Chapter 4
Alexa, play ‘bury a friend’ by Billie Eilish
“We are the dead, and we do not enter lightly into the realm of the living.”
— ABIGAIL, THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE
I t took me over an hour to mop the keg fridge. I wanted to make sure it was perfect. Rafael had said I needed to work on cleanliness, and I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t start now. It was nearly three am by the time I had balanced the till and checked out. I slipped through the kitchen to grab my bag in the staff room, and Mike, the pantry chef, grunted at me.
“I saved you this,” he said gruffly, nudging a little to-go container at me. Mike was a middle-aged man who was rough around the edges but had been in the kitchen at Voodoo for nearly ten years. He was a stickler for rules and normally wouldn’t even let me sneak a fry from the fry bowl.
“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the little cardboard box.
“A birthday brownie.”
“It’s… not my birthday?” My birthday falls on Halloween, which was still almost two full months away.
“I know. Sam told me you made primetime. I wanted to congratulate ya.”
Realizing he was giving me one of the little free desserts we gave guests on their birthday, I suddenly felt my eyes swim with emotion. “Thanks, Mike… this is, this is really nice.” No one had ever done anything like this for me before. For the second time that night, I found myself wanting to hug someone. This time, I stopped myself and took a step back instead.
“Goodnight, Lil. See ya tomorrow,” he said before lumbering out the back door and out into the night.
I grabbed my bag and my black maxi coat, throwing it on over the short black tennis skirt and Voodoo tank top. When I first started and Raf showed me the uniform, I panicked. It showed a lot of skin, and I had a few scars that I was sure would make guests uncomfortable. Happily, the skirt was just long enough to cover the scars on the tops of my thighs. They were self-inflicted. A punishment, if you will. After I learned that Death would not allow me to kill myself, I had taken to opening the flesh on my thighs for each person I had killed.
The deep, pink scars that ran up the insides of my arms from that first attempt were another problem. Thankfully, Voodoo’s uniform policy required that women wear a minimum of three pieces of jewelry, preferably made of leather, to keep up with their dark, macabre theme. I immediately purchased two thick leather cuffs and strapped them around each wrist on my first shift. Tada! It was like I had never even tried to slit my wrists to escape the undeserved wrath of a demon.
I left the restaurant and slipped down into the subway system, pulling up my long, wavy brown hair as I went. That was another rule at Voodoo. No ponytails. If you wanted your hair up, it had to be in a carefully styled updo. I usually just wore mine down. My hair was one of my better features. It was long, thick, and had a natural wave to it. In the sun, there were natural high and lowlights. I got compliments on it all the time. People pay a lot of money for hair like this at the salon.
People also often commented on my eyes. I caught sight of my reflection in the subway window, and I supposed I could understand why. They were green, though not nearly as green as Shem’s. Mine were more of a moss green, ringed in black. Someone had also told me I was ‘curvy’ once, and I wasn’t sure if they had meant it in a good way or not. I had a larger chest than most of the other girls who worked at Voodoo and definitely thicker thighs. Being relatively short, I put on weight easily, so my ‘curves’ sometimes made me feel more like I was ‘chubby,’ though I supposed it didn’t matter.
It’s not like I was trying to turn any heads or impress any men. I was doomed to live the solitary life of a spinster. At least I had Chaos to go home to. I smiled at that.
Getting off the subway, I trotted up the steps to my door and slipped the key into the lock in the knob. I flicked on the lights and shrugged out of my coat, tossing my phone on the coffee table along with the little dessert Mike had packed for me. Chaos wasn’t home yet, so I started my celebrations alone. I poured myself a shot of tequila and grabbed a fork from the kitchen, moaning as the first bite of chocolate brownie melted in my mouth .
Damn, that was good.
My eyes nearly welled with tears as the soft sweetness of the brownie dissolved on my tongue. I was sure Mike hadn’t thought too much about it, but no one had ever done something like this for me before. No one had ever bothered to acknowledge or celebrate my achievements with me. This small gesture meant more to me than words could ever describe.
I decided I wanted to do something for him in return. I pulled out my phone and googled ideas for personalized gifts. I found a little online Etsy shop that engraved spoons. My lip curled.
This was perfect.
I ordered a tiny silver spoon with the words ‘Best Chef’ on it. Mike was a man of few words, so I was hoping a little thoughtful gift like this would be appreciated more than a heartfelt thank you. Feeling pleased with my order, I padded into the living room with my booze and my brownie. I turned on the tiny, second-hand TV and cast my music app to it from my phone. I flopped down on the couch, taking another bite of my brownie just as Chaos flowed in through the window behind me. I tipped my glass toward him in a gentle cheers.
He squinted at me and molded himself into a perfect little loaf on the couch. I smiled at him, tossing back a shot of tequila before getting up to dance. I spun around my living room to the dulcet tones of Billie Eilish’s bury a friend , unable to keep myself from smiling.
Chaos watched as I swayed and twirled. At one point, I was sure the little ghost of the girl who haunted my home came out to dance too, but that could have just been the tequila.
Just because I didn’t have anyone to celebrate with didn’t mean I didn’t deserve to celebrate. I’m sure it might have seemed sad to someone looking in, but for me, I really felt like I had crawled out of the pits of Hell and had finally managed to find a small piece of success and happiness for myself.
My demon hadn’t come to visit for nearly four years, and I was starting to wonder if I really did just imagine it all. Maybe I had just been a traumatized little girl who had made it all up.
Perhaps my shadowy stalker was my mind’s way of finding a way to blame all of the horrible freak accidents on something tangible.
Finally, just before the sun cracked the distant horizon and the first rumblings of morning activity in the city started up, I collapsed, drunk and happy, into bed. I rolled onto my back and sighed.
I had made it.
I may not have anyone, but I was self-sufficient. I was going to be okay.
My smile faltered as the darkness in the room grew thicker, and the rising sun took on a sinister tint of red. I could suddenly see my breath, and the air grew so cold it felt like razor blades in my lungs.
I told myself I was just intoxicated and that I was imagining the looming, cloaked figure that infected the corner of my bedroom like a cancer.
The room was so small, and he was so close, that the smoky tendrils of his cloak floated over the lip of my mattress. He hung over me, and I peered up into the darkness of his hood as he slowly tapped his inky fingers on the staff of his scythe.
“Go away,” I whispered, feeling my eyes well with tears. He leaned closer, and I felt my vision strain as I tried to see beyond the endless darkness that gathered beneath his hood.
He stroked a single, freezing finger down my cheek, and I jerked away. I could have sworn I heard a hideous, rattling laugh seconds before everything went dark.