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I first met her on Halloween. That's when she hunts.
There’s a dark, secluded road on the south edge of the city. Black River Parkway, according to the maps, but there are no street signs. It winds for several miles through the middle of Black River Park. It’s ostensibly a city park, but you won’t find any gazebos or soccer fields or walking paths. Just miles upon miles of untamed nature, tucked away between the city limits and the suburbs beyond. Black River feels more like it belongs in the deep country. The road is lined on one side by a limestone cliff face and the other by dense forest, a winding river tucked a ways back in the trees. Branches arc over the roadway and form a tunnel. You’d expect the drive to be pretty on bright Fall days - the sun filtering through a canopy of orange, red, and yellow - but light has a hard time penetrating that gnarled tangle of limbs and leaves. Night is worse; regular headlights only penetrate a few feet into that darkness, and turning on the brights only illuminates the next curve, no way of knowing what lurks in the pitch black around the bend. I always hated that goddamned road.
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Content warning (highlight to reveal): Body horror/self harm
While I absolutely respect the necessity of social distancing, last weekend I got really fed up with being cooped up on my own. I decided to check out an outdoor flea market to get out of the house. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I just needed some fresh air and a bit of face-to-face interaction, even if it was from 6 feet away through a mask. I perused the various booths and vendors, but not much caught my eye. I found myself quickly wishing for the air-conditioned comfort of my condo. I had forgotten to wear sunscreen, and I could feel the skin on the back of my neck baking in the late-morning sun. My breath was growing humid in the confines of my mask, and the cotton was starting to stick to my face with every breath. This wasn't the invigorating outing I had hoped for. I’ve always loved shopping at antique stores and thrift shops, but it’s not the same when you can’t run your fingertips over the intricate weaving of an old tapestry, or lean close to inhale the crisp, woodsy scent of an old cedar wardrobe. My mind continued to wander in this melancholy direction as I aimlessly made my way to the end of the row. I was just about to trudge back to the car, morose and empty-handed, when a bright flash of light blinded me. My hand shot up instinctively to shield my eyes, and I looked around for the source. On the ground, leaning against the support pole of a tent, stood a massive, ornate mirror. Its rectangular frame was painted in a gold metallic that was now dull with age, inset with an intricate design. I watched in the reflection as my sandaled feet approached. My dog hates my new apartment.
It's a brand new complex in an expensive Kansas City suburb. The rent is obscene, but I just landed my first big girl job out of college after years of bartending and food service. I feel like I deserved to splurge. It has it all: hardwood floors,12-foot ceilings, shiny stainless steel appliances, and crown molding (whatever that is). The neighborhood is really what jacks up the price, though. Quiet like the suburbs, but right next to a major highway with all of the modern conveniences at my fingertips. I fell in love with the atmosphere right away - bright, busy, and safe. My little dachshund mix, Maddie, vehemently disagrees with my assessment. She rejected the place from the minute we moved in a month ago. I brought her inside before I started unloading boxes, excited for my best friend to see our fancy new digs. “Welcome home, Maddie-girl!” Maddie tilted up her nose and gave the air a haughty sniff. She turned in a circle, made direct eye contact, and dropped a massive shit in the middle of the living room floor. I would like to preface all of this by saying that nothing that's happened is my fault. I know that makes it seem like it definitely, absolutely is my fault. But I promise it's not.
It’s fucking Craig's fault. |
AuthorSarah Fettke is an aspiring horror author from Kansas City, Missouri. Stories cross-posted here and on Reddit at reddit.com/user/how-queer. Archives
June 2022
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