The unsettling quiet wakes her; her eyes shoot open, and she scrambles for all of two seconds before flicking the bedside lamp on and immediately locating the source of her discomfort. Despite her earlier flailing, she isn’t the least bit surprised when she makes eye contact with the menace who’s been openly stalking her for the past week.
The evil blinks at her, from the doorway, smiling as if he’s a welcome presence in her room, and she rolls her eyes in response. Swift but calm, she reaches into the space between her bed and the wall, lifts the steel wand of her latest weapon, aims it at his face, and enjoys how quickly his grin stutters between concern, confusion, and something satisfyingly close to fear.
“This feels like it’s meant to be a threat,” he says, lifting his hands in mock-surrender.
“I’m glad there’s been no miscommunication,” she answers, voice flat.
“Can’t I drop in for a visit? I thought we were friends,” he laughs it off. As if, lack of prior notice aside, it’s completely normal for friends to break into each other’s rooms at three in the morning.
“Mm, never agreed to that,” she says, shaking her head.
“Well, I thought it was implied,” an explanation he must think makes all the sense in the world.
“I shot at you the last time we met, so I don’t know how you came to that conclusion.”
“Sure, but if I wasn’t scared of a gun, why would I be scared of…” he gestures towards her weapon.
“Pressure washer.”
“…a pressure washer!” he finishes proudly, moments before his confusion returns with a vengeance.
“Don’t know,” she answers, smiling something vicious. “Why are you scared?
“I’m not—”
“Pride isn’t a good look on you,” she taunts. His eye twitches.
“Well, why should I be scared? Did you put acid in there?” He’s getting impatient.
“It’s a plastic container, jackass.”
“Then what’s in it?” he almost shouts, his appearance physically shifting for a brief moment.
“Water,” she says cheerfully, straining as she lifts a full tank onto her bed. “The kind nine out of ten priests recommend.”
Ah…there was the realization.
“…how did you—” His body lightly spasms, like he can’t decide if he should run for his life or hers.
“I figured you had to be a really desperate serial killer or a demon, and the gun didn’t work, so…” she shrugs.
“…Shit.”
“Shit, indeed,” she pulls the trigger.
Ravana Smith is an aspiring author and editor, of Jamaican heritage, completing a double major in English and Religious Studies. While she is currently dabbling in a bit of everything, she hopes to one day specialize in faith-centered speculative fiction.
Featured image by Miad Khan.
