*Fiction — December 1, 2022
Phoenix
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Six weeks after the story fell apart, she signed the lease for a small house on the outskirts of Phoenix. Or the middle of Phoenix. It was hard to tell where the center of the city was, hidden somewhere in the tangle of sprawling highways that all looked the same. The desert, which she’d imagined as empty and endless, was filled with identical strip malls, teeming cells with Walmart nuclei.
She’d wanted to shed her old life like a cicada’s carapace, to peel out of it completely and emerge unrecognizable. She’d wanted the warm pillowy mesas of O’Keeffe landscapes, craved crisp black shadows so dark that they seemed to be doors into a vast alien world. But O’Keeffe had painted New Mexico, not the suburbs of Arizona. She’d always been careless with research. Of course, everyone knew that now.
To be caught in a lie was one thing. Who hadn’t been tripped up in conversation, pretending to have seen a movie or read a book they barely knew the title of? What she had done was both more and less than a lie; a product, she’d come to believe, of her own fundamental disinterest in her work. She only wanted what the work would get her. That, it turned out, was $714 from the sale of all her furniture on Craigslist and a one-way ticket to the wrong Southwestern state.
The house had come furnished, but barely. She might have called it ascetic if anyone had asked her. There was no art on its white walls. A single chair accompanied the plain table in the dining area. The bedroom was uncluttered and bright, with two windows that let in the sun. A spindly lamp sat on the bedside table, and beside it, the house’s only nod to decor: a small potted cactus, round and faded. The living room’s best feature was the light it got from the sliding glass door that looked out onto a backyard of scrubby desert plants and smooth grey stones. She would need to put up curtains eventually, but her new neighborhood was half-empty. It was dotted with “for sale” signs, streets free of cars, sidewalks bare of nosy dog walkers.
There was no one to pay attention, but she got out of bed every morning. It was something she did not want to do, so she considered it a mark of personal growth that she did it anyway. Every day, she opened her laptop and told herself she’d apply for a job, just one job, but she always seemed to find herself searching her own name. At first she’d been a scandal; now she was a punchline. Then she began staring out at the landscape, the strange half-inhabited suburban diorama someone seemed to have built in a lizard’s terrarium. The weeks passed. Days melted, one after the other.
One night, she sat in front of the TV, streaming a show she’d loved in college. Its beats still made sense to her, and she knew when a joke was happening, but she never laughed. Sometimes, the corners of her mouth twitched. The show was texture, a way to keep the air from going flat. She was mechanically reaching for a handful of pretzels when she saw it. Something had moved out in the parched night, just beyond the glass door.
She reached for her phone before she remembered that it was in the kitchen, where no amount of notifications could sneak into her field of vision. For the first time since buckling her seatbelt on the flight here, she felt something: pure, animal fear. Suddenly she was sweating. The thing she had seen was no wandering pet, no innocent nighttime fauna. It was big. Tall. Maybe taller than she was. If she made a noise, no one would hear her.
Then the light shifted. The clouds moved and the faint glow from the moon illuminated her backyard. There was nothing there, nothing of any size at all. Her heart slowly returned to its usual tempo, and she let the next episode play out. She thought it must have been a reflection from the TV, or maybe just her own shadow, distorted by the lamps in the house. But when she went to bed, she turned the lock in the doorknob. Lit by her phone, she typed in a reminder: Curtains in the morning.
The next day, she tried the Target that seemed closest to her house, but they were out of the curtains she wanted. Everything else was too short, or too loud, and she told herself she’d never be desperate enough to put NASCAR or Bratz curtains in her home. She drove to the next-closest Target, but they were out, too. An associate told her that there was another Target about three miles away, and the computer said they had them. She’d put them on hold for her. They’d be ready to pick up when she got there.
But when she got to the next Target, she realized she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t the “next one” but the first one, in the same strip mall, between a Michael’s and a Best Buy. She thought she’d put the right street into her phone, but she must have gone back to a previous route. She tapped on a different Target, one about three miles away. The drive didn’t take very long, but she thought she must have gotten turned around again, because this one was also between a Michael’s and a Best Buy, though she thought that maybe the restaurant at the turn into the parking lot was a taco place instead of an Italian one.
An associate there told her she was at the wrong location. The computer showed she had a pickup order at a different store. She needed to go back three miles the way she’d come. There was a big Target logo right at the turn for the strip mall it was in; she couldn’t miss it. This time, she asked for the exact address. There it was, sandwiched between a Michael’s and a Best Buy. She could have sworn the palm tree she parked near was the same one from earlier that afternoon. But it was, in fact, a different Target, and she left with a pile of smoky gray curtains.
When she woke the next morning, she was sore all over, as though she’d been doing gymnastics in her sleep. Her muscles felt worked over, pummeled, so much so that it ached to stand for too long. She’d meant to put up the curtains, but instead she splayed out on the couch, watching the desert. She gave herself permission to wait another day. That night, while she was watching a movie she’d seen before, she saw something move outside again. Then she realized it was just the half-moon of her own face, trapped in the glass.
The curtains went up, stretched across their tension rods. Soon they became part of the house’s landscape, like the hook for her keys or the drawing hanging in the hallway. She didn’t remember buying it but supposed she had, somewhere in the mazy day of shopping. It was black, white, and gray; not O’Keeffeian at all. In the foreground, a series of confident strokes depicted a bare foot, heel lifted, toes in the sand. Behind it, the desert expanded. It seemed too singular to be Target art, neither a reproduction nor blandly inspirational, but the frame was right. Made of cheap plywood painted black, it reminded her of things she’d bought in college.
She wanted to write a letter to her 18-year-old self, a letter full of portents and warnings. Just major in history instead of journalism, she would have said, and maybe you’ll actually learn something about consequences. But it was too late for all that. She clicked in and out of job sites and watched her bank balance dwindle. More often than not, she looked out at her sunbaked patio instead of at her laptop screen. Sometimes she ventured outside and waited until the sun wore her out. It was like stepping into a scalding bath, or running mile after mile after mile. When she stepped back into the house, she felt emptied of everything, good and bad.
At night she drew the curtains. The desert in the moonlight was of no comfort to her. Even though she hadn’t seen anything else move in the shadows, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was there, just waiting for her to look at it. She knew that was foolish, that wildcats or coyotes or whatever predatory animals might be out in the brush would exist even if she couldn’t see them. But she felt better sealed into her house. It became a nightly ritual. She’d take her dinner out of the oven, pour herself a glass of wine, close the curtains and sit down in front of the TV.
She still woke exhausted and sore, even though her sleep felt dreamless and heavy. She’d heard of people feeling worked over by inactivity. She’d read an article about it. Or had she? It was something she could have said in her former life, telling someone all about it at a party, inventing the details as she went along, convincing herself just as much as she was convincing her listener. But would it have been wrong if it felt true, if it meant something?
Eventually she found a job in transcription. Due to her speed, she was part of the “least skilled” tier and made the smallest amount of money the service would pay, but she only worked when she felt like it. At first, that was rarely. There was still enough left to pay for the house and the food and the wine, the subscription streaming service that kept asking her if she was still watching. Of course she was still watching. The TV or the desert—what else was there for her?
One night, while her show was stuck between episodes, she heard a sound. It was a distinct knock, a tap tap tap against the glass of her patio door. She felt her body ready itself to run. It was all she could do to pause the show before it started again, to hold herself still, listening. But there was nothing. The sound of the desert going about its nocturnal business. She thought of peeking through the curtains, just to make sure there was nothing there. But if there was? Eventually she let the next episode play.
One night, while her show was stuck between episodes, she heard a sound. It was a distinct knock, a tap tap tap against the glass of her patio door. She felt her body ready itself to run. It was all she could do to pause the show before it started again, to hold herself still, listening. But there was nothing. The sound of the desert going about its nocturnal business. She thought of peeking through the curtains, just to make sure there was nothing there. But if there was? Eventually she let the next episode play.
When it ended, the sound returned. Tap tap tap, polite, gentle. This time, she slowly turned off the light. Tap tap tap. She scampered into the bedroom, locking the door behind her and burrowing into her pillows. She tried to sleep, but it was a shallow rest. She finally got out of bed when the sun was high enough to beg her to, unsure if she had slept at all.
It was broad daylight—a phrase, she knew, that one used when one wanted to point out the improbability of something terrible happening. It was broad daylight and therefore a reasonably safe time to open the curtains, open the door, and see if there was anything in the backyard. Hours and hours had passed. Maybe there would be footprints in the dust. Nothing more. Still, she ate her breakfast under the house’s artificial lights. She usually opened the curtains first thing in the morning, hungry for the wide vista behind her house, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She even let her finger hover over the chat app on her phone. There was a time she would have told the story to her friends, would have taken the gentle ribbing when they accused her of being scared of nothing. But the group chat had no room for her now.
It was broad daylight—a phrase, she knew, that one used when one wanted to point out the improbability of something terrible happening. It was broad daylight and therefore a reasonably safe time to open the curtains, open the door, and see if there was anything in the backyard. Hours and hours had passed. Maybe there would be footprints in the dust. Nothing more. Still, she ate her breakfast under the house’s artificial lights. She usually opened the curtains first thing in the morning, hungry for the wide vista behind her house, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She even let her finger hover over the chat app on her phone. There was a time she would have told the story to her friends, would have taken the gentle ribbing when they accused her of being scared of nothing. But the group chat had no room for her now.
Instead, she dialed 9-1, and hoped she’d have the presence of mind to finish the number if anything happened, out there in the broad daylight. How many times had she bemoaned the phrase as hacky and sensationalist? Not that anyone should have trusted her judgment on anything at all. She whipped open the curtains.
It was only her backyard, brimming over with sun. Carefully, she opened the door and tiptoed outside. There was nothing in the dirt, no marks, no scuffs, no sign that anyone or anything had been there at all. Then something caught her eye. Just outside her door was the small furred body of some kind of rodent, something tiny and insignificant. She couldn’t tell what it was specifically, because it was missing its head.
Slowly, slowly, she turned away. It might have nothing to do with the knocking. It was the desert, after all, full of hunters and hunted. She stood there, looking out into the distance, until the shadows grew long enough to lick at her feet. Her stomach growled. Another night, another frozen meal, another glass of wine.
She found herself back in the house, in front of her closet. There were restaurants in Phoenix, there were bars. In all of those places there were people, lots of people, and they were certainly not the kind of people who could match her face to her name. In all likelihood, they’d never even heard of her. Her old world was a bubble. That’s what another kind of person liked to say, and tonight she was going to believe them.
She put on a pair of shiny black flats. She used to call them her interview shoes: unobtrusive, less uncomfortable than heels, but still tight enough to pinch. “To keep me on my toes,” she’d said once; nevertheless she had stumbled. Still, she kept them on. It was part of the costume of competence she used to wear, one she hoped might still fit her.
The bar had good reviews online, and looked close to her house, though it had taken her a curiously long time to get there—she wasn’t sure of the way, and the sun seemed to be setting in every direction. She might have looped through the same intersection twice, but eventually she pulled into a vast parking lot presided over by a giant neon sign.
The bar had good reviews online, and looked close to her house, though it had taken her a curiously long time to get there—she wasn’t sure of the way, and the sun seemed to be setting in every direction. She might have looped through the same intersection twice, but eventually she pulled into a vast parking lot presided over by a giant neon sign.
The hostess asked her if she minded sitting at the bar, since she was by herself. She didn’t mind, but she was still shocked that a place this big could be so full, so full of laughing, talking, yelling people. Of course she would sit at the bar—the thought of sitting alone in a booth, surrounded by families and groups of friends, was so obviously wrong to her that she might have left if the hostess had tried to put her anywhere else.
She was halfway through her sandwich when someone sat down next to her.
“New here?” he said. He looked like he’d fallen asleep in an oasis thirty years ago and walked to the bar immediately upon waking. He wore a dull cap and a jacket so faded it was impossible to tell what color it had originally been. If she still wrote, she might have described him as broken-in, a comfortable old pair of sneakers.
“I’m sorry, did I take your seat?” she asked. When she spoke, her voice came out like rusty water from a tap. How did she used to sound? She couldn’t remember. She took another sip of beer and cleared her throat.
“No, no, angel,” said the man. “Just never seen you up here before and we usually get the same crowd on Bill’s nights.” He nodded towards the bartender, who lifted his chin back. “But then again I’m here most nights. I’m not so great in the kitchen, and you can’t beat the specials.”
Bill, silent as a ghost, set a dark beer in front of the man and faded away. The man drank half of it in one gulp, then turned back to her. He liked to talk, and told her what parts of the menu to avoid, which days to come in for the best deals. Never get the fish, he made sure to tell her, not because it wasn’t fresh but because no one back there knew what to do with one.
Bill, silent as a ghost, set a dark beer in front of the man and faded away. The man drank half of it in one gulp, then turned back to her. He liked to talk, and told her what parts of the menu to avoid, which days to come in for the best deals. Never get the fish, he made sure to tell her, not because it wasn’t fresh but because no one back there knew what to do with one.
“I can tell you’re new in town,” he said, “based on what you’re wearing. Don’t worry, I’ve got a girlfriend, I’m not putting my eyes someplace they’re not supposed to be. But sleeves like that and no jacket? You don’t know Arizona yet.”
She found herself asking questions, falling back into an old rhythm. What was it, exactly, that she was supposed to know about Arizona? Her follow-ups were good and he was happy to field them. She would have liked talking to him if this had been a story. Though she supposed he was—that was her problem, wasn’t it? Even the people she didn’t think were important were part of some kind of story.
He told her that she couldn’t trust the weather just from looking outside. It was usually Arizona out—that is, hot enough to feel it in the morning but cold at night. No matter the temperature, she could get sunburned. He told her the names of the plants in her yard, how to keep them alive without wasting water, how to know what animals were sneaking around trying to eat them.
She found herself telling him about the headless rodent she’d found. Of course it must have been left there by some other animal. She left out the knocking. Whatever creatures hunted in the night did not need to politely ask if they could do it. He chewed over her story like a wad of tobacco.
“Well,” he said, “it seems to me like you’ve got yourself …” He paused to finish his drink. He seemed to savor the beat of silence, to swish it in his mouth like his beer. “A neighborhood cat. Sorry, angel, I know it would be more exciting to tell the folks back home you stood up to a coyote, but ‘decapitated mouse’ says cat all over it.”
He said “coyote” with two syllables, so it rhymed with goat. She liked that. It made her feel like she’d finally arrived somewhere, a place inescapably itself and not the same place she’d come from, the place she’d always been. When she paid her bill, she bought him another drink.
He nodded and told her he’d see her around, seeing as she lived so close and all. It seemed easier to drive home that night, the roads straightening under her headlights, uncurling into legibility. The forest of “for sale” signs welcomed her back into her neighborhood. When she went to bed, she fell asleep at once.
In the morning, the lights in the living room were on. She thought she’d turned them off but couldn’t remember. She opened the curtains to let the sun in, and went over to the light switch. Something in the cheap art she’d bought caught her eye. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a bit of color in the print of the foot walking through the desert, a little ribbon of red ink starting at the heel.
He nodded and told her he’d see her around, seeing as she lived so close and all. It seemed easier to drive home that night, the roads straightening under her headlights, uncurling into legibility. The forest of “for sale” signs welcomed her back into her neighborhood. When she went to bed, she fell asleep at once.
In the morning, the lights in the living room were on. She thought she’d turned them off but couldn’t remember. She opened the curtains to let the sun in, and went over to the light switch. Something in the cheap art she’d bought caught her eye. She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a bit of color in the print of the foot walking through the desert, a little ribbon of red ink starting at the heel.
She spent the day transcribing. For the first time since she’d come to Phoenix, she felt something close to her old drive, the force that had pushed her through school with papers over the page requirement, the force that had tugged her through application after application, the thing that had made her stay up into the early hours of the morning fiddling with a single paragraph. It felt good to do something, to see the completed files fill up her screen. By the time she took off her headphones, it was getting dark.
She thought about going back to the bar, but even though she’d been working all day, she’d barely made enough to cover a single meal out. She made wholesale grocery money, no more than that. An insipid lede in a where-are-they-now about her might begin with descriptions of meals at three-dollar-sign restaurants that she’d barely touched and hadn’t even taken home.
But no one was interested in where she was now except for her.
But no one was interested in where she was now except for her.
She made dinner. She had a glass of wine. She watched a movie she’d loved to put on at sleepovers when she was a kid. Two weeks passed like that. She was working so much that she was eligible to move up a skill tier, and that meant another thirty-five cents an hour. It was a goal so embarrassing she couldn’t have told anyone, even if she had anyone to tell. She still spent time in her backyard, but the hours she had buried in the sand and the horizon were all dedicated to work now. She slept better than ever, even though she continued to wake with a strange soreness in her limbs, like she’d been running through the night to get to the morning.
But it felt right. It felt like effort. It was work, after all, and work was supposed to make a person feel like they’d used something up. It reminded her of her high-school soccer days, the wind sprints and lunges that left her feeling wrung out and useless. She remembered, too, that they got easier, week by week.
It was almost comforting to spend so much time in front of her laptop. Anyone watching her would have seen a young woman, fingers moving over the keyboard with intention and speed, almost exactly the person she had been before. She might have been writing anything, not simply committing another person’s words to text. The shape of the work felt familiar, even if its substance had once been a mere task, not the whole of her occupation.
The transcription company had a new service that provided summaries of news articles aggregated from larger publications. They were published without bylines, paid at a rate only slightly higher than the top-tier transcribers. All she had to do was work a little harder to make the jump. It felt right to her to imagine her words marching across the page again, laying out a story in clear black and white. All she had ever done was type, really. What other people did after they read her stories had nothing to do with her.
The days got shorter, and she found herself getting up earlier to draw the curtains. The knocking hadn’t returned, and she hadn’t found any more deceased rodents. She’d found and read an article, a real article, about the number of birds household cats killed every year. She could have told the man at the bar how outdoor cats wreaked untold havoc on ecosystems. She pictured the creature, chipped and collared, strutting through a cat door and dropping a rodent’s head in its dismayed owner’s lap.
She was working on a particularly long file one day and only realized how dark it was when she could only see her glass of water by the glow of her computer. She paused the audio, got up to draw the curtains, and stumbled back into the sofa almost immediately. She reached for her phone, knocking it off the table, and risked a look back toward the sliding door. She exhaled. She took a deep breath and exhaled again. She could have sworn there had been a pair of eyes staring at her through the glass.
There was nothing there now. And if there had been, it was probably just the cat. That was what she told herself as she hastily closed the curtains, and that was what she told herself while she made sure all the doors were locked. Cats’ eyes had strange properties of reflection, she thought, scrambling for facts she half-remembered reading. It made them better predators, that much more devastating to the local fauna.
She poured herself half a glass of wine and put her headphones back on. The speaker was talking about something mathematical, something that made sense to her in language but not in concept. After two paragraphs of terms she knew she’d have to double-check later, someone else started talking. She winced at the sound of the new voice, hearing its quavers and affectations with discomfort. It was only after she’d gotten two sentences in that she realized what was so familiarly unpleasant about it.
She was listening to herself. She was listening to herself speak in her interview voice, pitched higher than the way she spoke in normal conversation, but more puggish too, soaked in a self-satisfaction she knew she’d never deserved. But she’d never spoken with a mathematician, and she hadn’t recorded an interview in months. The date on the file was recent. She kept hearing herself talk, spinning out phrases incomprehensible to her ears but perfectly understandable to her hands. She looked at her open document. Underneath “NEW SPEAKER,”
she had transcribed: I walked across the hot sand and my feet were bleeding. Help me, I said, but my mouth was too dry, and no one heard.
she had transcribed: I walked across the hot sand and my feet were bleeding. Help me, I said, but my mouth was too dry, and no one heard.
She ripped off the headphones, but no relief came, even when her own voice had become inaudible. Something else had replaced it. The knocking was back, calm but insistent, coming from behind the sliding door.
“Leave me alone!” she meant to say, but the words were sodden scraps of fabric, clogged in her throat. She scrabbled on the floor for her phone. Her hands closed around it. She typed in her passcode but got it wrong. The second time, the screen took what felt like hours to recognize the press of her fingers. All the while the knocking got louder, until it seemed like it was coming from every direction at once. She was running for her room when she caught sight of the drawing on the wall. The red ribbon she’d noticed before was unspooling before her eyes, turning the
desert deep scarlet.
desert deep scarlet.
She fled down the short hallway into the bathroom, the only room in the house with no windows. Once she’d closed and locked the door behind her, she tried her phone again.
Something is wrong at my house, she texted. I think someone is trying to break in. Or something. They keep knocking.
I heard my own voice.
What do I do?
The knocking was fainter in the bathroom, but she could hear her own heart beat much louder. She sat curled in the tub, curtain closed, breathing fast. Finally, a response.
call the police if this is actually happening
call the police if this is actually happening
…
…
I’m not ready to talk to you again
She woke up in the bathtub, her phone pressed to her chest. It told her it was seven o’clock in the morning, that somehow she had slept through the night. Her head played a hangover chorus, even though she knew she’d fallen asleep perfectly sober. When she stood up, her legs shook.
The house was quiet. When she unlocked the bathroom door, the click sounded like a sheet of ice breaking. She ventured a glance at the art on her wall. It was still, simple, black and white. A foot with its toes in the sand. She exhaled. Carefully, she walked into the living room. Her laptop was still open, screen gone dark, the curtains still drawn. Her stomach growled. She’d skipped dinner but even though hunger roared in her belly, cooking seemed like an impossible task.
She woke up her computer. The transcription site was still up, the file unfinished. Her efficiency rating was going to go down, and she’d have to spend the rest of the month trying not to drop even lower. The best thing to do would be to finish it this morning, she knew that, but when she reached for the headphones her hands shook so much she dropped them. Her stomach rumbled again. She thought about a real breakfast, with pancakes and eggs and a side of bacon. But she’d have to go to the grocery store, because she only had yogurt and cereal, stacks and stacks of little plastic containers with fruit she was meant to stir up from the bottom.
She tiptoed into the kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee. Everything she did seemed to echo, seemed to be not the sound itself but an imitation of it, like someone pretending to make coffee in a play. Once, when she was little, her parents had taken her to one of the Disney parks in Florida, not the Magic Kingdom but a “good, educational one,” and there had been a show about how sounds in movies were made. The real sounds weren’t always loud enough, or didn’t sound enough like themselves, so sound artists used a clearer substitute. Her coffee machine’s hiss sounded so crisp that it couldn’t be real. When she poured herself a cup, she imagined a man all in black, just out of frame, dumping a gallon of water into a plastic bucket.
She drank the full mug before she went back to her computer. She sat down, the coffee burning through her stomach and, she hoped, into her veins. Sun snuck around the curtains in shining darts, but she was still cold. She unplugged the headphones this time before she pressed play, bracing for her own voice to fill the room.
But the speaker was a man, young by the sound of it, and just as out of his depth in math as she was. He was asking the previous speaker to clarify a few things for a more casual reader, and wondered if she might “define the basics.” He didn’t say anything about walking, or blood, or asking for help. It was a normal interview. Normal as they came.
She pressed pause again and had a bowl of cereal. She finished the transcription and submitted it. It took her longer than it might have otherwise, since she was constantly anticipating any hint of her own inflection. But the recording ended without incident. She tried to pummel her day back into shape. She brushed her teeth and started her laundry. She even vacuumed, a task she had not been able to bring herself to do since she’d moved into the house. She resolutely avoided looking at her phone, steering herself away from the question it forced her to ask.
Why hadn’t she called the police? Why had she texted a person thousands of miles away, who had once expressed such disappointment with her that she’d vowed to delete her number forever? When she caught herself pushing at these thoughts like a sore tooth, she forced herself into another chore. Change the sheets. Wipe down the counters. Clean the sink. There were new transcriptions to claim, but she left her computer alone.
She made herself lunch. Normally she’d eat it in the backyard, blanketed by sun. But she realized that it was past noon, and she still hadn’t drawn the curtains. Part of her believed that if she were to look outside, she would see not her own familiar view but an unfamiliar landscape, sand wine-dark and endless.
She steeled herself and flung the curtains open. There it was, her small backyard, the suburb’s other houses empty in the distance. Nothing was different; nothing had changed. She reached for the lock, then drew her hand back as though she’d touched something sharp. She felt the shiver travel through her from her fingers to her heart. In the center of the glass, there was an unmistakable handprint.
When the police arrived, she told them the story quickly. There was knocking, she was afraid, she’d locked the doors. She left out the part about the audio file, and neglected to mention that she’d spent the night in the tub. The officers nodded dutifully, but she noticed they’d written very little down.
“And why didn’t you call last night, ma’am?” said one, the older of the two. He had a face like a peach left too long in the sun. She couldn’t look at him without thinking of the dead animal, of sweet rot and decay. She mumbled something about not wanting to waste anyone’s time. But she lived alone, she got jumpy, and wasn’t it better to be safe than sorry? The handprint was more than a mind on edge, wasn’t it?
“Do you have cameras or anything? Was anything stolen?” The younger officer was polite, deferential. The part in his hair was so clean it could have been made in a factory.
She shook her head. The cops exchanged a glance. They hadn’t meant to hide it.
“Well, there’s nothing we can really do if you don’t have evidence of a break-in,” said the first officer.
“If you’re worried, you should get a security system. I’ll write a few down for you,” said the second. “Maybe think about installing some lighting back there, too. Potential criminals tend to be deterred by bright lighting.”
“If you’re worried, you should get a security system. I’ll write a few down for you,” said the second. “Maybe think about installing some lighting back there, too. Potential criminals tend to be deterred by bright lighting.”
She started to ask them if there was anything else, but they were already detaching themselves from the conversation, gliding down the driveway and into their cruiser. Maybe they didn’t realize that their windows were down, but she heard everything they said once they were in the car.
“People move out here and they think every little noise is a burglar.”
“Or an alien abduction. Remember that guy?”
“He was just lonely and wanted to talk to someone.”
“I mean, it was probably just her handprint.”
When enough of the day had passed, she drove back to the bar. Or, tried to—three times she thought she saw it, and three times she pulled into the parking lot of a different place. All of the strip malls looked the same to her, blocky rows of stores with restaurants squatting in front of them like overfed guard dogs. The bar’s address seemed to have disappeared from her phone’s memory, and she couldn’t remember enough of the name to look it up. Instead, she followed roads that looked familiar, took turn after turn that seemed to lead her back to the same intersection every time. The sun got lower and lower and her stomach growled at her, but everything she drove past was a Chipotle or an Olive Garden.
When enough of the day had passed, she drove back to the bar. Or, tried to—three times she thought she saw it, and three times she pulled into the parking lot of a different place. All of the strip malls looked the same to her, blocky rows of stores with restaurants squatting in front of them like overfed guard dogs. The bar’s address seemed to have disappeared from her phone’s memory, and she couldn’t remember enough of the name to look it up. Instead, she followed roads that looked familiar, took turn after turn that seemed to lead her back to the same intersection every time. The sun got lower and lower and her stomach growled at her, but everything she drove past was a Chipotle or an Olive Garden.
She knew her freezer was stocked. But still, she considered driving downtown, heading towards the lights of the buildings that towered over the desert, sleek offices and anodyne hotels meant for conventions. She could book a room several stories up, order room service, and deadbolt the door.
But the roads snarled in front of her, a tangle of asphalt cooling in the twilight. She was afraid to get on an expressway, worried that she might find herself halfway to Las Vegas before she realized where she was. Instead, she tapped her own address into her phone. By the time she pulled into the driveway, her arms were sore, as though she’d been using a steering wheel made of lead.
It was truly dark now, and she hadn’t turned on her porch light before she left. For the first time, she wished she had more neighbors, even nosy ones, who might have put up holiday decorations or installed quirky, architecturally mismatched lampposts. She had to use her phone flashlight to make her way into the house. She flicked on the lights, but she didn’t want to see the drawing on the hallway wall. On her way to the kitchen, she tiptoed past it like she might wake it up. But she couldn’t avoid seeing the sliding doors, opaque rectangles. At first they were a mirror, then they were an opening. A hole cut into the night itself.
Something about the living room felt different. She shivered—there was a breeze. One of the doors was open. It was just a crack, no wider than a paperback. Still, her heart beat faster and faster, so loudly it felt like she was trapped in the sound. The police must have left it open, she thought, resolutely pushing away the part of her brain that said they had done no such thing.
Something about the living room felt different. She shivered—there was a breeze. One of the doors was open. It was just a crack, no wider than a paperback. Still, her heart beat faster and faster, so loudly it felt like she was trapped in the sound. The police must have left it open, she thought, resolutely pushing away the part of her brain that said they had done no such thing.
She pulled the door shut and quickly locked it. The snap of the mechanism closing was sharp enough to cut through the thrum in her head, and she stood in front of the door, quieting her breathing. She closed her eyes, like she might have done in a yoga class, and counted in and out, in and out.
When she opened her eyes, she saw herself. But not her reflection—she knew that at once. This version of her was coming unfastened, hair in disarray, sweat blotching her clothes. This version of her had eyes like phosphorescent stones. This version of her was barefoot, something dark pooling at her heels. This version of her raised a hand to the glass, knuckles poised to knock.
She stood outside, looking into her own brightly lit living room. She watched herself sit down in front of the TV, glass of wine in hand. She shivered in the night air, felt the dirt creep beneath her toes. She was hungry and cold, and that was her house and her kitchen. She pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. The version of her inside didn’t even turn her head. She knocked and knocked, but this other version didn’t seem to hear her at all. All she did was get up and draw the curtains shut.
She stood outside, looking into her own brightly lit living room. She watched herself sit down in front of the TV, glass of wine in hand. She shivered in the night air, felt the dirt creep beneath her toes. She was hungry and cold, and that was her house and her kitchen. She pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. The version of her inside didn’t even turn her head. She knocked and knocked, but this other version didn’t seem to hear her at all. All she did was get up and draw the curtains shut.
She knocked on the glass until her knuckles were sore, but nothing came of it. The other version of her had shut her out, closed off the way into her own house. “Please,” she started to say, but no sound came out. She tried other words, but none made it past her lips. She spent what seemed like hours mutely pleading with the curtains she’d hung herself, trying to keep the world out. . She thought she might be crying, but when she touched her face, she felt only the coolness of her skin.
At last, her mind quieted. She took a step into the backyard, and then another. Her feet were already sore. But she walked and walked, deeper and deeper into the neighborhood, leaving damp footprints in the sand. Time slipped by in ragged slivers until she found what she wanted. There was a house in the middle of the street. Even in the dim morning light, she could see that the door was open.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.