Story 1: The Bargain
I don’t know why I do this. It isn’t that I’m not attracted to my wife. Of course I am. I don’t even mind that she’s gotten a bit fat. I lie in bed and listen for the sound of her quiet snoring.
When I’m confident she’s well and truly asleep, I sneak out of bed and head down to our finished basement. I kind of hate that I have to go through this whole process. Ashley read in some book somewhere that married couples should go to bed together for the health of their relationship, so she’s been making me go to sleep with her.
I tried not going to sleep with her once to get an earlier start on my… alone time. I just didn’t want to have to stay up so late, for once, and be tired the next morning. I thought she was asleep, and I was in the basement sitting in front of the laptop. I think she might have deliberately snuck down the stairs because I didn’t hear her coming. Suddenly, she was over my shoulder whining at me to come to bed. “Honey, I just can’t fall asleep without you.” I don’t think she noticed when I quickly minimized the window.
It was just too close a call to chance it happening again. So now I put her to bed like a toddler every night. It’s not always bad. Sometimes we have sex, and sometimes I just fall asleep. It’s only when I’m feeling a little antsy that it bothers me, and I’ve been feeling like this all day. I need this release.
A few of my friends have self-appointed man caves where they can indulge wholeheartedly in their hobbies. But our basement isn’t like that. It’s halfway finished with one side doubling as a rec room and spare bedroom. It has a flatscreen, my Xbox, and two end tables flanking the futon. Through a door is the utility area with the washer and dryer and storage for seasonal decorations. We would have more space if not for all the decorations, but Ashley can’t let a holiday go by without decking out the whole house and yard.
I don’t particularly like the layout. If Ashley is doing laundry, she has to walk right through the rec room and has a chance to get all up in my business. She always stops to chat with me if I’m playing Xbox. Sometimes she’ll set down her basket and sit next to me on the futon. All I want to do is tune out and shoot zombies. We have plenty of conversation over dinner. I love her. But sometimes I wish she’d just leave me alone.
I sit on the futon, thinking about what I want to do. I know what I want to do. Out of habit, I open my laptop and hop into incognito mode. Then, I hit the porn sites. I start with pretty standard fare. I watch a minute or two of the typical busty blonde swallowing up a well-hung man. I search BBW and watch a chubby woman bounce up and down on another guy. It’s hot. But, it’s not really what I want.
I don’t know why I feel so weird about it. It’s just something fun I do. I’ve read that it’s pretty normal. I made a throwaway account on a forum to see how other guys get into it, but they are about a lifestyle. I’m not like that. I’m just a regular guy. This isn’t my whole life.
I pull up some guy-on-guy stuff. I don’t like using the “g” word, because that isn’t me. I’m attracted to women. I’m a masculine person. Women are attracted to me.
I watch. The sense of arousal takes over, pushing down my discomfort. This is just a hobby, like an intellectual exercise. I find myself wanting more. I pause and glance toward the door to the utility room. Some part of me wishes I could just stop. The other part is excited and anticipating. This is just something I do for fun. I work hard. I’m allowed to have fun.
Before I know it, I’m at my toolbox in the utility room. One single bulb dangling down from the rafters provides the only illumination. The gun case is locked and stashed in the bottom drawer of my toolbox along with a few boxes of nails, screws, and a power drill. I told Ashley years ago that I bought a gun for duck hunting. I made a show of going out “hunting” a few times before telling her that I didn’t much enjoy sitting outside alone in the cold. We decided to keep the shotgun for “home security.”
But I never bought a gun. I could never tell my wife about this, but that is the kind of thing husbands do for their wives. Being a good husband means not burdening my wife with information that would only upset her. She wouldn’t understand why I do this. She would think I was less of a man. She would stop respecting me as her husband.
Ashley isn’t a perfect wife. She can be annoying. But she’s pretty, has a good job, and takes care of the house. I see other men looking at her sometimes. But she’s mine. She’s not going anywhere. She’s happy. I don’t want that to change.
My keys jingle in my pocket as I reach for them. My fingers flutter over each one, and I find the small key to the gun case. I can feel my heart pick up a beat as the lock clicks. The top flips open. I stare at an empty space.
Suddenly, my heart is in my stomach and my pulse is pounding in my ears. It is deafening. I reach down to feel at the spot. Nothing is there. There is only the grey egg crate foam. I feel dizzy.
My thoughts dart from one half-formed explanation to another. Suddenly, I can’t tell how long I’ve been standing there. Time feels turned on its head. I look at my phone to see that it isn’t even midnight. The only person who could have possibly taken it is Ashley. She must have snuck down here with my keys.
“That bitch,” I curse. “That fucking bitch.”
I see red. How dare she trick me like this. How dare she invade my space and take what is mine and then pretend for what… days? She’s pretended for days that everything is fine just so that I would come down here one night and panic. That was the only explanation that made sense. In a rage, I turn around and step toward the door. My foot catches on something, and I fall backward as my heel angles up. My head hits the large metal toolbox with a bang. I don't even feel my body hit the cold cement floor.
I come back to consciousness in a panic. The light in the utility room is off. I’m pretty sure I’d turned it on. But there is still a glow from the open laptop in the other room. I rush madly toward the screen in the other room still alight with my previous explorations. My head throbs as I rise. I imagine Ashley stepping into view and looking in horror at the scene playing out in a loop on my laptop. I can hear the sounds of men panting and pounding as I slam it closed. I take a breath and look at my phone. It’s only two minutes past midnight.
Just to my right is the source of my panic. I blink and stare at it: a pale pink silicone phallus. I replay the last few minutes to see if I can make sense of it. How had it gotten on the floor? There is a long scuff mark on it. I must have tripped on it. Maybe I’d gotten it out and dropped it. I feel the back of my head. There’s a bump, but no blood.
Confused and still a bit dazed, I make sure that my search history is clear and close the laptop again. Whatever I felt earlier, the urge to do much of anything is gone. I lock up my dildo in the gun case, check the lock to make sure it is secure, and gingerly trudge up the stairs. I check myself in the bathroom mirror to make sure there are no visible signs of injury and go to sleep.
-
“Good morning, honey,” I hear through a haze of dissolving dreams. Ashley’s hand is touching my shoulder. “I heard your alarm while I was in the shower. You slept right through it.”
I sit up and wrap an arm around her. She smells faintly of shampoo and body wash, already in her scrubs and ready for work. I give her a squeeze. “Can you get the coffee going before you head out?”
She smiles. “I always have time to make you coffee.” She wishes me a good day at work on her way down the stairs. I respond reflexively, “You, too!”
I think about the previous night as I shower, carefully avoiding the bump on the back of my head. Ashley seems normal. I don’t know exactly what happened, but in the bright light of day, I doubt she was to blame for the case being empty. I must have left it out or gotten it out before watching porn.
I feel foolish and ashamed before the recollection of what I had been watching reminds me of my need. I promise myself some alone time after work and head off for a day of managing the Fresh Market grocery store.
I spend the day overseeing the Halloween merchandising, helping with a cupcake delivery emergency, and working out the schedule for the coming month. I try not to think about what I’m looking forward to and how last night went. I keep my congenial but authoritative manager mask affixed and come home to a bit of a surprise.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to get it,” I say to Ashley as I see her wrestling with a large box in the front yard.
“Well… I wasn’t. But then I saw it on my lunch break and had to get it.”
I roll my eyes. She can’t help getting excited for holidays. I secretly kind of like it, but I’m afraid to encourage her.
“Where are we going to put it?” I ask while attempting to mask my exasperation.
“In the front yard. Right here,” she gestures.
“I meant where are we going to store it?”
“Ummm… ” she sighs.
I shake my head. “If you get any more decorations, we will have to pay for a storage unit.”
“Sorry, honey. I’ll go through my stuff and find a spot for it.”
“Okay. I guess if you can get it back in this box, we can manage to find room.”
“I can do that,” she says resolutely. I get this feeling that I’ll be asked to do it, but I don’t mention my suspicion. I don’t want to fight. I just want the night to go by peacefully. I want to have some alone time.
We order pizza and get to work assembling the skeleton. The pizza arrives just as we finish up, and we enjoy our dinner amicably in front of a quiz show. I can tell that Ashley is happy at this moment. I’m pretty happy, too. The Halloween spirit takes us and we end the night with a not-too-spooky thriller.
-
Again, I sneak down into the basement once Ashley is asleep. After having such a good day at work and a nice evening at home, the sometimes creeping feelings of shame are absent. It’s nice when it is like this. I go through my routine viewing rotation until the urge hits me.
As I approach the toolbox, I get a sense that I’m being watched. I pause and shake off the paranoia. I’m probably just remembering all the drama from last night. Nobody is watching me. I continue toward the toolbox and open the lock on the gun case. There is a moment before the lid flips that I imagine an empty case. But that thought disappears as my fingers curl around the well-used silicone.
It is clean and well-maintained. Procuring this one was stressful, and I don’t want to have to do it again anytime soon. I had to order it online and then obsessively track it so I got it before my wife did. In a smaller drawer is a bottle of vegetable oil which is easy enough to get without anyone being suspicious. I know I should use lubrication specifically designed for this activity. But I can’t store it or purchase it regularly without potentially getting caught.
Both in hand, I turn back toward the rec room with a sense of building anticipation. Before I reach the light switch for the utility room, the bulb dims and goes out. I stare at the dark bulb and tell myself to change it later. Then the laptop light dims and goes black. “Shit.” I’m pretty sure I charged it. The only light is from the bulb at the top of the basement stairs. The laptop cord is also upstairs, so I hold a hand out and carefully shuffle in that direction.
I’m stepping around the futon when that last light dims to darkness. I feel a nonsensical cold shiver shoot down my spine. But the dark is the same as the light. All the same things are there. I have no reason to feel afraid. It’s probably some weird electrical issue. My fingers curl around the edges of a side table, and I set down the oil and dildo. I could feel my way safely upstairs, but I take out my phone just in case. It won’t come on. I press the power button on the side and see a red battery icon glow faintly back at me.
I know I’d charged it. My phone was almost full battery when I first came down to the basement. “What the hell.” I hold out my phone to see if the icon will light up any of the area around me, but it doesn’t even stay lit long enough to see. I put it back in my pocket.
Fear prickles at the back of my neck. The air feels colder than it did a moment ago. I tell myself this is all just some kind of lizard-brain reaction. There’s nothing here. I hold my hands out to feel for the stair rail and slide my feet forward. After a few tense moments, my hands find the banister. I kick my toe against the rise of the stairs and climb.
I reach the landing and quickly turn the knob, but the door won’t open. I turn and push. Again, it doesn’t budge. I push harder while simultaneously getting the urge to stare down into the blackness of the basement steps. I look only at the unmoving door. I pull inward, turn the knob, then push. It doesn’t move at all. It doesn’t even rattle on the hinges.
I hear a soft, many-legged scrabbling sound down the stairs. I think of every sound I’d ever heard down there. I consider the water heater or maybe dripping from the washer. The sound starts and stops at uneven intervals. I tell myself that the volume isn’t changing. I tell myself it's coming from the same place somewhere in the utility room. I tell myself one of the battery-operated decorations is malfunctioning somewhere in a box.
I hear it at the bottom of the stairs, and it is louder. My hand squeezes the knob as if I could break it. I turn the knob frantically back and forth, but the door doesn’t move. I feel the empty space around me for anything I could use as a weapon, but there’s nothing. All at once, I turn to face whatever is lurking in the blackness and feel as though something is staring back. My eyes are straining to make out any shape, but there is nothing.
There is a creeping chill wafting upward. I tell myself that I’m being silly. I turn and run my hands up the door and over the hinges, but everything feels normal. There is the scrabbling sound again. It is slower, but rising upward. I hear a soft tap tap tap tap, pause, tap tap tap tap, pause. I turn the knob again. I push. I pull. I resist the urge to bang on the door and yell for Ashley.
I’m getting ready to try the knob again when a sensation like one icy finger touches my shoulder. I let out an involuntary yelp and brush my hand over the spot. I turn to look and catch two points of faint red light halfway up the stairs. My eyes are open as wide as they can go as I strain to see in the dark. I will them to see more. I will them to see something that will explain the two points of light on the stairs.
I stare as if staring could somehow achieve something more and feel a sense of gratitude that at least the ascending noise has stopped. I think I might be frozen in fear and staring is all I can manage. The lights are spaced apart like eyes might be. Then I hear the tap tap tap tap again as they come closer. When they are an arm’s length away, a noise sounds from my throat like a hoarse whimper. I’ve never seen a ghost before. I don’t know if that is what I’m seeing now.
“What does it want?“ The voice is like many whispering voices. The tone warbles up and down a bit. The sound comes from the red lights. I wonder if demons are real and this is what they sound like. I wonder if I’m in hell.
“What,” I croak. I don’t know if I’m asking or merely echoing the beginning of its question. All I want is to get away. The chill is all-encompassing. It is around me and in me. My thoughts and body are both frozen. I want to close my eyes, but I’m afraid of what I would see when they open again.
“You are afraid,” it says again in that horrible cacophony. I can’t tell if it's a statement or a question.
“Yes,” I offer with a breaking whisper. “Please let me out.”
The request hangs in the void for several long seconds.
“You woke me.” it says. “You must want… something.”
“Please. I want to leave.”
“That is not enough,” it says with a hiss.
“I don’t understand. Please just let me go.”
“You woke me. Give me a bargain worthy of sustenance so that I may sleep again.”
“A bargain?”
“You’ve woken me, and I must… eat.” The last word echoes on for several seconds as if the time it took to utter could not impart the needfulness of its meaning. The underlying hunger of this thing is palpable and terrifying.
“What… what do you eat?” There is a long silence. In that time, I begin to regret the question, afraid of the answer. What if I don’t have what it wants? What if I do?
“Life,” it wheezes out slowly.
“My life?” I squeak.
“Is that your bargain?” it asks with startling quickness.
“No!” I nearly shout.
It comes closer, and I feel several cold pinpricks touch my face. The eyes are only a foot in front of me, and I turn away. My back presses hard against the door as I try to evade this creature. Even more cold air wafts against me, and then it makes several short sniffing sounds. Is it smelling me?
“Don’t eat me.”
The chill eases slightly. I turn my head back to face it and find that it is back at arm’s length.
“I don’t eat flesh. Not like you. You are an eater of flesh.” There is an air of disgust in its tone.
“Please, I want to give you what you want. I don’t understand.”
“Come down. I can… talk better in the ground.”
It feels like a trap. All I have to do is come away from my only escape. But a door that won’t open isn’t much of an escape. I’m trapped either way. With the same tap tap tap tap noises I heard before, it descends the stairs down to the basement floor. The red eyes float, as if waiting.
I don’t feel compelled to follow it down the steps, but there isn’t any good reason why I shouldn’t. So, I do. I follow it down the stairs. And even though it is still as dark as it was before, I navigate the stairs confidently and find myself comfortably sitting on the futon. The eyes have settled in the utility room and float about four feet from the ground. I can’t tell if the chill has dissipated or if I’ve grown used to it.
“This is better,” it says. Its voice has grown less feathery and more cohesive. The many whispers are one voice. It sounds almost human.
“I have been awake… awhile, but I could not talk to you. Too much… light. Too much… sound. In the dark, I found your precious thing, the thing you hide. It is a secret. It is what woke me.”
Shame and embarrassment flood through me at the thought of being observed so many nights, but I could detect no admonishment in its words.
“Secrets are powerful. I can help you keep it.”
“You can help me keep my secret?” I wonder if it means to blackmail me somehow, but I don’t know how it would out me. “But I already keep it. Nobody knows.”
“You are afraid of others finding out.”
“Yes,” I concede. The constant worry that Ashley would stumble on it and blow up my life is exhausting. Even one small misstep could result in ruin. She could tell others. She could tell her friends who would tell their husbands. “How can you help?”
“Yes, I will help,” it says with what seems like enthusiasm. “We will bargain. I can make them… they will forget. If others see your secret or know your secret, they will forget. You will keep your secret forever.”
“Just like that? They will just forget whatever they see or hear? And nobody will know?”
“Yes.”
I imagine what it could be like to enjoy myself on a whim whenever I like. I imagine what it could be like to not feel worried and ashamed. It seems too good to be true.
“But…” it continues. “A price. That is a bargain. I give. You give.”
“A price? What price? My life?”
“Yes.”
“But if I die, then it won’t matter that I can… keep my secret. I won’t live to enjoy it.”
“All humans die,” it says grimly. “But they live for many days before they die. I only want days.”
“You eat days of human lives?” I ask with incredulity.
“Yes.”
“And what if I don’t want to make this bargain? What if I just want to go back to my life?”
“I am awake, now. I will stay awake until I eat.” The chill creeps back into the air, starting at my feet and rising until my skin is covered in goosebumps. “I will stay awake here in the dark until I eat.” The air feels so cold, and understanding washes over me. It would stay here in my basement. It would haunt me.
“I can do many things in the dark. I can do… so much if I get too hungry.” The cold is unbearable. The tips of my fingers are stinging with it and my nose is numb. I don’t know how much more I can withstand for much longer. Would it kill me? Would it just freeze me to death and leave me to be found with my paraphernalia out in the open? I consider running back up the stairs, but I can’t move.
“I will bargain. Please… it is just so cold.”
“So cold,” it echoes, as if mocking. But some warmth returns to the room.
“Must I trade days of my life? Will you take something else?”
“Other days. Other lives. Do you have children?”
“No,” I say dejectedly.
Ashley and I had discussed having children at some point, but neither of us felt enthusiastic about it. She was happy with her nursing career and the free time not taken up by her work days. Neither of us wanted to take care of children. Neither of us wanted to sacrifice ourselves to the altar of parenthood.
“What about my wife?” The question is out before I can consider its gravity.
“Your wife,” it seems to ponder. “Is it yours?”
“Yes…she married me.”
“Did she agree to marry you of her own free will?”
The question is off-putting. Of course, she did. Of course, she wanted to marry me.
“Yes,” I say with some indignation. Then it hits me. “But wait…”
“Wait?” I can sense an edge of irritation in its voice.
“Right… I don’t want her to die, either. I mean… I don’t want her to die soon.”
“Soon?” it asks ponderously.
“Well, I don’t want her to die before I do.” I think about the reality of trading days for quality of life. I think it could be okay if I trade her old age days. If I only trade just some of her old age days, she wouldn’t be missing much anyway, as long as she’s around to be there for me. How fulfilling could it be as an elderly widow?
I hear the tap tap tap tap of its approach and steel myself for the unpleasantness of its proximity. The eyes slowly float toward me in the dark, and the cold creeps back into my bones. I press my body back into the futon, but the cushion only gives so much before the eyes are in front of my eyes. I hear that horrific sniffling noise again and feel what seems like strands of spider silk made of ice drift over my face and neck. I hold my breath waiting for it to be over. Just when I don’t think I can bear it any longer, the cold diminishes and the icy strands trail away.
“You will die before her,” it says.
“What? Did you make it so that I would die before her? I didn’t say you could take my life.” Despite the horrific circumstances, I feel angry. But it interjects.
“No. I saw your life. And the wife’s life. Your ending is first. Was that not a condition of your bargain?”
“Yes, “ I say in confusion. The fact that it could see how long I would live is disconcerting. I get the sense that there is far more to this thing than I could understand. I realize I want this deal done and over as quickly as possible.
“How many of her days will you take?”
“That is not for me to say. I can see ahead, but still, the way is yours to decide. I will take one day for each forgetting.”
“So, each time someone learns my secret, you will take one of her days to make them forget?”
“Yes.”
“And that way no one will ever find out about… this?”
“For as long as your wife lives and has days, nobody will find out. This I can promise. Do we have a bargain?”
On one hand, it feels too good to be true. Ashley gets to miss out on a few weeks, maybe a few months, of senility and frailty, and I get to have all the alone time I want. It isn’t a bad deal. On the other hand, making a trade like this with an entity of this nature feels dangerous.
“After I agree, will you go away and never bother me again?” If I can do this thing, just this one time, and keep going like this never happened, maybe I’ll forget. Maybe I can push this nightmare into a box in my mind and never open it again.
“Yes.”
That agreement makes me feel safer. It seems so easy.
“Done. We have a bargain.”
I gasp and startle as suddenly the lights are on. There are no red eyes. The air is warm. I look at my phone to find it almost fully charged. It is midnight. Almost no time has passed. I look around and wonder what just happened. Did I imagine the whole thing?
“Hello?” I ask the bright open air. But there is no answer. I look around and step into the utility room. I peer into every dark corner and crevice. There’s no sign of the thing that bargained with me. Everything feels normal. I feel normal. I open the laptop. I extend the futon. I watch my preferred porn line-up and engage in some much-needed alone time.
I ascend the stairs and climb into bed, staring at Ashley, trying to discern any difference. She is breathing so softly that I can’t hear her, but she is breathing. Feeling satiated, I go to sleep. As I drift off, I tell myself that I probably just imagined it. It is already starting to feel like a dream you forget soon after waking.
-
I sleep in late and meet Ashley downstairs the next morning. The coffee is already made, and she has potatoes and sausage on the stove. “Good morning, honey, “ she chirps at me cheerfully. There’s a basket of clean laundry on the dining room table. I make myself a cup of coffee and sit next to the box of Halloween decorations on the couch.
“It looks like you’re gearing up for a day of decorating,” I remark.
“Yep. I need to get to it. It’s October already. Some people are totally decorated halfway through September.”
As I sip my coffee, I realize how hungry I am. “When do you think breakfast will be done?”
“Uh…probably about fifteen minutes?”
The smell of sausage is filling the house, making me even hungrier. I can hear her flipping and moving things around in the pan, and I think about what I’d like to do with the rest of my day. My phone buzzes, and I see a text from the Fresh Market management group chat.
“Damn it. Freddy’s sick.” He is supposed to be the acting manager today. I start tapping away at my phone trying to piece together a team.
“Oh no!” Ashley exclaims. “I hope he’s alright. Do you think you will have to go in?”
I keep my attention on my phone, a little irritated that she’s talking to me while I’m trying to text. After a few minutes, I get it sorted out.
“Yeah, I will, but not until later. Did you get around to washing my work pants? I don’t have any clean ones left.”
“Oh boo. I was looking forward to spending the day with you. I do have some clean work pants for you. They were in the machine, but I’ve just brought them up.”
“Can you iron them for me after breakfast?”
“Of course,” she says agreeably. “Can you go down and bring up that last box of Halloween decorations for me?”
It feels a bit like a tit-for-tat situation. I don’t know why she can’t just do things for me without having to ask for some other favor in return. “Yeah,” I say, perhaps a little gruffly, before heading into the basement. I leave the door open behind me and remember how it wouldn’t open the night before.
Halfway down the stairs, I freeze. I left the futon extended out last night. It was covered in the sheet I used which was stained with vegetable oil. My eyes dart to the side table where I see the laptop, but at least it is closed. There’s no way Ashley had missed this. She would have had to squeeze around it to get to the laundry.
I glance upstairs but only hear cooking noises. I walk into the utility room and check the gun case. It is closed and locked. I was usually more careful than this. I never left the futon open or the sheet out. I put a hand to my forehead and lean against the toolbox as I recall everything from the night before.
I hadn’t forgotten about it, but I had tried my best not to remember it until this point. I replay the brief interaction I had with Ashley. Had she seemed weird? She really hadn’t. I set the futon back up and stash the sheet in among the tarps. I grab the laptop and head back upstairs to put it on the charger.
“Did you forget the decorations?” Ashley says with a laugh.
“The what?” I ask, still preoccupied with sorting out the reality of last night.
“The box of Halloween decorations.” She looks at me concerned. “Are you alright? You seem a little out of it.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Ya know, I just saw the laptop and realized I needed to charge it up.”
“I didn’t even see it down there, or I would have grabbed it.”
“You didn’t happen to notice anything weird down there, did you?”
“Weird?!” she asks, a little worriedly. “Weird like what? I saw a few spiders when I was getting out boxes. Why do you think there’s something weird down there?”
“I heard something rustling around.”
“Oh no, do you think we have rats or something? I hate rats. I don’t even want to go down there, now.”
“I’ll check it out before I head to work, after breakfast. I don’t want you going down there with rats, either.”
I scroll for a few minutes on my phone and appreciatively take an offered plate from my wife. We eat in front of the television watching the local morning show. “You still hungry?” she asks.
“I’m alright. I’m gonna see about those rats.”
“Oh my god, I hope it's not rats. I don’t want to deal with that.”
I go back into the basement again, not sure what I will find, not even sure what I’m looking for. I hadn’t actually heard anything. I was giving her the opportunity to tell me how weird it was that there was an oily sheet on the open futon. But she hadn’t. She didn’t complain about having to wash the sheet or wonder how it had gotten so soiled or mention sidling around the futon to bring up the boxes and the laundry.
As I’m thinking about the reality of her having forgotten seeing it at the expense of one of her days, I do hear something. It’s a tap tap tap tap coming from the last Halloween box. The sound is so eerily familiar that I almost run back up the stairs, but I have to find out what it is. I can’t leave that thing to be found. What if it corners my wife, and she bargains away days of my life in exchange for never-ending decoration storage?
I walk toward the corner of the utility room where the box sits on a shelf. The sound is coming from inside the box. I wonder if that creature could perhaps live here when the lights are on. What if it lives in this box? What if it freezes me to death for trying to find it? But it had said it would go away. It can’t be the creature. I hope it isn’t the creature.
I take down the box and carefully remove a gauzy ghost. Then I take out a sparkly pumpkin. Something is moving at the bottom. There’s something tap tap tap tapping at the bottom. I take a breath and dump the box out onto the floor. On top of a pile of Halloween detritus, a small wind-up spider with red eyes tap tap tap taps. It was just a silly toy.
I pick it up and wind the little white knob so that it runs out of power and stops moving. I know it is just a generic little spider, but I don’t want it in my house. I think, maybe, if I get rid of it, I can get rid of everything else from last night. That thing is nowhere to be seen, but somewhere deep in my gut, I can feel a strand connecting me to it through our agreement. I consider my alone time against this feeling.
I only forgot to put back the futon and the sheet last night, but eventually, I could slip up. Ashley could get curious. She might open the gun case. What if I forget to use incognito mode on the laptop, and she accesses my search history? Anything could happen. And the more days pass since having that experience, the less it will probably bother me. In a few months, I’ll be over it.
I put away the upended Halloween decorations, but the spider toy goes in my toolbox as a reminder, not of how afraid I was, but of how good the bargain actually is. I deserve to have alone time and not be worried. Who needs to live out the entirety of their old age, anyway? I’m doing Ashley a favor, and what she doesn’t know certainly won’t hurt her.