Guest

Trigger warning: Suspense and violence (no gore)

Grant leaned over his kitchen sink and swallowed another pill. The bottle stood on the counter, caught in the glow of the stove light. It was evening and traffic roared through the thin walls of his one-room apartment. Inside, the whoosh of the living room fan came and went in the gaps. Grant yawned.

It was two steps from his kitchen to the tiny living room. Six figures gathered inside. Some monstrous, with horns and yellow eyes. Others feline. One stood in the far corner, unmoving. It looked ordinary—a ratty tee shirt, tousled hair, and jeans. Grant blinked. In the white light from the kitchen, even his hallucinations looked tired.

Grant cleared his throat and spoke to the plastic box on the far wall. “Controller, occupancy count.”

A light in the box pulsed green. “One occupant.”

Nothing to worry about. One occupant. Himself. He took a seat in his threadbare armchair and tried to relax. The pill would take time to kick in.

The figure in the corner, the one in the ratty tee shirt, slunk past him.

“Controller,” Grant said again, “occupancy count.”

Another pulse of light. “One occupant.”

Grant forced himself to lean back and close his eyes. He listened to the traffic, felt the ceiling fan as it churned the hot air, and waited. A bang from the kitchen. He shot upright, the armchair bucking beneath him.

The hallucination in the ratty shirt and jeans stood in the kitchen. A foot away, Grant’s pill bottle lay on the floor, rolling among crumbs and forgotten milk caps. The figure pressed itself into the fridge and stared at him.

“Controller, occupancy count.”

“One.”

Grant took a breath and held it before letting it out, long and slow. He rested a hand on the armchair to steady it. The pill bottle rolled to a stop where the kitchen linoleum ended, and the carpet began. The bottle had been too close to the counter’s edge, he told himself. A change in air pressure. It must have knocked them over. He ran a hand through his hair and stilled his breathing.

Stepping around the recliner, Grant picked up the bottle. He placed them on the counter, all the way back where the white bottle touched the tile backsplash. He stared at the figure. The figure did not move. Another hallucination, one of the feline children, skipped into the kitchen, around their ankles, and back out again.

“Controller, list occupants.”

“Grant Thomas.”

Still alone. Grant returned to his chair. He did not close his eyes. Instead, he leaned the chair back until he could see the ceiling fan. Focusing on the blades, he ran his hands through his hair. One after another. He timed it, passing his hand through his hair in time with the rotation of the fan blades. One rotation to one breath, gentle, long strokes as if stroking an animal. His heartbeat slowed.

The medicine began to work. The other figures skipped, crawled, or walked down the dark hallway leading into the bedroom and were gone. Soon, the living room was empty. But he was not alone. Grant craned his neck to look into the kitchen. The ratty figure stood by the counter, its eyes locked on his. Grant dropped his hands to his sides. A persistent hallucination.

It had only been ten minutes, maybe twenty since he took the pill. Still short of maximum potency.

“Controller, occupancy count.”

The machine hesitated. The light remained off and the box lifeless.

Grant tried again, louder. “Controller, occupancy count.”

Still a hesitation, like a cough this time.

Then, “...One.”

Grant sank into the armchair and tried to close his eyes. He waited there. Let a minute pass, two, then three. There was movement in the kitchen. Ragged breathing. He opened his eyes and looked back. The figure had moved, and Grant’s silverware drawer was open. 

“Controller, list occupants.”

“Grant Thomas.”

“Controller, occupancy count.”

“One.”

Grant got to his feet and walked, slowly into the kitchen. The pills were where he’d left them, the bottle still touching the backsplash. His dirty plate was still here, the crumbs casting long shadows on the floral ceramic. But the drawer was open, and it had not been open before. He took the drawer in both his hands. He felt the wood laminate, the dents where the composite wood poked through. He gripped it tight and slammed it shut. The drawer made a bang as it came home. Pain blossomed in Grant’s thumb. He’d caught it in the mechanism, and the skin was red and torn. It hurt, bright, sharp, real. He stared at it. He didn't look at the figure. The wound was real, but the figure wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He tore open his bottle and shoved two pills into his mouth. He swallowed them dry, gripped the counter, and screwed his eyes shut.

“Controller, occupancy count.”

No reply.

He opened his eyes. The figure cowered in the corner of his vision. There was something different about it. The ratty tee shirt and jeans somehow more rumpled, and there was something in its hand. The thing extended from a clenched fist and reflected the stove light. A knife. Grant recognized the chipped edge, the blunt tip. It was his own, from the silverware drawer. The figure stepped into the living room and out of Grant’s field of view. Grant forced himself to stay where he was. To stand there, staring at the bruise forming on his thumb. The figure was not real. It couldn’t not be. He could hear ragged breathing.

“Controller, occupancy count.”

Still nothing.

The man’s foot slid on the linoleum, and the sound felt real to Grant. More real than anything in the world. He swallowed. “H… Hello?”

The controller spoke. “One.”

There was a whir of fabric. The knife came down. The steel was real, sharp, and cold.

After a while, the sound of traffic and the ceiling fan filled the room. On the wall, the controller continued in the gaps. “One,” it said. “One. One. One.”