The boy in Red

Chapter 1

The boy in the grey hoodie spares the customer one last look as he leaves the gas station, his eyes flicking over to the luggage tied to the top of the car as the man devours his hotdog in the parking lot. “Classy”, Alice remarks from her position behind the counter. The boy nods. His job is mostly done. The coolers were restocked, and the floor was cleaned. Now he had to clean the bathrooms and then take out the trash. The boy retrieves the bathroom key from Russel, the man behind the counter, and goes out the front door and around the side of the Red Door. to where the bathrooms are. He has a bucket of cleaning supplies in his right and the key in his left. The boy in the grey hoodie cleans the woman’s room without issue.

But as he opens the men’s, a foul stench of rot and death flows outward, eliciting a gag from the boy. The head of a large pig sits directly in the toilet bowl, looking towards the door with its tongue lolling out. Its eyes are gone, but still it stared deeply into the boy. The shadows laugh at the boy, dancing up the walls unnaturally in their glee. Even his reflection in the blood-stained mirror was laughing at him, his face opening much wider than his physiology was capable. Their joy is only visible for a moment before a rush of wind forces the boy back a step while the room empties. Blood pools on the floor and flies begin to swarm as the presence responsible has left. The boy retches at the smell before sighing and hanging his head. The boy shuts the door dejectedly and hangs an out of order sign on the door. He leaves and then returns minutes later, now with the bottle of bleach and several trash bags. The boy spends around an hour cleaning despondently, blood smears drowned in bleach, and entrails scooped into trash bags. Eventually, the bathroom is returned to its semi-habitable state and the boy leaves with two empty rolls of paper towels and an empty bottle of bleach. One trip to the feeding pit and dumpster later, both located on the back wall of the building, and the boy is returning inside.

“White boy!” Russel greets the boy, a request in his voice pushing the greeting out of the category in which pleasantries reside.

This is considered a pleasantry for Russel.

“Yeah”, the boy replies.

”Take out the dam trash, it’s overflowin”, he says, gesturing angrily down behind the counter.

“Working on it”, the boy replies, choosing to say nothing of the bathroom.

“Work faster”, Russel grumbles as he limps over to the food counter.

The boy pays the man no heed.

Russel resides in a small but present niche on the scale from endearingly miserable to intolerably miserable. His misery has no discernible cause, but Russel has complained a few times about his kids being “distant”. The insinuation that a woman would willingly procreate with this man was about as baffling as the notion that his kids being distant was an unusual and confusing thing. All of this gave the boy the impression that Russel had not always been so much, well, Russel is the best way the boy can describe him.

The boys’ work continues uneventfully. Although a brief pause is allowed to help Alice kill the thing under the fryer. But aside from that, the trash is soon all taken out, and the boy notes the dumpster would soon need to be emptied. He writes this on a sticky note and places it with the others drawn by both his coworkers and the night shift. Around 8pm the three daytime employees of the Red Door gather outside as Russel locks up.

“Did you kill th-”, Russel begins.

“Yes”, replies Alice sharply, looking off into the forest.

A muttered curse is further muted by the lock closing into place. There is a period of ten minutes per night when the Red Door is closed and another ten in the morning. This was to ensure minimal interaction between the night and day shift. Why? None of them knew. But it was one of many rules insisted upon by their manager. In the town of Oaktide, it was wise to follow rules.

Their manager, a tall, dark-skinned man with an eccentric taste in clothes, was one of the older residents of the town. In fact, he was one of three who had been living there since at least the Civil War. At least that was the first record of him. See, to describe the boss as a man is slightly misleading. While it is male presenting and likely biologically similar (perhaps even being a man at some long ago point), the manager of the Red Door is anything but. It speaks in an odd accent somewhere between Native American and Jamaican, with Spanish and Navajo language employed liberally throughout. Under normal circumstances, this would be an issue, as a manager generally needs to communicate easily to, well, manage. Once again, under normal circumstances.

Which these are not.

Those who speak with the manager of the Red Door are often left solely with a vague sense of simply what the Manager wishes them to do. The words spoken are lost in a haze of strange syllables and nonsensical phrases. As such, the task of interpreting the will of the Manager generally falls to the boy.

The three soon mount their respective steeds, with Russel immediately pulling his beat-up Chevy out and away from the gas station. Alice and the boy spend a few minutes talking idly before leaving. The boy has always felt fondly for Alice. In a platonic way for the most part, although raging teen hormones often bend that. The girl feels a fraternal attachment to the younger boy. Alice eventually pulls out in her sedan.

After a minute of staring into the woods, the boy mounts his motorcycle. It’s electric, with a max speed of around sixty. The boy had gotten it from an estranged uncle many years ago, and was alone in owning a two wheeled vechile among his townsfolk.

You will see why as he drives home.

Imagine a large T junction. At the top, where the horizontal line meets the vertical line, lies the Red door. The vertical line being a major highway. While at the exact bottom, around twenty miles, sits the town of Oaktide. On this road, named Corridor Boulevard, there is a streetlight every quarter of a mile. Meaning that if you travel at sixty miles an hour, you should see a street lamp every fifteen seconds. Should you fail to see a light at the expected time, it is advised that you turn as soon as you’re sure you didn’t miscount, the sooner the better. From there, simply drive to the last street light and then turn back around. If the issue persists, don’t come to town.

Another rule circulated in the town: there are no hitchhikers on Corridor Boulevard. It’s as simple as that. So, that very same night after the boy passes the same man in a dirty red coat for the sixth time, it becomes clear to him something wishes to speak with him. If it were merely a hunter of some kind, then it either would have given chase or been left behind. Instead, the boy was simply repeating roughly a mile of road and passing the same pothole and street lamp again and again. The man stood on the edge of the street light’s glow, only a dirty and torn red puffer coat was visible in the light, its hood drawn up while the face remained unnaturally covered in shadow. Despite this, the boy felt its eyes upon him, sending a brief shiver up his spine. So he stopped, pulling the bike off to the side and leaning it against the street light. He joined it then, flipping the visor on his helmet up. It didn’t speak. Of course it didn’t, thought the boy, that was not how they communicated. So, to begin the conversation, the boy thought. He imagined a scene where he approached the jacket and was attacked, flung into the darkness and torn to shreds, left smeared on the road to be found in the morning. The light above him flickered, and the wind blew hard, as if in offense. A sigh escaped the boy as he recalled the thought. His memory was now different, and he watched in his mind’s eye as the scene played out differently. The boy approached the jacket and began to worship it, devoting his life to a name that couldn’t be imparted in the same manner as the thought. The boy then pictured himself declining this offer. There was no angry wind of expression of offense, but yet again, the boy felt as if his thought was once again changed. This was easier with writing, but he didn’t have a pen, and it got weird with typing. The scene played out as follows: the boy did not approach the figure, but instead gave it an offering in a golden bowl, left by the lamp post while the boy continued on his journey. The boy sighed. He pictured returning home and leaving an offering outside his home. This thought was unaltered for quite some time, showing the boy this was acceptable.

Around half an hour later, the boy was standing outside with only a candle lighting his way. He took a moment to ensure he was ready. The cross usually adorning his neck was safely removed, and the candle had enough wick to last for at least a minute. The porch light bulb was out, and the knife he reserved for these activities weighed comfortably in his pocket. The boy now wore a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt, the short sleeves of which exposed long thin scars down both arms. Finally, he had his offering steaming lightly in his left hand, balanced delicately opposite the candle. Next, the boy removed his sandals. He left those by the sliding glass door before proceeding barefoot into his backyard. The backyard was one of the few in the town without a fence, and the only house without a fence this close to the woods. He walked to the exact edge of the property, marked with an iron stake in the ground. It had to be pure iron, as the wooden one kept being moved.

Then he sat, kneeling down and placing the candle beside him. It stood high above the grass, and the glass container ensured it wouldn’t easily spill over. The next part was easy; he waited. During this wait, he thought. Although he had brought a pen and paper, direct communication shouldn’t be needed for this. He thought of the torn red jacket, then he concentrated on what was held aloft in his hands. After a few seconds of this, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, awaiting the telltale candle flicker.

He was not made to wait for long. A small swish announced a presence across his property line. The candle whooshed as it was extinguished. A shaky breath escaped the boy. He had done something similar more times than he could count, yet each still left his heart racing and eyes strangely bloodshot. He waited a few seconds for the presence across from him to fully impose itself upon reality. The jacket was shed as a form took over for the innocuous placeholder. A form the boy had no desire to see.

So he proceeded. The plate held in his hands was slowly moved forward until it, along with his forearms, was fully across the iron stake. This part was by far the scariest. The form considered the fishsticks for a long moment. Far too long for the boy. But, as similar creatures had innumerable times before, the presence took hold of his offering and lowered the plate below his arms. The boy breathed again.

This was the final part that involved him. He slowly moved his left hand away, keeping his right in place. It was important not to let your fear drive your actions; the boy had found that out the hard way. Of course, it’s impossible to hide your fear from such beings as the boy services, but to show it too openly is not a good idea. The knife is retrieved and flicked open. The boy then presents it across the line, handle first. The boy’s mind is briefly flooded with the pain and injury that had preceded his slim understanding of how to appease. He very nearly flinches as the knife is drawn out of his grip. Some choose to cut the boy, some simply prick his finger, some leave the knife in the ground, content with the show of faith alone. Faith that he would not be slain.

This creature, unfortunately for the boy, was of the first kind, and a five-inch-long line was drawn across the boy’s wrist. Blood seeped slowly out, pooling before falling onto the fishsticks. The bleeding continues for a full minute. Sixty agonizing seconds of silence, only broken by the infrequent drops of his own blood. The boy keeps his arm steady through the cut and the entire bleeding, as is required. Sometimes his arm is held in place. Once it was detached entirely. The boy quickly buried that memory before he was forced to relive the flinch and subsequent yelp he had allowed out. That had been a bad night, and morning had found him crying quietly in the parking lot of The Red Door. His arm was next to him on the pavement. His manager had reattached it.

Suddenly, the candle was lit. A small flicker followed by the scent of sandalwood. The boy shuddered violently and sat back, stretching his now sore legs. His eyes opened to an empty tree line. His knife lay in the grass across the stake, clean of any blood. The boy was rarely given anything, but he was always rewarded. The boy slowly stood, gathering his items with his still bleeding right hand. He returned inside and wrapped his cut. Placing a large, saline covered pad on the area before encasing it in athletic wrap.