How to Summon an Incubus

Saturday, 08:37 AM

Springdale, Utah is hot.

Like, blazing hot.

If there’s one thing they never tell you, it’s how smoldering the weather in this godforsaken town is. Especially in summer when you’re out-fucking-side, having taken a brisk walk to the mailbox. The scaldingly metal and heartbreakingly empty mailbox.

Coming from the bustling city of New York, I went from mild heat waves to whatever the fuck deathtrap this is.

Even my hair, nearly ginger but I generously call it “strawberry blonde,” is clinging to the back of my neck. It’s not actually ginger, though I wish it were. Instead, my strands are long, straight, and thick.

So fucking thick.

It’s all I can think of as I climb up the five steps to my brand-new (see: old) house, recently renovated and ready for a city gal like me to move into. If you don’t count the tap that still leaks next to the fridge. And the creak in the wooden floorboard next to my bed.

Then there’s the basement stairs, which I’d really rather not get into right now because I will cry actual tears.

This house was supposed to be my dreamscape. My home away from home. The physical epitome of whatever embodies the fact that I’ve now officially made it as an adult. And I am an adult.

I know, I know. Said every adult ever.

We’re all liars anyway, but I feel like at twenty-nine years old, I’ve lived long enough to earn the title, considering I’ve been in three car accidents and I’ve got a life insurance policy. I’ve also acquired “assets” from my late aunt Mary, who left me a small bookshop in town that I’m now dutifully bound to.

The only thing I haven’t done is find a rich husband to tie me down and breed me with about two dozen kids.

…Something they don’t tell you about moving to Utah is how fucking lonely it is.

After several failed Tinder dates, I’m officially celibate for the year. Seriously. The dates were that bad.

First, there was the guy who insisted he had redefined the cryptocurrency market. For real. He asked me if I had a gaming PC, which I don’t, so he could test out his new Bitcoin.

Then, there was the idiot who kept asking if we could have a threesome—with him and his wife, whom he never mentioned having.

Finally, there was the tool who thought feminism was a trend and then expected me to pay because he ‘forgot his wallet at home’.

There were a few others who weren’t as bad, but still. I am done.

I push my key into the door, twisting the lock to reveal a home you might expect to find in the late 1900s. Upon entry, you’ll find the living room, which is just a wonder on its own, complete with the following:

A sagging couch covered in plaid. A heavy oak coffee table scratched to shit by its previous owners (assuming the previous owners were cats). A bookshelf that I stole from my aunt’s bookstore just to cover some space.

Then, of course, there’s the outdated TV stand complete with a VHS player that no one ever uses. And by no one, I mean me.

The kitchen is even worse. Round table with mismatched chairs, a dented gray fridge, still working, still ugly—still leaking. Then there’s my bedroom. I tried to make it my own, but there’s only so much you can do with an iron bedframe. At least the bed is queen-sized.

You know, for all the visitors I always seem to have.

No one. There’s no one.

There’s a bedside table with a cracked, creepy vanity mirror that came with the house. I say creepy because it really zooms in on all your imperfections.

Not that I have imperfections…

Okay, so I might have a tiny zit or two. But who doesn’t in today’s economy?

The Dollar’s up, housing’s down…along with the lamp that never seems to work no matter how or where I plug it in.

It’s come on a few times without being plugged in, but I’m saving those memories for my weekly therapy sessions. With my bowl of Ben & Jerry’s.

No use in watching what I eat if I can’t get a proper date.

Speaking of, the neighbor, roughly sixty feet to my left, is…what’s a polite word for weird? I’ve seen him a couple times—dancing barefoot in his backyard in the moonlight, refilling the mason jars on his front porch, and, let’s not forget, that time he drew sigils all over his car before driving to work.

I’ve deduced that he is, in fact, a witch and that apparently constitutes minimal communication from his end.

Regardless, he’s fairly attractive. I’m surprised he’s never hit on me. Not once. Not even when I stopped by to ask him for a cup of milk and he gave me a jar of raw meat instead.

It was…interesting. Didn’t go well with cereal, though.

Went great with the steamed veg and potatoes I had that night, though. It was the same night I got that strange message in the shower. Yes, an actual message. In typical horror movie fashion, I climbed out—tall, leggy, blonde, and naive—in nothing but my towel, and there, written in the steam on my mirror, were the words ’Go home’.

I was confused because I technically was home. They couldn’t have meant New York, but I’ve already been here six months, and it’s a bit late to want me to evacuate now.

And so, I did what any normal person would do. I raised a finger and smeared it against the glass, writing, ’New York?’

If they were going to ask me to leave, they needed to be more specific. I never did get an answer, but when I got to my bedroom, some of my clothes had been thrown out.

It was at that moment that I decided what I had to do.

It was time to make a friend.

Someone to break the rhythmic bleat of utter desolate loneliness that had been rearranging the chemistry in my brain for the past couple of weeks.

I was going insane.

I had to be.

It was the only explanation for the TV switching on at odd hours of the night.

For the random glass that I had placed at the sink to reappear on the dining table the next morning.

For the pair of shoes I threw on my floor to always end up back inside my closet.

Roland Miller was the clear answer.

He may have been strange, but he lived right next door, so at least he’d know what to do if someone tried to break in. Or murder me.

I’m hoping he’d at least call someone if we exchanged friendship bracelets.

It’s why I’m standing outside his house right now, an apple pie in hand and two jars of meat (he seems to like those).

I knock once. Twice.

The third time, he answers wearing loose black linen pants, a flowy boho tunic over an Indie band T-shirt that looked oddly medieval, and brown pleather sandals. His brown, wavy hair is in a loose man bun, his hazel eyes drawn into tight slits.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, neighbor!” I quip, adjusting the jars in my hand because they seem hellbent on falling out from between the space of my elbows. “I brought you some pie because, you know, you’ve always got those weird jars with edibles in them. I figured you could use something for the munchies. I also got you some meat jars for the same reason why you got me one.”

He raises a brow, crossing both arms across his chest, but says nothing.

I shrug. “I was hoping you’d be able to explain that one. Anyway, invite me in?” I say this as I casually shoulder past his widened eyes and into his space.

It smells like if herbs could fart.

A faded Persian rug greets me first, followed by a fat Yorkie that yaps at my ankles when I step inside. I take off my shoes and turn around to face my new friend.

The dog, who’s wearing a collar with a tag that says ‘Toby’ on it, immediately takes one of my black pumps in his mouth and runs off.

That’s two friends in one day. I’m on a roll.

“We can share the pie. The meat is all yours,” I bargain.

Roland rolls his eyes and shuts his door, but doesn’t remove his sandals. I suddenly feel self-conscious. At least my toenails are painted. Sort of. They’re peeling a bit at the edges.

In a brief moment of panic, I put the left one back on. This actually earns me a faint smile from my neighbor, and I grin back in return. “So, how about that pie? And, um, meat?”

A strong hand places itself on my lower back and ushers me into the kitchen. “Sure, but you should know that I’m a vegetarian.” He stares pointedly at the meat. I furrow my brows.

“Sorry. I just assumed…”

“You assumed wrong. The jars of meat are offerings. The land likes meat. Keeps the nightmares out of the basement,” he explains. His tone sounds sarcastic and dry, but his face is telling me…nothing. He snatches the jars from my hand and places them on his own dining room table, which, by the way, is way nicer than mine.

He then waits for me to drop the apple pie near the edge before grabbing a cake knife and two plates from his cabinets near the sparkling white fridge.

I shift my feet left to right before flopping down onto a chair, waiting for him to dish. “Nightmares, huh? You think you’ve got ghosts, too?”

I’m met with the most offended expression I’ve ever seen. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Roland says, splattering a piece of apple pie against my plate. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Just lost spirits who have yet to find their way to greener pastures.”

I nod. “Sure, sure. But can these lost spirits write on mirrors? I mean, not that I believe in them. Ghosts. I just…weird things have been happening that I can’t explain beyond me going irrevocably insane.”

Roland sighs, sinking into his own wooden chair across from me and grabbing his plate of pie. He lifts his fork, swaying it around like he’s fighting off an imaginary enemy. “Writing on mirrors?” His brow arches at me. “That’s unusual. Especially for Utah.” He pauses. “Nothing ever happens in Utah. Especially not like that. What else have you been experiencing?”

For the first time, I hear what might be intrigue in his tone.

And just like that, we go from weird acquaintances to instant besties.

I lean forward, a lock of my hair falling into the crumbs of my pie, and tell him everything.