Droplets begin to gather in a small puddle, making an exaggerated pitter-patter sound as they dampen the wooden sill. Not that I imagine having it closed would prevent any rainfall from finding its way in. I don’t know where the hell they found this place, but to say that it is in need of some TLC is a severe understatement.
The sound of rain intensifies as the wind picks up, rustling the trees that drape their greenery against the window. I’ve always found comfort in gloomy days like today. Storms have always soothed me; they are Mother Nature’s way of reminding us that we aren’t alone. Rain, like tears, may fall, but the storm they cause won’t last forever. The sun, much like life, will continue. Even if it seems impossible, a resolution will come through the storm clouds that always find a way into our lives.
The wind picks up once more, causing the leaves to rustle and sway. I’m just about to lean back, reveling in nature’s rainy sound machine, and then a faint tapping sound breaks through the rainfall.
Despite the warm air that has filtered into the room, the more the sound persists, the colder I become. I glance down at my bare legs and notice ample goosebumps have established residence on my skin.
Taking another sip of water, I try to focus on the sound of rain outside the window, but it’s useless. That damn tapping is all I hear. And with it, the chill throughout my body spreads like a cancer, making it feel like an ice pick is knocking at my chest. Shattering me, destroying me.
“Leave me alone,” I mutter.
Then, as quickly as the tapping started, it stops.
Swinging my eyeballs back and forth, I check the room. Startled, my eyes pause when I hear a rattling at my side.
I turn to the nightstand and feel relieved that the noise is coming from my phone, vibrating with a message from Paxton and Cillian.
Paxton: We plugged the address into your maps already. Meet us at 7 Morta.
Cillian: And don’t be late. We have a wicked night planned for you.
I close the message and glance up at the time at the top of the screen: 5:30 p.m.
Shit, I need to hurry up.
Opening the maps app, I see the address is 666 Montresor Avenue. I tilt my head, reading the it one more time.
That’s weird, why would they have me meet them there?
I swipe out of maps and search the address through Google. Sure enough, what I thought popped up was 666 Montresor Avenue is The Night’s Plutonian Carnival.
Being a lover of all things macabre, I’ve heard stories about The Night’s Plutonian. It had been one of the first gothic-style carnivals to take permanent residence in the immediate tri-state area. Everything from haunted attractions, spooky-style games, concerts, and tarot readings was known to take place there. That is, until one of the carnival workers was brutally murdered there over two decades ago.
It closed shortly after and, to my knowledge, has been deserted ever since. A warm grin crosses my face because now, the “it’s so you” comment the guys made makes sense. They know that the only thing I love more than creepy sites, aside from them, are abandoned sites. Something about the stillness of a place that once had life flowing through it becoming reduced to what the Earth decides makes my imagination run wild, thinking of what could have been. They genuinely know me so well.
Opening my music app on my phone, I scroll to “Glass Houses” by Bad Omens.
The intro begins low and slow before building. I set my phone down on the bed so I can get ready, humming along to the chant-style lyrics in the beginning.
“I see through you, I know what you are. I see the devil more than I see God,”I sing along and, just as Noah Sebastian’s gravelly rasp revs up the song, I hear the fucking familiar tapping sound that has haunted me over the past few weeks.
Already suspecting what is waiting for me by the window, I turn my back to it. Grabbing my phone, I slip it in my back pocket with the music still playing. Frantically, I search for the white case of my earbuds on the nightstand. With shaking hands, I open the case and place both buds into my ears. Maxing out the volume, I try to focus on the music.
But the sound persists and, somehow, it penetrates the blaring music coming through each earpiece.
Suddenly, the music stops. I grab the phone from my back pocket, but when I peer down at the screen, it shows the song is still playing. Confused as to why I don’t hear anything, I try increasing the volume on the ear pod controls.
A sound begins to play once more. Except, it isn’t the intense and sultry lead singer—it’s distinct and croak-like.
Clear as day and louder than the thunder that rattles the room, I hear it through the earpiece as it surrounds my head with its familial call.
“Es la hora,” the screech says.
It is time.
As soon as it finishes, the music plays again. I turn to the window and there, perched outside of it, is exactly who I expected to see. Stomping over to the window, I raise both hands to it and slam it shut.
“Not today, fucker,” I growl to the bird that not only haunts my dreams but reminds me every day that I am living on borrowed time. On Reaper time.
