Page 1 of Scream for Me

Chapter 1: Darkness

He screams for me—barely a rattle against his brittle ribs. The veins in his eyes burn against the white. His dry lips hang wide. His chest barely moves with a breath. He could have lasted longer. If only I fed him, if only I didn’t crush him to a pulp, but hunger takes over all reason. His feeble squeals do nothing for me. I must feed.

Hunger. Hunger. Nothing but hunger exists.

I continue to squeeze. Breaking, crying. It’s not enough.

Silence. I roar. Red all around me.

I must find another. Must find more terror. Darkness overtakes me, and my mind blanks. All I see are objects, sources of sound. I know my way to the portal. It’s instinct. If only my hunger could be sated in my realm. If only I didn’t waste time traveling to the other side. The pain drives me, moving me forward to my reprieve. It hurts to move, hurts to think, but I can’t rest. I can’t stop until I get more screams, more fear.

It’s never enough. I barely remember the day before; the only constant is hunger. Every human barely sates the roar within me, but I must feed. I must fill the ache.

I race through the woods, barreling past limbs pulling my fur, my tail pounding the ground behind me. I must get to the portal—the source of substance. I must find another.

I can only hope that the next soul screams louder and longer, filling the hollow depths inside me. It will never be enough, but I can only feed, only hope for an end to the darkness.

Chapter 2: Marie

Someone else may look at the dilapidated brownstone with “fuck ur mom” spray-painted in bright red letters over the front door and see despair. I am not that person. With a cardboard box in tow and the rest of my few belongings stored in my beat-up car parked behind me, I see a start to my new beginning. I sigh—that stereotypical kind that the main character does at the start of every romance movie—and walk up the cracked front steps and into the building.

Sure, it smells like weed and stale cigarettes, but so have most places I’ve lived. At least this one is all mine. I climb the metal staircase, barely noticing the muffled shouting from every other door I pass. Even with the obvious signs that this place is not the diamond my heart tells me it is, I still can’t believe the incredible deal.

I get to my door, dropping the box and fishing through my pockets until I find the key the landlord gave me the day before. My eyes water a bit once I swing the door open, the stale smell overpowering even for my seasoned nostrils. It doesn’t push down my smile, though. I kick my box inside and open the window across the room. Car horns and profanities greet my eardrum like the tweet of storybook songbirds.

No, I’m not on drugs. As I scan the water-stained ceilings and cracked walls, I know this place is shit, but to me, it’s home. My home and my home alone for the first time in my life. My childhood—at least the short time I can remember—consisted of foster and group homes. Once I aged out, I lived with random roommates, never finding a pairing that led to a lifelong friendship or anything positive—instead, only broken plates and stolen clothes. When I saw this listing, I initially thought it must be a scam, but I was desperate enough to consider it. I investigated with pepper spray in tow and discovered it was legit. This one-bedroom, one bath in New York City was mine, all for only 400 dollars a month.

With this amount of savings on my housing, I won’t have to take on extra shifts at the diner. I’m used to little sleep, but night classes three days a week, on top of working full-time and finding space in my schedule to study, have been draining the life from me. This place is my haven—a chance for me to get on my feet and crawl out of the despair and poverty life has dealt me.

No more time to gawk and imagine my brand-new beginning, time to finish moving my stuff inside before someone breaks my car windows and robs me. It only takes five trips before I’ve carried everything up to my room. I barely have any furniture, just a folding table and chairs, a thin rolled-up mattress, and a beanbag. I’m carrying in the last box of kitchen supplies when the door next to mine swings open.

“Oh, hi! I’m Marie, your new next-door neighbor.”

The older woman sizes me up and down. “You moving into 805?”

“Yes!” I reply, still smiling.

“Shame.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a pretty young blonde. People who move in don’t last long here.” Don’t know what my hair color has to do with anything, but I guess she’s mentioning it as if it’s a symbol of my innocence. Oh, if she only knew how wrong she was.

My heartbeat quickens and my body hums. “What do you mean?”

The woman sighs, locking her door and stuffing her keys into her purse hanging from her shoulder. "There have been five tenants in this place in the past ten months.”

“Oh, well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be a good neighbor and always pay my rent on time.”

“Been all types coming in and out of here. Sure, most have seemed like addicts, but still, it doesn’t add up. I think your place is cursed. The police stopped asking me, but I always tell them the truth. The same thing always happens before they disappear. Loud screaming in the middle of the night and then nothing. Yelling and fighting are usual here, but this is different.”

I size her up. I don’t know how she wants me to respond, and I’m unsure if she’s just a neurotic neighbor. Of course, her story would explain the ridiculously cheap rent. I can’t deny the fear zipping through my body, the buzzing that makes me cross my legs just to contain myself, but reason overpowers my squirrel-like instinct. I don’t believe in curses or shit like that. Life is hard enough. Almost all bizarre coincidences can be explained by science. The missing tenants of my apartment—if her story is even true—could all be due to addiction, gang violence, or other illegal activity I’m more than happy to avoid.

I sigh, turning my smile back on. “Well, thank you for the cautionary tale, but I think I can hold my own. I’m sorry, but you won’t be getting rid of me that easily. I promise you’ll love me as a neighbor. I make a mean snickerdoodle cookie. I’d love to bring some over one day. What did you say your name was again?”

She sizes me up again and scoffs. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t last a week.” She turns and walks down the staircase.

“Bitch,” I whisper under my breath, hurtling back into my apartment.