Page 11 of Circus From Hell

He presses the button for the elevator a little too hard, anger still fuelling his actions. He’ll be fast asleep soon, but I work nights, so I won’t be heading to bed until the morning. Which means I have all night to overthink our interactions and kick myself for upsetting him. It also means I have all night to fuck my fist to the dirty and depraved thoughts I have of my stepbrother, one room away, sleeping soundly and completely unaware of my balls slapping against my fist as I thrust my hips and pretend he's there with me.

It’s as tense as it was in the alleyway when we wait in the mirrored elevator, the whirring of the machine not loud enough to cover the crackling tension. Whether that’s anger, arousal, lingering fear, or a concoction of them all, I don’t know.

Arlo refuses to look at me as we enter the apartment. He hangs his jacket up and storms to his room before I even fully shut the door behind me.

Well shit.

That’s just great.

My stepbrother hates me again, and it’s my own fault.

Most people get freaked out by death, by darkness, but I find both comforting. It’s why I love my job.

It’s the biggest cemetery in the city, and I was hired two years ago as the nighttime security guard. Four nights a week, ten hours of pure solitude, and the only challenge is keeping myself awake. I stock the small guard’s room with food, video games, energy drinks, and three portable chargers. But tonight, the hardest part is stopping myself from texting Arlo.

I’m three hours into the night, and I’ve clicked onto our message thread more times than I can count. I haven’t seen him since we got back from the circus yesterday. Due to our sleep schedules, we rarely see each other, and Arlo doesn’t purposefully stay up to catch me when I wake up anymore. He used to before he realised that I’m a total cock.

I miss him.

Groaning, I switch off my phone and slam it against the desk, leaning back into the chair.

A corner of the CCTV screen shifts, and I sit back up, grabbing the mouse to expand. I can’t see what set it off or what caught my eye. I quickly flick through the other cameras but find nothing. After last night, my nerves are on edge. I still can’t explain what we saw and heard. I don’t like being left in the dark—figuratively.

This is where my job kicks in. I grab the big flashlight from the corner of the table and leave the small box of an office that’s covered in windows. I’m situated at the front of the graveyard beside the entrance gate, which I locked after I did a sweep of the perimeter. No one was here, and I would have seen someone come through the entrance. But the metal fence circling the graveyard isn’t the most secure and not impossible to jump.

I step into the night, thankful I opted for a jacket earlier, as the breeze immediately hits me. My instincts are already telling me to watch my step, but I don’t get scared in this job, so the fact I’m on edge is a bad sign.

My neck nearly snaps with how fast I turn to look across a row of graves, a brief shadow catching my attention. It’s gone when I can focus on the now-empty space.

Twigs snap beneath my boots as I slowly make my way around the graves. It’s not the rows of buried corpses and headstones that make me uncomfortable. They don’t bother me. I’ve had to deal with vandalisers, late-night grievers who beg to visit their loved ones, and wild animals, but I’ve never had to go looking for something, searching the darkness and putting pieces together. Maybe that’s what makes me uncomfortable.

When I get to the end of the row, prepared to turn and make my way down the next, I spot the shadow again. At the edge of the cemetery, beneath a tree, crouched low to the floor.

Just like last night.

And when that flash of green reappears, I’m expecting it, but that doesn’t make me any less freaked out.

I don’t know why I refuse to turn my flashlight to face the shadow and unveil the source of my discomfort. Whether it’s fear or denial, I’ll never know, but I point it downwards to my feet.

Last time, it retreated when I took a step forward. I do the same again, but they don’t move. I take another step, and another, closing that distance half a foot at a time. Regardless, they still don’t move.

As my boot hits the floor again, the shadow shifts, inching closer.

It seems they called my bluff.

“What do you want?” I shout. Again, they stop, but I can see the outline of them a little clearer. The space where their head should be looks too big, like eccentric hair, and they’re definitely on their hands and feet.

I’m losing my patience now. They were watching me and Arlo last night, so either I’ve got some weird stalker on my back or a ghost who I pissed off before their demise.

Just as I’m about to tell them to fuck off, a car comes screeching past, its bright headlights flittering over the graveyard for a mere moment, lighting up the grass in front of me.

I finally see it.

Or her.

It’s a flash. A few seconds at most.

Pink and green hair. Unnatural smile. Sat on the backs of her feet with her hands on the ground in front of her.