Chapter Text
A glut of sights rose to meet you at once: the house, white and imposing; the tall, stout oaks; the verdant lawn, endless and blackened beneath the night sky.
You had been to Casey's a few times before, but never at an hour so late as this. Something about her house, grand and tranquil as it was, in the absence of sunlight gave you a chill. Things tended to look more frightening in the dark.
You shifted your car into park and went quickly to the front door, the plastic bag hanging from the crease of your elbow crinkling in the soft breeze. On the porch, you rang the doorbell and heard it reverberate within. After a moment, if only vaguely, you could hear Casey beginning to shuffle around inside.
It was just hours prior, near the peak of afternoon, that you had spotted her strolling absently through the horror section at the video store. Eventually, with furrowed brows and empty hands, she had walked up to the register and asked if you had any copies of A Nightmare on Elm Street; you said that you didn't. The disappointment had washed over her plainly then.
With an armful of returned tapes and a surge of generosity, you had explained that you had a copy of your own at home, and you could swing by after your shift to drop it off if need be. If you were being honest, you hadn't bothered to keep in touch with Casey after her (messy) breakup with Stu, but you remembered the kindness she had shown you while they were together and figured you owed her as much.
You had the tape with you now, along with a handful of others you thought she might like. Its sleeve was worn at the edges and had your name scrawled in permanent marker across one of its bottommost corners.
You were hugging your jacket more tightly to your body, your collar turned to the cold, when you heard the front door unlock. Casey appeared in an instant, her face bright and smiling beneath the porch light. She uttered your name in greeting, her voice lively, and was quick to usher you in with her hand.
You smiled politely at her as you passed; behind you, you heard the lock click back into place.
Casey's bare feet pattered against the floorboards as she led you jauntily out of the foyer and into the kitchen.
"Thanks for the videos," she said, toying with the frayed sleeve of her sweater. "You should stay a while. I'm making popcorn!"
Her brows rose even further in delight as you laid the plastic bag full of tapes atop the island.
As she began to rifle through it, you placed your jacketed arms on the countertop and leaned forward, watching. You had initially hoped this would be an in and out sort of thing—it was late and a school night—but the drive here had been lengthy, and you couldn't deny your hunger now that it had been brought to attention.
"If you don't mind," you agreed, thinking of salty, buttery goodness, and of the great night's sleep that was sure to follow.
Across from you, Casey hummed distractedly, her hands still rummaging through the surfeit of movies you had brought. You saw a flash of Freddy Krueger's bladed hand, metallic and gleaming menacingly, as she pulled out the desired tape and ran her palm smoothly over its cover.
Then she turned her expectant gaze back to you. "Would you mind setting this up?" she asked.
You shook your head, pushed back from the island, and held out your hand.
Casey passed you the movie with a smile. "Down the hall and to your right."
You heeded her words and turned away, walking leisurely toward the sitting room.
It was an open room, white-walled and lined with full bookcases that stretched impressively from floor to ceiling. There were couches, two of them, both of a muted floral pattern; a round, wooden table at the center; and a set of double doors that looked directly out onto the Beckers' rear patio.
You stripped the tape of its sleeve and shouldered off your jacket, slinging it haphazardly over the back of the nearest sofa.
As you neared the television set, you heard Casey fumbling around in the kitchen: opening cabinets, closing drawers, crumpling packaging. With a face illuminated by the cerulean glow of the screen, you crouched before the VCR and popped the tape in.
At once the television sprang to life, singing, in a voice eerie and full of static: Three, four, better lock your door. Five, six...
You clicked your tongue. You must have forgotten to rewind the tape the last time you'd watched it. To rectify your mistake, you pressed a button on the VCR, then sauntered over to one of the couches and slouched with drama into its cushions.
With your arms crossed, you stared intensely into the darkness that had swallowed the world beyond the patio doors. The backyard was hard to see because of it, but you were sure it paired nicely with the house's other splendors. You knew only that there was a pool, clear and blue, by the dim lights that shined beneath the water. You could see nothing else besides.
You let your head fall back as the tape continued to rewind, your eyes still glued to the night-blackened yard. Your mind, hazy with the boredom and sleepiness your shift had left behind, began making shapes and figures out of the dark.
That was when you noticed it.
It was slight at first: a short burst of sound, gone as soon as it had come. Your ears perked, and there it was again. It was raspy and staccato: a continuous ripping.
You rose from the couch and carried yourself forward, flicking the switch to the patio lights on in one fluid motion.
The backyard lit up in yellow; your eyes, squinting against the new influx of light, roamed searchingly over everything that had earlier been hidden from sight: the lounge chairs, the small wicker table, the potted plants. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Your hand was still hovering over the light switch when the landline started ringing.
You turned, but it was too late. Casey had already taken the call from the cordless phone in the kitchen.
With a kind of reluctance, you switched the patio lights back off and moved to linger in the open doorway, leaning your body against its wooden frame.
Fragments of the conversation were audible to you:
"Well, what number are you trying to reach?...Well, I think you have the wrong number...Take it easy...Well, why'd you dial it again?...See ya."
You walked back into the sitting room. The TV was flickering now, its screen full of gray-toned static. You pressed play and resuscitated it.
Suddenly, you paused.
Again came the shrill sound of the telephone. You let it ring once, twice, three times, waiting for Casey to pick it up again, before you sat back down, folded your legs beneath you, and brought the receiver up to your face.
The response from the other end came almost immediately.
"Why don't you wanna talk to me?" The voice was deep and husky, masculine, almost playful. This must have been the caller Casey had hung up on.
"Who is this?"
He was silent for a long while. You guessed that hearing your voice instead of Casey's had taken him aback. Then: "...Who is this?"
"That's not fair. I asked you first," you said into the transmitter, your finger idly twirling the cord.
He chuckled. The sound of it was raspy and garbled through the phone. "I see. You wanna play?"
Your lips rose at the corners. "Maybe." You kept your eyes glued to the television screen as you untwined your finger from the cord, choosing to fuss with the soft hem of your shirt instead. "Why don't you tell me who you are, stranger?"
A beat.
"You like games, don't you?"
"Sure I do." You were having fun now, and starting to lose that drowsiness, too. You knew that once the phone was back in its cradle, you'd never have to speak to this guy again, so why not engage in a little banter to pass the time? "And you like to ignore my questions, don't you?"
"That's funny."
You shifted so that you were lying supinely on the couch, with your limbs stretched casually across its cushions and your head resting against one of its arms. You ran your tongue along your teeth, waiting for him to speak again. You could hear him breathing through the receiver.
"I think it's past your bedtime."
You scoffed aloud, more amused than anything else, and began to thumb more harshly at the soft fabric of your shirt. "What?" you asked, narrowing your eyes at nothing in particular.
"You heard me."
"I don't know." The words were sweet on your tongue, the syllables dragged out enticingly. "Why don't you say it again, just in case?"
"I said it's time for you to go home."
And there was something about the way he said it—so hostile, so humorless—that made your body go rigid at once.
"...I am home," you said defensively, sparing a glance toward the patio doors, toward the pitch darkness that lay beyond them. Why would he think otherwise? You sat up and moved your free hand to your shoulder, laying your arm across your chest: a pathetic kind of protection.
"Don't lie to me." You imagined him shaking his head in disapproval. "You were doing so well."
Your grip on the phone tightened. You opened your mouth, then shut it again. You suddenly felt far less alone in this room than you had before.
You set the receiver down, hung up with a click.
And it was the following silence that jogged your memory.
You must have been too caught up with Casey and her movies to think of it sooner, but the chill that was crawling uncomfortably up your spine had reminded you.
Just before you had pulled into Casey's driveway, you had spotted another car parked farther down the road, inconspicuous in a patch of darkness that was missed by the streetlights. It had been Steve's car—of that you were certain. The image of him leaning casually against it in the school parking lot, his chest puffed, with Casey standing coquettishly under his arm was one so cliche it was impossible to forget.
But if Steve's car was here, then...
Holding desperately onto the sofa cushion, you called across the house: "Casey?"
Her voice was muffled by the distance and the drywall that separated you. "Yes?"
"Is Steve here?"
She huffed. "Not yet." You could practically hear the aggravated eye roll in her voice. "I told him ten. He's such a douche."
The hair on the back of your neck bristled. If Steve wasn't here, then where had he gone? The stretch of road leading up to the Beckers' house was extensive and would be even more so by foot and in the pitch darkness.
You had the feeling he wasn't very far at all.
You were opening your mouth to speak, to tell Casey what you had seen, what was troubling you, when the landline started ringing again.
You flinched; your hand twitched against the sofa cushion. Then, reluctantly and before you knew it, you were lifting the phone back off its cradle.
"What do you want?" you spat out, harsher than intended. "Stop calling this house."
You couldn't curb the suspicion that something was terribly wrong here.
"What's the matter, baby?" your caller lilted, feigning hurt. "I thought you liked me."
"I don't feel like talking any more." Your palm had gone clammy against the phone, and your spine was straight as a rod.
He laughed wryly. "Well, that's too bad, huh?"
You craned your neck in an attempt to see down the hall, to see Casey, to see anything beyond the suddenly oppressive walls of this room.
"What do you want?" you asked again, your voice tremulous this time.
"I want you to leave." The statement was flat and lacked inflection.
You rose to your feet, your breath coming quickly. "I don't understand." You went briskly to the patio doors, cupping your hand against the glass to peer anxiously through them, not for the first time. "Why should I listen to you?"
"Because you don't want to die tonight."
Before you could react or reach for the light switch, a flash, white and blinding, cut swiftly through the darkness. You flinched and raised your arm, turning your face inward and toward the crease of your elbow, and stumbled a number of steps backward.
Your heart hadn't even had the time to drop.
While your mind was going into overdrive, the man on the phone was saying your name brusquely, speaking it like a demand. "Go home," he was saying.
But there was something else.
Cold torrents of fear rushed through the whole of your body, cascaded over each pulsing organ, seeped into the marrow of every bone. Your brain was awash with a singular, disquieting thought: "How do you know my name?"
He paid you no heed.
Your voice heightened in fear as the next spilled out of you: "...Where are you?"
He laughed, not unkindly. "You're smart. I like that."
Your body was warm with distress, and air was coming in too-small spurts to your lungs.
"Hear that?" he asked.
After a moment, you held the back of your palm against your mouth to silence the labored sound of your breathing. Then, warily, you pressed your uncovered ear against the cold, spotless glass of the patio doors. There was a sharp, drawn out sound, slow and fluctuating. Something was being dragged against the paneling of the house.
You took a sharp intake of breath, nearly a gasp, and scampered as far away from the doors as the near-taut phone cord would allow.
"Talk to me," he demanded.
You screwed your eyes shut, opened them, blinked slowly and with force. Your voice wavered pathetically as you answered. "Yes."
"Good. Do you know what it is?"
You had a guess.
A meek nod was all you could manage in response. You felt sick. Your face was pallid, and your body was sticky with sweat. "Why are you here?" you asked.
"I think you know the answer to that, sweetheart."
You nearly whimpered into the transmitter. "Please don't hurt me."
He called your name again, softer this time. It somehow sounded crueler. "You poor thing. You just don't get it, do you?"
He was taunting you, watching your body react to the terror, listening to the cadence of it in your voice.
Then someone else spoke your name. It was lighter, and clearer, too. Through the ringing in your ears (so much like the dreaded sound of the landline) you heard the footfalls that sounded down the hallway. Casey was making her way to you.
Instinctively, you opened your mouth to shout for her, but you were cut off before you could get so much as a word out.
"Shut up!"
You jumped as you were scolded through the phone. You stretched your arm out, bringing the device farther from your ear.
"Listen to me," he snapped. "We're gonna play a game, just you and me. And if you so much as blink the wrong way, I'll lay your guts out on that table like a goddamn feast, understand?"
You nodded with erratic haste.
"Good. Get rid of her."
As if on cue, Casey walked obliviously into the sitting room, JiffyPop lid in one hand. The other was fiddling with the neckline of her sweater. She moved her gaze from the phone, to your harrowed face, and then back again. The space between her brows creased in contemplation. "Is everything okay? I thought I heard something."
For a moment you could do nothing but stare blankly through her. Then you heard the rustle of fabric through the receiver: a warning. His voice resounded through your head, though he spoke no words at all. Get rid of her.
You smiled an awkward smile, diverting her attention from the wetness that had gathered in your eyes. "It's my mom," you explained, racking your brain. "She called." You shook the hand clasped around the phone convulsively in emphasis.
Casey's own eyes were bright with worry, the irises soft and minimized by the pupils. "Oh," she said, then stood on her toes to peer over your shoulder and toward the patio doors, trying at stealth. She was no good at it.
"Everything's fine," you said too hastily. Then you heard his voice again in your mind: Go home. "...But I should probably head out."
The phone was still pressed to your ear. You could hear him breathing on the other end.
Casey's face seemed to fall. "Are you sure? I'm not done with the popcorn yet." She waved the JiffyPop lid in the air enthusiastically.
"I'm sorry, Casey." The words tumbled from your lips, quiet and guilt-ridden. They meant more than either of you knew.
Casey took a few steps closer, resting a hand on your arm in reassurance. "For what? Don't worry about it." She spun on her heel and headed for the foyer, glancing at you over her shoulder with the remnants of suspicion. "I'll walk you out."
You stayed behind a moment longer, waiting for some sort of feedback through the phone, but there was nothing. You hoped you had played well enough. Gingerly, you went to place the phone back in its cradle, once and for all.
That was when he spoke again. Just before you hung up, his voice, muffled and vehement, cut through the quiet. "I'll be seeing you."
There was a click as the call ended.
You stared down at the landline, visibly shaken, your mind clouded with fear. If your heart could have dropped any further (down to your feet, then straight through the floor) it would have.
You took a few stumbling, fast-paced steps backward and turned to follow Casey down the hall.
In the foyer, she opened the front door for you, and you did all you could to avoid her watchful eye. You walked quickly past her, first onto the front porch, and then down the steps, counting them as you went in an attempt to calm your nerves. One, two, three.
"I'll get your videos back to you soon," she called as your feet touched down on the driveway. She said it with conviction, and you knew that she meant it.
You paused, your hands trembling at your sides, and glanced at her over your shoulder. Her palm was resting on the doorknob, and her body was backlit by the warm outpouring of light from the foyer.
She smiled weakly at you as she pulled the door shut; you looked guiltily back at her.
That was the last time you saw her alive.