third wheel
Jordan
Cara. Her name is Cara.
We’ve slept with each other—twice—and we’ve never met. Not really. Not her. The real her. She’s a total mystery to me, whoever she is, outside of bumping into
her at the bar.
Based on her reaction the last time I introduced myself, I’m a stranger to her, too. Oil and water, right here. But I need
to know. Need to see. For myself.
We agreed her first host—the first I met, at least—would be the most appropriate person to talk to. It’s who I most associate
with Lilith. On the outside, I mean.
Christ, this gets confusing so quickly.
Lilith texts me an address from a phone not programmed into my contacts. Strange area code. Whoever it belongs to, they aren’t
from Richmond. I show up at a five-floor walk-up on Monroe, overlooking the park. I ring up. Get buzzed in. Take the stairs,
not the elevator. By the time I make it to the fifth floor—apartment 5N, just like the text says—I don’t know what to expect.
Who am I going to find on the other side of the door? What’s waiting for me inside?
I knock. Wait. Breath held in my chest.
What does Lilith think about all this? It’s hard to tell.
I’m sure she’s not happy with the arrangement, but she’s playing along.
I have to respect that. There’s so much about this that’s too confusing, the middleman of flesh and bone.
I feel like it’s important to connect to her host. Any host. To at least try and understand their perspective on all this.
What is this like for them? Are they completely unaware of what’s happening while Lilith is inside? Lilith says it’s their
choice, but I want to hear it directly from the source.
How else is this supposed to work? Open communication is key . . . Right?
The hall is so quiet. The slightest hints of existence seep out from the doors. The chatter of television programs. The faintest
wisps of conversation seeping through.
The door opens and I find—
Her.
My instinct is to think it’s Lilith, but that’s only half true. She may be on the inside, sheltered by this flesh, but it
isn’t her. Not entirely. I can sense her, staring back, but the body—her host—belongs to someone else. A familiar face, but
that’s all.
It’s dawning on me I don’t know who this woman is. I haven’t been talking to her at all.
Always Lilith. Only Lilith. Not her.
“Come in,” she says, turning away from the door and slipping into the hall.
This is Cara’s apartment. Cara’s life.
Not Lilith’s at all.
I say she and I mean them. There’s two of them. Lilith within—and Cara, her host. The body she’s in. Both look at me with the same gaze, eyes that
nearly feel superimposed with another. The smile they wear is slight, but there. An upturned hint at the corner of her host’s
lips. A shard.
The possessions inside, the décor, the furniture—none of them belong to Lilith. She’s simply passing through, staying for
however long she wants. A demonic houseguest. A home-wrecker.
I can’t help but think of her host’s body as some kind of corporeal guesthouse. Is there any star-rating for demonic possession? Does Lilith have to leave her host’s body in the same condition she found it in, or risk her user rating? What are the fucking rules here?
“Coming?” Lilith asks.
The flicker of faint light bounces off the walls. Candles. Lilith lit candles. Is she trying to be romantic? Maybe it’s a ritual, I can’t help think, and I’m the sacrifice.
Why the mistrust all of a sudden? Where’s this coming from?
I stay at the doorway, hesitant to enter. She tilts her head when she notices I’m not following, but she doesn’t stop. She’s
drifting away, still walking, turning the corner and disappearing, her voice trailing off after her, “Don’t keep a girl waiting . . .”
Am I really going to go through with this? This is my decision. I chose to be here. So I take a breath and set foot inside. Abandon all hope ye who enter this apartment . . .
It’s warmer than I expect. The faint crackle of static spills out from a set of speakers. A needle burrows into the groove.
The hiss and pop of the record fills the silence, and I almost expect to turn the corner and find a bonfire in the center
of the living room.
Instead, I find her. Lilith and . . .
Her. Her host. This body before me. This woman, Cara, is more than that. She’s a human being. What does she have to say about
all this? What control does she have?
Votive candles lap at the living room. Lilith’s turned the place into a church, wax melting everywhere. Pale tallow dribbles
over the hardwood floor, puddling and hardening.
Is this all for me?
There’s a couch. A chair sits in the center of the room. The walls are bare, mostly, save for some framed artwork. Posters
for Godard films. Truffaut’s The 400 Blows.
I catch a glimpse of who Lilith’s host is. Her passions. Her sense of identity. This isn’t Lilith. It’s someone else. Her host has a life. I need to honor that. Respect that.
Don’t I?
There’s a bottle of Merlot open and breathing on the coffee table. Two glasses, empty, waiting for their wine.
I take the couch while Lilith sits in the chair. I need some distance. Just for now. Until I can understand all this. Hear
what her host has to say.
Here we are, Lilith, me—and her host—staring each other down.
Who’s on the other side of those eyes? I can’t help but wonder if her host is staring back, pleading for help. Begging to
break free. I need to know. Understand how this works.
“What now?” Lilith asks.
“We talk.”
“Talk.”
“Not you. Her.”
“Her.” It’s hard to say for certain, but for a moment, I can’t help but pick up a shard of glass in her voice. She buries it, but
it almost sounds like she’s jealous. Of her host?
That’s the hardest part about all of this. I have to recognize there’s two of them.
The demon within, and the host.
All this time, I’ve been speaking to Lilith, but not the person whose body she’s embedded in. I’m addressing Lilith, not the
skin. The human being she’s residing in.
What’s the thing they always say? I want you to love me for what’s inside . . .
Yeah, well, I’d say we’re putting that fucking theory to the test right about now.
I’ve been sleeping with the devil. A goddamn demon. She could be inside anybody—
any body
—at any time, hopping from one host to the next and never settling down. I’ve sensed her before, haven’t I? Felt her following me, no matter whose body she’s hiding in?
So . . . who am I falling for?
“Thirsty?” Lilith motions to the bottle of wine open before us.
“Not just yet.”
“Say when.”
The record playing is Otis Redding. His heartbreak is a bit jarring for what’s happening in this living room. I almost ask
her to turn it off but keep it to myself.
Lilith stares back at me, waiting for me to begin. I’m getting the definite sense that she’s not happy about this, any of this, but she’s here anyway. For my sake.
Isn’t that a sacrifice?
I don’t know how to start this conversation. How to ask the questions I want to ask.
Does she see me?
I’m looking for a reaction. A resistance. Any sort of red flag that might suggest her host is hurting. I don’t think I could
go through with this—any of this—if that were the case.
“Tell me how this works,” I ask after a moment.
“This?” Lilith shifts in her seat, the wood warping beneath her. The chair she’s in is old. A folding chair with hickory slats. The
varnish has worn off the armrests. It squeals.
“I want to know what happens to your host when you’re inside.”
“So this isn’t about me. This is about her well-being?”
“I want to know who she is.”
“Why?”
“She’s a part of this, too. There’s three of us here . . .”
I keep feeling like this is a supernatural ménage à trois, but I don’t know who the third person in this symbiotic relationship even is.
“Would you prefer if I were in someone else?”
“It’s hard to keep up with different hosts.”
“Your rules again,” she says, with the slightest hint of distaste. “No body-hopping.”
“I think it would help. For—” I can’t believe I’m saying this “—consistency’s sake.”
No surprises.
Why does it matter whose body she’s in? If it’s her—truly her—that I’m interested in, then it shouldn’t matter who she possesses.
Still. I need to hear from her host. I didn’t know if she’s been spiritually hijacked or whatever you want to call this. I
just want to talk to her. Hear her side.
Will Lilith allow it? “I have given you everything you have asked for, haven’t I?”
“You have, but . . . can we just acknowledge that this is uncharted territory, yes? That neither of us have ever done anything
quite like this before? I certainly haven’t.”
“Me, neither.”
“Okay, good. So we’re in the same—”
body
“—boat then. At least we’re being honest about how fucking weird this all is.”
“Honest.” The word sounds strange in her mouth. “Again, always with your morality.”
I take a deep breath, maintaining. “Show me,” I ask. “I just want to—”
“Watch?”
“See for myself,” I say. “What happens. How it works.”
“That’s an invasion of privacy, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t you think what you’re doing is an invasion of privacy?”
“Not if the host is willing.”
“Is she? Willing? Because I can’t tell.”
“I am not hiding anything from you.”
“Aren’t you?” I ask. “Hiding from me?”
“No,” she eventually says, unblinking. I can’t get a sense of her within, almost as if she’s burrowing deeper into her host’s body. Hiding. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“I am.”
“Have it your way.” She sighs. “I’ll loosen my grip. For you. I’ll stay inside, but I won’t . . . impede.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t want your gratitude.”
What do you want? Before I can ask, a stillness sweeps over, as if someone pressed pause on her host’s body. Is she still breathing? If it
weren’t for the slightest thrum of skin along her throat, her pulse pressing against her neck, I wouldn’t know if she was
still alive.
Then I see it. Something recedes in her eyes. Her irises contract.
Then . . .
Lilith gasps, as if she’s just burst through the surface of a body of water.
Not Lilith. Her host.