One
My sister's CR-V was midnight black, dulled by layers of pollen and road dust, but mostly intact—except for the brutal scrapes that stretched across both doors like claw marks. They weren't surface scratches. These were deep, jagged gouges, like something had tried to dig its way out while screaming. One headlight flickered with an anxious pulse, casting sharp, twitchy flashes onto the freshly watered pavement. Every few seconds, it caught the edge of a reflective street sign or a low-hanging tree limb, throwing it into eerie relief like something about to leap.
Inside, the car was a different war zone. The leather seats were torn open in uneven, almost surgical gashes, the foam stuffing spilling out like viscera. Something with nails—real ones—had shredded them from the inside out. The air smelled like too many clashing memories: sugary body spray, greasy burger wrappers, and underneath it all—something cold, metallic, and coppery. Blood, maybe. Or just fear, hanging in the air like smoke after a house fire.
I was jammed in the back seat, half-suffocating between Hannah's gym bag, which reeked like socks, mildew, and athletic failure, and a sticky cup holder crusted over with dried orange soda. Flies buzzed near it like they owned the place. I shoved two chicken tenders into my mouth without thinking, chewing like a starving raccoon that had just found a trash can buffet. My braces turned the whole experience into medieval torture—shards of fried batter wedged between wires, stabbing my cheeks with every bite.
Outside, the world passed by in slow, artificial cheer.
It was Spring in the suburbs, which meant everything was blooming and nothing felt real. The houses all looked like they'd been printed out of the same brochure—bright pastel facades, white columns, fake window shutters. Tulips and daffodils exploded from perfectly landscaped yards, petals twitching in the breeze like they were nervous. Porch swings creaked lazily. Wind chimes tinkled just enough to be unsettling. Somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicked and hissed, watering the same patch of grass over and over like a ritual.
We rolled to a stop in front of Jessica Summers' house.
Bright yellow siding, brown shutters, a concrete path that looked scrubbed clean with bleach. The lawn was too perfect—edges trimmed to a military fade, flower beds mulched like they were preparing for a visit from the Pope. The kind of house where something unholy could happen right behind those gauzy curtains, and no one would ever ask questions.
Hannah sat in the front seat, leaned into the visor mirror, her mouth moving with clinical focus. She traced her lips with crimson lipstick like she was drawing a blood seal. Then came the mascara—coated on so thick her lashes looked sharp enough to cut glass.
Hannah was in the front seat, leaning into the mirror, coating her lips in blood-red lipstick with military precision. She glared at me through the reflection like she could peel my skin off with her eyes. Then she went digging in her makeup bag and layered on mascara thick enough to suffocate a small animal. Her lashes looked like knives.
"People can't see me with a four-face," she said flatly, not even looking at me.
"It's 'four eyes,'" I muttered.
She scoffed, tossed her bag into the back seat, and slammed her door without another word. The cold hit instantly. I watched her hips sway up the walkway, already drawing eyes from a few stoned seniors on the porch.
I stayed behind. Pulled off my glasses. Let out a breath. Thought about maybe choking on the next chicken tender and dying right there in the backseat.
Then a loud smack hit my window.
I jumped so hard I bit my own tongue. Blood filled my mouth.
Erin.
That lunatic grinned at me through the glass, his face pressed so hard against it his nose flattened like a pancake. He slid his face up and down, fogging the window with every breath.
"Open the damn door!" he shouted, muffled by the glass.
I cracked it open. "You're a freak."
"And you're boring." He yanked the door the rest of the way open and dragged me out like I weighed nothing. "Let's go, lover boy."
We climbed the steps to the front porch, stepping over a couple practically fucking in the bushes. Erin gave them a lazy salute. The guy flipped him off. Erin flipped him off back, harder.
Inside, the house was chaos.
Lights strobing. Music pounding like a war drum. Beer soaked into the carpet. The scent of weed clung to the drywall. Bodies writhed in the living room like meat in a grinder. Someone screamed upstairs—either a drunk dare or something worse.
Erin vanished into the chaos with a shout. I was left in the doorway like an extra in a slasher film waiting to be picked off.
Then I saw her.
Blake Andrews.
Skin the color of polished bronze, lips sharp and parted in a smile that could kill a man. Her brown hair curled just enough to frame her glasses, and her hoodie clung to her body like she'd been sewn into it. She had a drink in hand—red and sloshing. Her nails tapped against the cup like she was playing a countdown.
"You're Hannah's little brother, right?" she asked, eyes scanning me like a predator trying to decide where to bite first.
"Yeah," I croaked, trying not to trip over my own words or my own damn feet.
She smirked and handed me the cup. "Try this. Gummy bear-flavored. You'll barely feel the burn."
"I don't drink," I said, even though my mouth was already watering.
She didn't blink. "You will."
I lifted it. Just one sip.
It tasted like fruit punch and napalm.
∆∆∆
I didn't remember the last fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Everything spun.
I was crouched in a filthy bathroom, head in a toilet that smelled like rot and beer and someone else's vomit. I puked until blood laced the bile. My glasses had fallen into the sink. My spine ached. My gums itched. My throat felt like I'd swallowed sandpaper and regret.
The door creaked open.
Jeremy stood there shirtless, eyes bloodshot, stinking like liquor and cologne. His jeans were open, and his belt dragged on the ground like a leash.
"You done?" he asked, voice slurred but sharp.
I groaned. "Fuck off."
He grinned. "Your sister's looking for you. You shouldn't keep her waiting."
I hauled myself up, vision swimming, and staggered down the hall after him.
He kept glancing back at me with that smile that never reached his eyes.
"You know," he said, voice thick and sleazy, "your sister... she's fucking hot."
I stopped.
He kept walking.
Then—he changed.
Right in front of me, his back cracked and arched, skin bubbling, contorting. The bones beneath twisted. Flesh shifted like wet clay. The figure that turned back toward me was tall, feminine, wrapped in shadows. Hooded. Gliding.
The hallway melted into darkness. The walls bled. The floor stretched out, warping under my feet.
She stood at the end of the corridor—waiting. Pale as snow, lips the color of arterial blood. Eyes like suns, too bright to look at, too beautiful to ignore. Her dress moved like smoke. Her voice slithered into my skull.
"Adam," she said.
I was already bleeding.
Fangs punched into my neck, right below the collarbone. I screamed—or tried to. My body jerked. My knees buckled. My hands gripped the wall, then slipped.
She drank deep.
The room pulsed with heat and death.
Then—darkness.
"Goodbye, Adam," she whispered in a voice like the end of the world.
And she was gone.
Just air. Just pain. Just silence.
I collapsed, twitching, breath shallow. My chest stuttered. My blood was fire.
And before the black took me entirely...
I smiled.
Because somehow—I liked it.
