tired of death.

The leader of the bandits swaggered forward. “Come t’ steal our dragon, have ye?”

“Put your sword down, mate. All I want to do is go home.” The soldier shifted his grip on his own sword in case the bandit lunged.

In response, the bandit sneered. “That’s what they all say.” He turned to his lackeys. “All right, boys. You know what to do.”

He gave them the nod and as one they advanced towards the soldier.

Gods preserve us all. The soldier adjusted his stance and let his pack slip to the ground.

A creaky rumble sounded, and before anyone had a chance to react, the great dragon’s tail swept right through the midst of the bandits, knocking them all off their feet. Three were immediately rendered unconscious, and without hesitation the solider leapt forward to follow up on his advantage, knocking out a fourth with the flat of his blade.

The fifth – the leader – cried out and lunged at the soldier’s shoulder, but the soldier ducked and let the stroke go past him. He dodged left, dropped to one knee and drove upwards with his sword, aiming for the bandit leader’s chin and intending just to knock him out. But the dragon’s claws caught him around the leg, destabilised him, and the sword drove point-first into the bandit’s throat. Arterial blood spurted, red and bright, life gushing from the man before his eyes.

War cries sounded in his ears, the smell of blood blocked out thought, and the pounding of a thousand warrior feet shook the ground.

The soldier barely even felt it as the dragon shifted its grip and dragged him closer. The smell of rotting meat on the great carnivore’s breath mingled with blood until it could have belonged to week-old bodies decaying on the fields, and the pain that lanced through him as the dragon bit down was the piercing of swords.

A moment passed in rippling pain, and the soldier realised he was on his feet, facing the great dragon while blood dribbled from his shoulder. He clamped down on the wound, noted that the dragon’s skin now covered nearly three-quarters of its body, and gazed up at the great iridescent eye.

The dragon turned its head, staring pointedly at where the bandit leader lay dead in a pool of his own blood.

Guilt stung the soldier’s chest, and he gulped down air like a man drowning.

Gently, the dragon nudged him with muzzle whose nostrils wafted smoke, and the soldier fell down beside the bandit.

What? he shouted in his head. What do you want from me?

But the dragon simply stared, waiting.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, the soldier gathered up the bandit in his arms. Yes, he’d initiated the attack, and yes, he was probably responsible for causing much loss and harm to other people; there was no doubt the corpse in front of him had belonged to a bad man. But still the soldier couldn’t shake his frustration at the senselessness of it all.

He’d had enough of senselessness. He pressed his forehead to the bandit’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to die.”

The bandit stirred in his lap, head tossing, eyes twitched beneath closed lids. The wound in his neck ceased bleeding; the skin began infinitesimally to seal.

The soldier’s gaze flicked to his own shoulder, where the bite mark had nearly closed beneath the tear in his chain-mailed shirt, then to the dragon, who was now fully clothed in skin again but for its tail.

“Oh,” the soldier murmured, eyes wide. “Thank you.”

The Wasporcist

I'm cheating a little today and posting this story because @lianabrooks and @clareswords were talking about it on Twitter last week, and agreed that it's one of my creepiest stories. A couple of people asked about it, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it for you, because why not. If you're keen, it's actually one of the stories in my anthology To Dust and Other Stories; you can find a blurb over on my website :) 

Amazon | Book Depository | B&N | iBooks | Kobo | Scribd

Anyway. Sans further ado, The Wasporcist.

Today.

My ears won’t stop ringing. It’s been a week now—ever since Halloween, actually. That party was insane. I prob’ly shouldn’t have let that guy pour me a drink, even if he did compliment my outfit.

But anyway, the ringing. Every noise echoes in my left ear with a weird, computerized-voice-over effect. It’s especially bad in a crowd, since the echoes get so loud I can’t understand what anyone is saying.

I went to the doctor today. She says nothing’s wrong. I think she thinks I’m making it up.

Nov 8.

Ear ringing persists. It’s like the electricity in my brain is going mad, buzzing so loud I can hear it.

Will my brain explode, I wonder?

Day after yesterday.

The buzzing is so loud now I have trouble hearing anything else. At least it means I can’t hear things echoing.

First day of the rest of forever, in which I never hear again.

Have determined that my brain has been replaced with a wasp, and it’s mad at being trapped in my pitiful skull, hence continuous buzzing. Must see an insectologist or whatever they’re called to get it out.

Nov 13.

It’s Friday. I should have known that was a bad start. Insectologist, who is apparently actually called an entomologist, tells me that wasps don’t live in people’s heads. I told him I’m always an exception. He told me to call a shrink.

Had shrink. Didn’t work. Besides, I don’t need a shrink, I need a waspinator. I wonder what they’re called. Let me check.

Internet says exterminator. How dull. I vote in favour of waspinator. Let me go call one.

Nov 13, later.

Called. Booked. Didn’t tell the guy where the wasp was; just said ‘up there’ when he asked. Hope he comes prepared.

Another day.

Waspinator should be coming today, wootwoo. I am so SICK of this buzzing. I swear, the thing is driving me insane. Even Josh thinks I’m acting weird, and he’d know, he’s the King of Weird.

Oh, knock at the door. That’ll be the Waspinator. I’ll report back in a minute.

Later.

The guy looked at me like I was mad when I told him the wasp was in my head. “Too right it is,” he said. I think that was a little uncalled for. Still, I made him check, just to be sure. He shone a light in through my ear and said he couldn’t see anything that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Personally, I’m suspicious. I think if I looked in his ear I wouldn’t see anything at all. Ha. Idiot.

But seriously, what am I going to now? Who am I going to call?

…Who you gonna call? Ghost! Busters! Dun da-dun dun-dun.

HEY! That’s actually not a bad idea! What if it’s not a wasp? What if it’s, like, a demon who’s just pretending to be a wasp?

That’s so awesome I’m practically bouncing in my seat. Who do you call for demons, again? Exercise-thingies. What are they called? Oh yeah, exorcists. Right.

Snigger. Wasporcists. That’s what I need: a wasporcist. But I doubt that’ll be in the phone book. I supposed I’ll just try for a generic exorcist first.

I’ll let you know how it goes, diary-m’dear.

Even later.

I love coincidence. Got this mad phone call earlier that Josh took. Sounded like it was one of those sales calls, you know? The ones where they try to sell you a trip to Hawaii or insurance for your fish or something? Yeah. Those. But anyway, I was listening, and so I heard when Josh told the guy we didn’t need an exorcist.

I practically snatched the phone out of his hand, I was so excited. I mean, seriously? What are the odds?! So awesome. So anyway, exorcist—his name is Brad—agreed to come out. Says it sounds like it could be a demon. He gets situations like this all the time, he said.

Hmm. I wonder if there’s, like, a conspiracy of demons, all invading people’s heads as wasps? I wonder if Josh has heard buzzing lately?

I just ran out into the hall and asked him. He said he hasn’t. Bummer. No conspiracy after all. Oh well. I guess I’ll just wait for the exorcist.

Nov 20.

Exorcist is coming, exorcist is coming! I’m so excited. I hope he’s cute.

He should be here any minute now—oh, look, see? A knock at the door. I wonder if he knew I was writing about him coming, and that’s why he knocked now? I wonder if he’s been waiting at the door for, like, half an hour, just waiting for me to sit down and start writing so he could knock just as I wrote about—

I’m COMING, Josh. Sheesh. Let a person finish their sentence, will ya?

Urgh, better go before he comes in here and see this. No one’s supposed to know I’m keeping a journal. I’m only doing it ‘cause the shrink last year said I should. Not that I ever have anything interesting to write about.

Well, until the wasp-invading-my-brain thing.

Bloody hell, Josh, COMING. Right. See me go…

Tonight.

OHMIGOSH! The Wasporcist is totally that guy from the party, you know, the random one who poured me a drink? And he’s CUTE.

But yeah, ha, I told you it was a wasp-demon. Brad took one look and agreed. Said it was a pretty potent demon, though, so he’d have to come back a couple of times and have at it in bits—too strong to tackle all at once. Good thing I sold the car, exorcists aren’t cheap.

Mind you, why would they? With the work they have to do? No, thanks. Makes me shudder. I’m more than happy to pay someone else to do the dirty work. Especially if it means this infernal buzzing will stop.

Dec 2.

Sorry I haven’t written in ages, diary-dearest. I’ve been… occupied. Don’t tell Josh, but I think Brad—he’s the exorcist I wrote about last time, remember? —I think he has a crush on me. He’s come over every single day this week, usually while Josh’s at work. He brought me flowers, yesterday. Daisies. My favourite, not that anyone but you knows that.

Josh says he’s creepy. I dunno. He’s pretty cute. And I think the buzzing isn’t as bad when he’s around.

*scowl* Josh still thinks I’m making it all up. Idiot. I bet he wouldn’t even know what colours I like. (Green and purple, for the record.)

Anyway. Bed.

Dec 3.

I don’t have long, I’m going out to dinner in a minute with—oh, better not say, just in case. I’m sure you can guess. We arranged it this morning when he came over. And guess what he brought with him? Earrings, purple and green ones. He’s only known me for two weeks and already he knows more about me than stupid Josh.

Dec 6.

Brad is right. Josh is a dickhead. He’s been totally unsympathetic about this whole wasp-demon head-invasion thing, and keeps on ragging at me for the money missing from our bank account. It’s not like it’s that much; Brad is charging me less than half price, since the demon’s proving so hard to get rid of. And he told me at dinner the other night that he’s barely had any clients this month, and he had to negotiate with his landlord to pay double rent for December because he couldn’t afford to cover November.

…Maybe I should run away. I don’t mind being poor. And I know what it’s like to be so lonely…

But where can we go?

December nine, three nineteen pm. The moment of my momentous decision.

I’m doing it. Tonight. I’m going to sneak out of the house and I’ll meet Brad and he’ll take me away from here, away from all of this nonsense. The healing is almost complete, and he’ll take me away, and then I’ll be totally fixed, and he’ll never be lonely again, and everything will be wonderful.

It’s not like Josh will even care; he’s barely spoken to me since he found me sitting in the corner the other day doodling hearts around Brad’s name.

Okay, so that was a tactical mistake, but seriously, if he wasn’t such a jerk I wouldn’t be thinking of leaving.

No, not thinking, I am leaving. Tonight.

Oh, gosh, it gives me shivers just thinking about it. I’m so excited I can hardly wait! I wonder if Brad will mind if I’m early?

I’m going to go pack now, just in case. Can’t wait can’t wait can’t WAIT!!!!

 * * * 

Josh closed the document, throat burning, chest tight. “Yes,” he told the police officer standing behind him. “That’s her diary.”

“Well, you won’t mind if we take the laptop up to the station as evidence then?”

Josh shook his head. What difference did it make?

The officer gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m truly sorry. But your help—well, it might just make the difference between finding the killer and not.”

Josh nodded. Sure. Let them think he was a hero, if that’s what they wanted. He knew the truth. He’d lost her long before some psycho had torn her body apart in the woods behind the house, and even long before she’d gotten that stupid idea about the wasp in her head.

The psychiatrist had warned him she might never come back. He’d been stupid to hope.

And now his ear wouldn’t stop ringing.