Round 2 Submission

Genre: Horror

Setting: A House Sale

Object: Brie Cheese

Grow into It

The house was gorgeous.

“I hope we’re not too late,” she said to Izzy. She’d been sick all morning—probably the labneh from last night’s meze—and they’d barely made it in time for the open house. She rushed to the door, was relieved to find it unlocked, and entered the house.

Stunning. Original hardwood, vaulted ceilings, skylights. She wanted to post it on Insta, but if her parents saw she and Izzy were house-hunting, they’d ask about grandkids. The labneh was enough to handle, thank you.

A man and woman of about fifty stood in the kitchen. They smiled to Hanna and Izzy, yet something about them struck Hanna as profoundly sad.

“I’m Abe,” the man said. “This is Sara. We own the place.”

Hanna shook their hands. “Hanna and Ishmael.”

“Married?”

“Six years now,” Izzy said.

“Children?”

Hanna gave her stock response. “Just a cat we spoil rotten.”

Sara turned away. “Unfortunately we’re done for the day.” Hanna cursed her bad luck. “But if you’d like some Chardonnay, it’s yours. The brie as well.”

Izzy didn’t have to be told twice. He grabbed a wine flute, then took the chef’s knife and sliced himself some brie. Hanna watched, nauseated, with a hand on her stomach.

Sara eyed her. “None for you, dear?”

“No, thank you.”

Abe and Sara turned to each other, and something passed between them. Had her refusal offended them? Then Sara grinned, and the tension broke.

“How about a tour?”

Hanna sighed in relief. “That would be great.”

“Start upstairs and work our way down?”

“Sure. There’s three bedrooms, right? Two had photos on Zillow, but I thought I saw another door.”

Abe frowned. “That room isn’t finished. Let’s save it for last, huh?”

Hanna shrugged. “Works for me.”

They started in the master bedroom, which was breathtaking, even with a comically large painting above the headboard. “Saint Colette,” Sara whispered. Hanna complimented it as she took mental notes on where her dresser would go.

Izzy stumbled, almost dropping the wine flute. Sara offered him some more, and before Hanna could telepath a no into his brain, he took Sara’s offer.

“It’s a lot of house!” he blurted as she poured.

Abe winked at Hanna. “Fill it with children, and you’ll grow into it.”

It took all her will not to roll her eyes. Everyone who heard they were house-hunting assumed they were going to have kids. But Hanna had never wanted children, and for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why that mattered to anyone else.

The next bedroom was pink and filled with dolls, tea sets, and unicorns. The room irked her. Maybe it was the decor, which she’d immediately filed under “P” for “Pointlessly Gendered.”

Or, maybe it was that it felt too perfect. Too staged. But of course it was staged—they were selling the place. She shook off the feeling.

Izzy stumbled again, spilling Chardonnay on her top. She glared at him, but his eyes were lolling in their sockets. Are you drunk? she mouthed to him, but he couldn’t seem to focus on her.

“I need some water,” he muttered.

“I’ll help you to the bathroom,” Sara offered, guiding him out of the room.

Suddenly, it was just Hanna and Abe.

“We prayed for a girl,” he said.

“What’s her name?”

“It would’ve been Rachel. But Sara miscarried.”

Hanna’s felt her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry.”

“It was hard on Sara. We always wanted to grow into this place, but never had the chance.” He grinned. “Until now.”

Hanna’s stomach twisted. Suddenly she wanted to be with Izzy right now. Or at least not in this room with Abe, and whatever he meant by until now.

“I think I should—”

She was out the door before he could finish the sentence. There were two bathrooms on this floor. She tried the first, a Jack-and-Jill which connected to the master bed, but it was empty. So was the second. Except, she saw, there was a prescription bottle left open on the counter. She thought of the wine, of Izzy stumbling around.

“Izzy!” she screamed. Where the fuck was he? She’d searched every room on this floor.

Except one.

Hanna turned to the final door. It bothered her, triggered some dark intuition. Her stomach lurched, but against her every instinct, she opened the door.

There sat Izzy, cross-legged on the floor. Drool snaked down his chin, and he held a piece of wood in each hand.

“Izzy?”

He craned his neck in her direction and showed her the pieces of wood, like an offering. A shadow move behind him. It was Sara, draped in a shawl (like Saint Colette, Hanna noticed) and stroking Izzy’s hair.

“What—”

Abe shoved her from behind, and she tumbled into the room. “I told you the room wasn’t finished yet. But it’s almost there, eh Ishmael?” Izzy fit two of the pieces together, and suddenly Hannah realized what he was making:

A crib.

“We thought an open house might get some young folks out here,” Sara crooned. “But none of them passed the test. Until you.”

“Test?”

“The wine. The brie. Everyone partook, except you.”

“What…” but then she understood.

Alcohol. Soft cheese. They thought she was pregnant.

“Don’t you see? It’s a miracle. That’s why you have to stay here.” Abe held the chef’s knife in one hand and a key in another. That’s when Hanna realized what had bothered her so much about the door: it had deadbolt.

On the outside.

Abe and Sara turned to leave, when Hanna screamed: “I’m not pregnant!”

They paused.

For a brief moment, Hanna thought that they would let her and Izzy go. Instead, Abe said: “Well, it’s the perfect time to try.”

Hanna crawled toward him, but Abe raised the knife. She froze in place.

“Please,” she whimpered. “I don’t want any of this.”

“Give it time, Hanna. You’ll grow into it.”

Then, as Izzy pieced the crib together, Abe and Sara left the room and locked the door.

THE END

Semi-Finals Submission

Genre: Ghost Story

Setting: Blood Bank

Object: Bike Helmet

Exposure

As the nurse sanitized the crook of her arm, Rhea began her mantra.

Breathe in…You are more than your fear…Breathe out…A journey of a thousand miles begins with your first step.

The nurse tapped a vein. Rhea rummaged through her bag, found her bike helmet, and strapped it to her head. The nurse frowned.

Rhea forced a smile. “In case I get woozy. Don’t want a concussion, right?”

The nurse shrugged, then returned to his work.

It was the truth, but not the whole truth. Rhea was hemophobic, and the sight of blood would cause her to faint. It started when she was a child, but she preferred not to think about that. Instead, she focused on the progress she’d made ever since starting exposure therapy, for which this blood drive was her crucible.

Rhea turned away as the needle went in. Her eyes found the woman next to her, who offered a polite nod. Rhea nodded back.

Then she turned to the man in the chair behind the woman. To Rhea’s surprise, he was staring back. His gray eyes looked translucent in the waning sunset. He smiled, and though there was nothing menacing in it, it made her shiver. She turned away.

Breathe in, she told herself. You are more than your fear.

She looked back to see if the man was still staring, but he was gone. What the hell? Her balance tilted, her breathing became heavier. She forced herself back to her mantra. Suddenly, the woman next to her twitched. Her head snapped forward, as if someone had poked her skull from behind. She turned toward Rhea, and her eyes looked different. Lighter. She smiled, scrapping her lips against her teeth.

Rhea looked the other way, but too far. She caught sight of her blood bag, half filled by now, and vertigo swept over her. The nurse looked up. “You all right?”

She saw the look on his face, the same look she’d seen countless times since her first episode. But she preferred not to think about that.

“I’m fine,” she called back. He returned to his work.

She glanced back at the woman, who had returned to normal. Feeling her balance return, she resumed her mantra: A journey of a thousand miles—

Someone tapped on her helmet.

It came from behind, although she could’ve sworn no one was there.

Tap-tap-tap. Harder this time, more insistent.

“Take off your helmet,” a husky voice whispered. She tried to turn towards the voice, but the view of the blood bag stopped her.

“I know you saw me,” he muttered. “I don’t like to be seen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sighed hot steam on her neck. It smelled like wet leaves. “It’s nice here,” he said. “When people lose blood, it weakens them a little. Exposes them. I can come inside and live again, just a little. Most people don’t even know I’m there.”

He pushed her helmet.

“Just take it off. I won’t be long, I promise.” His voice was needy in a way too familiar to her.

“No,” she hissed back. Again she caught sight of the blood bag, and again she turned away from it.

There was a long pause, before the man (or whatever it was) said: “Let me in, or I’ll rip that bag open.”

The earth became a gyroscope. She tried to breath, but it was like sucking fire through a straw.

The memory she’d been avoiding sprung into her mind. She was only nine, enjoying a day at the park, when someone had grabbed her from behind. “I just wanna hug you,” he’d crooned in her ear. “It’s been so long, is all.”

Panic had swept through her, and she’d kicked and clawed until he let go. Only she’d gone careening forward, tripped on the sidewalk, and fell on her face.

It was a small laceration, but head wounds bleed. The stranger, seeing the damage, fled the scene. As she lay sprawled on the concrete, she watched the blood stream down her brow like a crimson waterfall.

That was when she’d had her first episode.

Now, fate had come around again. But what could she do? If that thing behind her opened the bag up, she’d revisit the hell she had worked so hard to avoid. But to let it in would mean reliving that awful day—the day that had created this hell in the first place.

You are not your fear.

Rhea closed her eyes, then ripped out the needle. She could feel the warmth tickle the peach fuzz on her arm, but she refused to think about it. She took a breath and stood from her chair.

But before she could move, the thing snagged her. She opened her eyes, but no one was there. Yet it grabbed her all the same, twisting her and clawing at her helmet. The woman next to her called for the nurse, who yelled for her to return to her seat. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t.

Suddenly, she remembered what it had told her: I don’t like to be seen.

Rhea glanced down—the blood had traced its way to her wrist. The room spun, but she wouldn’t let it stop her. Instead, she snapped her wrist like a cobra, flicking blood into the air. The sight of it caused her vision to blur, and she knew that she had seconds before passing out.

But then, twinkling in the sunset like pennies in a fountain, the blood drops stopped in midair. They sprayed against the shape of a chest, a chin.

A face.

The woman beside her gasped.

Suddenly, the blood fell to the ground, and the thing’s hands released her. She looked at the red splatter on the floor, but she didn’t faint.

Her vision cleared. Her balance returned.

With that, Rhea turned toward the door. The nurse gawked at her, but she didn’t care. Instead, she breathed in, breathed out, and took her first step.

THE END