Curiosity Almost Killed The Cat

Walking in the dark is scary. I don't like how the entity distorts your place. And how the encompassing sounds wash out by my heartbeat. It's disconcerting. To know how small I am in the grand scheme of things. How lost I can be but how natural it can feel too. But there's this feeling of being watched that makes me feel like prey, like a shining fish circled by vultures. I walk faster, feel the ground harden beneath my step, and the wind sharpens. The cutting air is refreshing; it invigorates me to carry on, that it's working. I don't actually know if I'm being watched, but I can sense it. I feel stains on my skin that prickle my nerves like electricity. 

But in the distance, I see the silhouette of my street and the mirroring houses. Nearly there, I think. I really wish I didn't have to work nights, but money's tight, and my manager dislikes weakness. The old git. He has to get his kicks somewhere, I suppose. And he seems to think of himself as a pious leader. However, unearned and inaccurate the title. And walking down this shadowy pavement reinstates that. The eyes are festering now, hot like boiling water. And I wish I could slip away into the pavement cracks like dust. Hidden and safe. But the escalation has made the air stiff, hard like metal. And the breeze growls, peeling in anticipation. I break into a jog, trying to balance the tension, but it'd just become more electrified. I run. 

And I run. I run. Burning in fear. Turn into the winding path towards my house. Almost there. Until I meet an abrupt figure. James. My neighbour. The fast realisation floods me. And I stop. Some of the tension slowly slumping, degrading like dust. Almost as if shallow and forgotten, like it dug its own grave.

"Hi", I wheeze. Grateful for the surprise. 

"Hey, Eloise...You good?" he draws. The words crushing together. Unsure.

And I nod, trying to moderate my breathing before I answer. 

We don't know each other very well, and I think this is the longest and most emotionally driven conversation we've had. Despite our proximity to each other, we don't talk much. In fact, James is seldom out and about, no matter the time of day. He doesn't seem to leave for work, have anyone over, go shopping; he's oddly quiet. And if the bins didn't move, I would think him dead. He's weird, but he's tolerable. 

"Scary...Dark", I manage. Shuddering under the falling fear that is still humming, like a slow-dying machine. 

"Oh, ok." He dribbles, very unattuned to sociability. Standing stiff like frozen glass. 

"I'm just relieved to see a familiar face." I breathlessly reassure. 

"I'll be on my way once I can breathe again." I try to say it lightly to ease the awkwardness, but it's unsuccessful. And I give up any other attempt to end the bouldering waywardness. I'm too tired to be so hospitable. After a few stale moments, I catch my breath and stand up straighter. 

"Thanks.". And I go to leave.

"You should be careful." I stop and look at him. "It's dangerous in the dark." I nod, frozen after a moment of surprise at his sudden surge of easy sociability. But I find my feet again and walk away, feeling jutted. He didn't sound like himself there. 

 ***

I manage to get home, but I feel raw and chilled, scraped to the bone. It was how James changed. He even stood differently. Or maybe that was the dark making him look taller. But that wouldn't change the shape of his voice. It's too late for this, I think. I'm just tired and overthinking. If there's something to worry about, I'll do it in the morning. I just want to go to sleep. And I gander up the stairs, slugging off my coat and bag, uncaring about the mess-that can also wait. 

 ***

Exhaustion's a good sleep companion, forcing my brain to shut off and lingering after. It's like a shadow; it lets me hide behind it until life starts again. On that note, the memory of last night greets me and echoes the crawling realisation that whatever changed James was unnatural. And the more I think about it, the wronger it feels. The thought feels like an overgrown weed. And it won't stop poisoning my mind. I need to get to the bottom of this to save myself from senility. Well, what little calmness I have left since I started that stupid job. Stacking shelves is not rocket science, but according to the old git, it's an art. It has to be perfect. It takes time. Clearly, my manager is overcompensating for something to care so much about stacking bloody shelves. Ugh. I'm at home, and I still feel like I'm at work. 

I continue to question the events of last night, make excuses, try to explain that change. But there's no resolute answer or logical explanation, and I know I didn't make that up. So, I'm not crazy, and it did happen. I know it happened. And I'm going to figure it out. Right now, my first idea is to knock on his door and ask, but that feels obvious and crude without any evidence or investigation. And if he knows I know something's up, that doesn't mean he's going to tell me the answer. And I think I can remember something from Catholic school about love thy neighbour, telling me not to jump to conclusions. Those Nuns were wrong about many things, but I think that in this case, it stands to reason. 

 ***

Watching his house has been inconclusive; he's been his same reclusive self. So I resort to hoping that'll we'll run into each other again. I shouldn't let this consume me so much. But there's something else at play here. I just can't make sense of it yet. And there's a lingering chill in my bones telling me that I'm right. 

 ***

In the dark again. I thought I would feel braver, excited at the opportunity to figure something out. But that chill is now a fever burn, telling me to run. And my heart beats like a heavy bell, feeling out of depth in my chest. I shouldn't expect anything less, but still, a deep part of me deflates at James' absence. At least, this time, I don't feel the eyes. But that's abnormal. I always do. 

But walking down the path again, I see what I hadn't before. The air still hangs heavy, and it seems to crush the ambling stone wall. It's crumbling, dusted with acid stains and falling debris. Nimble trees dangle and droop, gangled by branches bending over rotting roots. Grass seemingly shrinking in pools of frosted grey-green. The belt seems more of a shell than a whole. It's like it's crawling towards death. And it feels numbing. To be so blind, like an ignorant parasite. 

I turn the corner. Still. No James. But my body seems to tell that's a good thing and lets out a belated sigh of relief. I didn't expect that. 

 ***

James hasn't moved his bins this week. At last, a line. A lack of continuity. Jame's broken clockwork. It's a doable opportunity, a good excuse. I can ask him if he's alright. If he's well or just forgotten to do the bins, however unlikely of him. And it's late afternoon, still bright enough you need to block the sun's gaze. Yes, this is a good time. No dark to be afraid of. 

I walk over to his reflecting house. Noticing it's plain and monotony, like a poor representation of reality. It's too still. Even the air has a surface of manmade being. Not quite real. But enough to breathe, even if it feels like I have leaded lungs. I knock on the door. It shudders under the quiet force. No response. I try again. And it opens, seemingly of its own volition. No James.

"Hello?".

There are a few seconds of porcelain-coated silence before he answers.

"Oh, Hello. Eloise, please do come in." The voice again. That strange formality. I freeze. And then he appears. Dressed in an inky suit, gilded with rusting-orange. A stark contrast from his usual sluggish and frayed robes. Something's very wrong.  

"Hi". I utter quietly, out of disturbing confusion. It's not natural to change like that. James' weighting is more forward, more in the toes now than before. And he moved as if part of the air, rather than a torpid obstacle to be moved around. 

"Oh, please do sit.".

He moves forward and beckons me in more forwardly, taking me by the arm and gently piloting me to sit down on a mazarine armchair. And I let him, too drugged by surprise to do anything. Dazed by his bladed change from dejected gloominess to gracious socialite. James seems to speak from the centre now, but he cuts at the edges now. Before he was blurred, almost fazed out. Like he was dissolving. People moved through him. But now, he'd make others move. 

"Uh-how kind," I say. Dubious if I should be here at all now. Curiosity killed the cat, I think. 

"Refreshments?" He asks. 

"Yes, please," I say, gaining some composure. I can play this game, try to find out more and then leave. James isn't agitated, so I think I'm safe enough for now. If anything, he's been nothing but polite. Polite but strange. James' acquiesce has given me the chance to calm and assess, still somewhat disbelieving that my investigation is going somewhere. Despite my plans, a part of me didn't think I'd get so far, and now I am. I need to think on my feet. But my calm disjoints when James returns, holding a tray of tea, water and biscuits. Interesting. 

"Tea?" He asks.

"Please, with a splash of milk...Thank you." Things are turning out better than expected.

"It's such a shame we've never spoken previously". James says as handing me a cup of tea.

***

Spending the afternoon with James has been more pleasant than expected. We've been chatting for a few hours now, synthetic chat mostly. But easy going, like free-falling rain. Talking about work, hobbies and books we've read. And James has been...himself? 

"I find office work tirelessly mundane..." Antiquated vocabulary? Yes. But it seems to fit him. "Irrevocably changed." This James, anyway. 

Regretfully, I have to fracture the flow of conversation.

"May I use your bathroom?". I enquire.

"Of course, Eloise. Upstairs, first door on the left."

"Thank You". I reply. And leave up the adjoining stairs. The house is sparsely decorated compared to James' more colourful personality. It's empty, like glass. Plain waxen walls, sterile and devoid of any furnishings. It's like a cavernous showroom without the fabricated charm. But James's lived here for 2 years. 

But I move on, urged on by my bladder.

***

The bathroom is not much more lively than the hallway, but that's not what jars me. It's the bloodied knife hidden in a draw. I found it while looking for more soap. I stare at it. Watch the dried blood, crusting like fibril chalk. See the thick ichor bleeding away the knife's surface, like chagrin paint. Shit. 

***

I pace down the stairs, trying to seem energetically forgetful of a responsibility. Try to use the icy adrenaline to spur me on and out to safety. I notice James sitting in chilled stillness, cold and removed from the moment. 

"More tea?". James asks. Distant. 

"So sorry...I forgot something I have to urgently finish." I breather out. And I increase in gait. I hope I managed. Look more stressed than terror-stricken. I reach the door, light slipping through as I open the door ajar. Until an arm crawls around my waist. And another across my arms. James. I convulse with fear, fighting the constricting arms that hold around me like overgrown pipes. James drags me down, weighing me down like a rock. My attempts feeble. Then a prick. Burning fills me like I have filament veins. Pain stagnating within me like febrile fever. And light brittles from view, shattered under clinical lethargy.