The Lies We Live By

There’s something about Monday nights that makes you want to kill yourself. Especially when you’re stuck working for The Black Thorn Collective.

The Black Thorn Collective is a secret, shadowy organization tasked with handling the supernatural threats the rest of the world can’t touch. They employ a team of gifted individuals who hunt everything from zombies to vengeful spirits, operating entirely off the grid, outside the reach of governments and law enforcement. The Collective answers to no one and operates on its own terms, sometimes sending agents on covert missions worldwide to eliminate hostile entities or gather crucial intel.

Take twenty-one-year-olds Allie Devereaux and Caspian “Kaz” Benowitz, for example. This morning, they killed eight Harpies in Brazil, torched a Rat King in Japan, and exorcised an evil spirit out of a bratty tween in London.

With their errands done and enough gas to burn, the couple set their sights on buying cheeseburgers at Minnie’s. But as Kaz and Allie hopped into their red Volkswagen van, their employer paged them for another assignment.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, Allie retrieves the device from her pocket and reads the message on the screen until she pinches her brow.

“Oh my FUCKING god!” she moans. “Why can’t she just pay us and send some loser to take care of this mess?”

Kaz runs his fingers through his red hair. His brown flannel dances over his black skeleton shirt, draping over his baggy cargo pants like a blanket. The second he parks his red Volkswagen van near their destination, Kaz glides his combat boots across the floor as he approaches Allie with an exhausted frown.

“Uh, babe?” he begins slowly. “I think our boss did send someone to check out this house in Rhode Island.”

“Who? Gordon?”

“No, Priscilla.”

“Okay. Well, what happened to Priss?”

“I think the monsters ate her.”

Allie’s brown eyes broaden, though she seems more irritated by her and Kaz’s caseload than the news of Priscilla’s death.

“Ugh, fuck me,” Allie groans. “I can’t believe I chose this life over college. I can’t believe I encouraged you to sign up to this-”

Kaz cuts her off by sweeping her brown locks from her tense eyes. He presses his lips on Allie’s right temple, then rubs his forehead against hers until Allie eventually calms down.

“Look, the job is shit,” he agrees. “But hey, at least it pays us better. Plus, it’s our last shift. Maybe we can grab a burger and a milkshake after this.”

Allie smiles.

I guess he’s right, she thinks. Since dropping out of Cornell, I haven’t worked a job that pays me twenty thousand an hour. Plus, it’s been a while since I had a vanilla milkshake.

After giving her hand a squeeze, Kaz lets go of Allie and makes sure his gun is loaded before shoving it into the back of his pants.

He looks at Allie and then asks, “You got your stuff?”

“Yeah,” Allie sighs. “You?”

“Yep. Just don’t forget your sweater, okay?”

Allie nods. Her dark brown curls tickle her cheeks as the young woman unties her green sweater around her waist and throws it carelessly over her deep blue Mazzy Star tee.

The loose fabric feels comforting against Allie’s brown skin, though it doesn’t quite match the snugness of her low-rise jeans. The denim is tight across Allie’s hips, but she tries not to focus on the discomfort as she throws on her brown knapsack.

After slipping on her brown Ugg boots, Allie shuts the door, moves around the pile of leaves on the driveway, and follows her boyfriend to a pastel blue, single-story house where it sits in an isolated stretch of land.

The porch’s floorboards groan under the couple’s steps as if the house is tired. A faint smell of must and mildew clings to the air, yet the garden is overrun with bold red poppies.

Judging by the rich soil, someone inside this house has a green thumb, Allie thinks. Probably better than my own stepmom.

Approaching an abandoned tire swing, Kaz watches it sway slowly in the breeze before spotting a clean chair left on the porch.

Jesus, it’s like someone hasn’t been out here for a while, Kaz thinks. I wonder why. It seems to be the perfect time to put up Halloween decorations.

Sliding his hands inside his pockets, Kaz briefly studies the house when Allie takes him by the elbow and leads him to the porch. Their filthy shoes press on top of the weary floorboards, causing the wood to let out a wailing groan.

As Allie advances to the cream-colored door, she lets go of Kaz’s elbow, rings the doorbell, and then turns to Kaz, who massages his eyelids with the back of his hand.

“Come on,” she whispers. “The sooner we get through this, the better chance we get to Minnie’s before it closes.”

“I know, I know,” Kaz whispers back, sighing. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Allie frowns. She quickly hugs him and plays with his red locks until she hears “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic” playing softly through the vibrating door.

The scene outside seems so ordinary compared to the tension building inside. The couple’s laughter, soft and full of history, floats through the door like a reminder of simpler times. For a moment, Allie almost wishes she could slip away into that world, but then, she spots their creepy family portraits above the living room fire and decides to focus on the task.

As Allie moves to stand beside Kaz, a slow smile spreads across her face, yet it doesn’t reach the girl’s eyes. The faint creak of the door sounds too loud as Allie hears the knob turn from the inside. She presses the safety off with her thumb, the quiet click swallowed by the silence.

The woman’s head pops out when the door cracks open, like a fragile, old bird peering from a nest. Her frizzed white hair haloes around her face, matching the tattered bathrobe hanging loosely over her thin frame.

She eyes us, her brown eyes sharp despite the age in her wrinkles, flicking from my face to Kaz’s in a deliberate, unsettling way. She pulls the robe tighter, knotting the strings with a practiced tug. She leans against the door, her gaze lingering on us too long.

“What brings you into our lovely home?” she asks sweetly.

Kaz clears his throat and says, “Hello, ma’am. Is this the Cornell residence?”

She eyes him for a second, hesitation stretching the air between the couple. Her hand tightens instinctively around the doorknob, her knuckles turning white. After a long moment, the old woman nods, her head jerking once, sharp.

“Yes,” she replies, her tone flat. She folds her arms, standing just a little too still. “How may I help you?”

Allie takes a half-step forward, forcing her voice to sound warm and inviting.

“As you can see, our car just ran out of gas,” she lies, cracking a sheepish grin. “We got a little lost on the way back, and we’re hoping you might have a phone we can use.”

Her eyes flicker to the road behind the young couple, her gaze narrowing as if the old woman was expecting someone else.

The silence between Kaz and Allie stretches a little too long as Kaz hesitantly watches her wrinkled fingers twitch around the doorknob. Then, as if deciding something, she shifts her weight, and the faint creak of the door makes Allie hold her breath.

Squeezing the handle of her pistol, Allie stares at the old woman for a second until she reluctantly widens the door.

“Okay,” she answers reluctantly. “I guess I could let you two inside, but please don’t touch anything, okay?”

Kaz nods. He lets Allie in the house first, then strolls behind, flashing the woman a fake smile.

The overwhelming smell of vanilla hangs in the air, clinging to the back of Allie’s throat and making her want to gag. The walls are lined with floral wallpaper, faded to a sickly yellow, peeling in jagged strips near the corners.

Every surface seems coated in a fine layer of grime. The dim light from a series of mismatched lamps cast long, warped shadows that seemed to shift with every flicker of the flames in the fireplace.

Family portraits dominate the room. Their brown frames tarnish and chip, but the subject makes Kaz’s skin crawl.

Each features family members in stiff, formal poses, their faces eerily expressionless. Their eyes, though—those are the worst part. They seem too bright, too focused as if they are staring straight at the couple.

One painting, a particularly large one above the mantle, shows a young girl clutching a doll with a face that looked unnervingly human. Her painted smile stretches unnaturally wide, her teeth sharp enough to make Allie’s stomach churn.

Though outdated and mismatched, the furniture appears meticulously placed, almost obsessive. A sagging couch sits opposite a threadbare armchair with deep grooves worn into the arms as if someone gripped them tightly for years.

The coffee table between them was cluttered with bizarre knick-knacks—a tarnished teapot, a glass jar filled with what looked like coins, and a faded Bible with its pages curled and yellowed.

A grandfather clock stood in the corner of the room, its pendulum swinging silently. The hands were stuck at 3:33, and though the mechanism wasn’t working, the faintest ticking sound echoed intermittently, seeming to come from nowhere.

The floor beneath them creaks with every step, the warped wooden planks sags slightly as if the house is groaning under the weight of something unseen.

The faint sound of scuttling came from somewhere above, followed by a soft, rhythmic thudding that made Kaz’s pulse quicken.

“Jesus, this place creeps me out,” he murmurs in Allie’s right ear. “And I watch horror movies.”

“No shit,” Allie murmurs back, her eyes darting to the far wall where a row of porcelain dolls sits on a shelf.

Each one has cracks running across their pale faces, their painted eyes glossy and unblinking, as though they are keeping watch. One has a faint red stain at the corner of its mouth.

The air seems thicker now, heavier like the house is pressing down on us. And through it all, the faint melody of “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic” continues to play, warped and distorted, as though the record player is dragging the sound through something dark and twisted.

While the old woman fixes everyone a pot of lemon tea in the kitchen, her husband slouches on the sagging couch, watching the Twin Towers collapse on the small TV.

Now, the guy is a picture of unsettling contradiction—seemingly frail yet strangely imposing. He’s tall but stooped, his thin frame draped in a faded cardigan that looks like it might disintegrate if tugged too hard. His trousers, too short for his long legs, reveal pale, veiny ankles above a pair of scuffed leather slippers.

His face is deeply lined, with thin, papery skin that his cheekbones seem ready to break through. His nose is sharp and hooked, casting long shadows under the dim light. Sparse white hairs cling to his scalp in uneven patches, slicked back in an attempt at neatness.

His brown eyes, however, are the most disturbing part—cloudy with age but startlingly aware, almost too sharp for someone his age. They seem to scan the room, lingering on the couple with an intensity that makes the hairs on Kaz’s arms rise.

A crooked smile stretches across his lips as the old man greets the couple, exposing teeth too white for Allie’s taste.

There’s something off in how he carries himself—his movements are jerky, as though his body is unfamiliar with walking. His voice is raspy, like sandpaper on wood, but a sing-song quality feels out of place, almost mocking.

Large and bony hands tremble slightly as he grips the edge of the worn chair by the fireplace. His long fingers are stained with what looks like ink—or something darker—and his nails are yellowed and ridged as if he’s been digging into something unpleasant for far too long.

Despite his frailty, there’s an unsettling energy about that guy. He radiates the quiet malice of someone who has spent years mastering the art of subtle intimidation.

Kaz can feel his smile lingering for just a second too long. Even the way the creep looks at Allie sends chills down Kaz’s spine.

“Honey,” the husband laughs. “I didn’t know you brought the company over!”

The old woman gives him a stern smile. “They’re not guests, Harold. Their car ran out of gas, so they’re using the house phone.”

“Oh?” her husband remarks, frowning. “Well, that’s terrible!”

“Yeah,” Kaz laughs nervously. “I guess I should learn how to drive stick-shift. Where’s your phone?”

The old man points to the wall phone beside the small television box. “Go ahead, son. I’ll keep your girlfriend company.”

Kaz’s brows furrow. He briefly locks his perturbed gaze on the old man’s face before heading to the phone and dialing his friend’s phone number.

Meanwhile, Allie wanders around the living room. She studies the pictures above the fireplace when she bumps into a small, purple sweater on the back of a moth-eaten armchair.

Allie’s left eyebrow lifts into an arch. She picks up the sweater and studies the soft fabric until her gaze lands on the white tag. According to the name black Sharpie, it looks like the sweater belongs to a girl named Emily.

Her jaw tightens. A cold wave washes over her, draining the color from her face until she’s as pale as the snow outside. Slowly, she places the sweater back on the armchair, her movements careful, almost stiff. She turns to leave, but then—

She feels it.

The weight of someone watching her. She glances up and sees the old man, his gray eyes locked onto her. They narrow as he studies her, not just her face but how her curly hair falls around her shoulders. His gaze lingers a little too long, like he’s savoring something.

With a slow creak, he shifts in his chair. The sound of old bones moving makes her skin prickle. And then his lips twist into a crooked smile—half amused, half something else. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though. His eyes are still locked on her, sharp and unreadable.

Allie feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She steps back and reaches for her gun until the old man’s question catches her off guard.

“So, what’s your name?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, his pale, bony hands twitching on the thick armrests.

Allie cracks a smile though her hand reaches for her gun.

“It’s Mary Ann,” she lies, trying to mask the unease inside her. Allie adjusts the weight on her feet, but the air feels thick and heavy, as if an invisible hand is pressing down on her.

“Mary Ann,” the old man repeats slowly, his tongue tracing the name as if tasting it. His smile widens a little, but there’s no warmth in it—just the unsettling sensation that he’s somehow savoring the lie.

“Lovely name, Mary Ann. I used to know a girl by that name, but—”

“Harold!” his wife snaps, calling from the kitchen. “Do you think you could step into the kitchen, please? I need help finding the teacups!”

Harold’s gaze lingers on Allie until he stands up. His bony fingers twitch before he gives Allie a mocking, almost childish salute with a shaky hand.

“I’ll be there in a moment, dear,” he says to his wife.

Clearing his throat, the old man smooths the wrinkles off his pants and shuffles toward the kitchen when his journey is cut short by four quick gunshots.

Kaz flinches at the noises hanging in the air. His blue eyes dart from the walls to Harold, who collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood spills across his shirt and brown rug. His withered face twists in disbelief until his energy is all gone.

Allie doesn’t move. Her eyes lock onto Harold’s lifeless body as the witch points her pistol on his broad forehead. Unfortunately, just as she tries to pull the trigger again, Harold’s wife rushes out of the kitchen door and glares at Allie.

“What the HELL did you do?” she screeches. “That’s my husband, you demented bitch!”

Fat tears ooze from her glossy eyes as Harold’s wife runs to her husband’s corpse. She yells out his name until Kaz steps in, wraps the cream-colored phone cord around the woman’s neck, and forces her on her knees.

“Go, find Emily!” he yells at Allie. “I got this!”