God all I wanted was to read Agatha Christie

“Are you coming tonight?”

I wanted to scream. Why did everyone in the goddamn group feel the need to pry whenever I didn’t want to get blackout drunk and vomit in the bathroom on a Tuesday, of all days. Like I needed a better excuse than that. 

“I have to work early and don’t need to rage like I’m 19 every other night, Meg. No offense.”

I heard her huff over the phone, and could picture the irritation in her face, clear as day: pursed lips, eyes narrowed, probably rubbing her mascara all over the place because she didn’t know what to do with her hands when she talked. Meg was my best friend, but sometimes I wondered how we ever got close in the first place. 

“Well I hate to be the one to say it but you’re really bringing down the morale here. You never want to come out with us and I swear it’s really fun! The hangover is worth it, babe.”

I closed my eyes and thought about curling up alone in the corner of my living room with a mug of chamomile and an Agatha Christie novel. My friends were cool, but that sounded much, much cooler than whatever the hell else they had planned. Probably another trashy dive bar full of creeps that didn’t know when to take a hint.

“Meg, I love you, but I really want to stay in and do my own thing tonight. Me time is necessary or I will legitimately die, and going out to get wasted is at the bottom of my to-do list. I’m sorry.”

Was I sorry? Not really, but it felt like the polite thing to say at that moment. She huffed again and I braced myself for some sort of scathing goodbye and an immediate hang-up. 

“I miss seeing you, Bess. I get that sometimes it’s a little too wild with the gang but I don’t know how to get you out of your house anymore. I want to like, do stuff with you.”

Oh crap. She was trying to tug on my emotional side and I hadn’t prepared myself in advance.

“Coffee tomorrow? My treat.”

I held my breath.

“You say that every time and then you cancel. Have a good night, Bess.”

The line clicked and she disappeared.

Great. Now I was overwhelmed emotionally and I felt like an asshole at the same time, which was the worst possible combination for my brain. I sat alone for a second before rummaging in the couch cushions for the radio remote. It was a crappy Victrola but it was only fifty bucks at WalMart and classical music worked wonders on my synapses.

I tried to guess the piece every time before the announcer spoiled it for me, but classical music is kind of elusive unless you really know your stuff. It felt more rhythmic, less Romantic and more Baroque. Scarlatti? I wandered into the kitchen to start the kettle before hunting down my book, trying to understand the depths of the melody being played.

Crash.

The front door flew open and smashed into the wall, leaving a sizable dent in the molding. A boy rushed inside and immediately slammed it shut, flailing with the locks before throwing himself backwards onto the floor.

I dropped the mug in shock, unable to process what had just happened. He turned his head at the sound of the ceramic shattering, and I saw his face was bright red and his eyes were wide and terrified. He looked no older than twelve or thirteen. What the fuck was going on?

“Are your windows locked?”

I blinked in response.

“Lady, are your windows locked?”

There was a weird thud against the front door and I yelped, stumbling backwards against the wall. The boy slowly picked himself off the floor and tiptoed over to me, his finger pressed against his lips. The universal shut the fuck up signal. I was too overwhelmed and felt a panic attack setting in; my heart was beating in my skull and it took every ounce of effort I had to not cry then and there. 

Multiple thuds followed the first, along with a strange moan. The voice was deep, like a man’s, but for some reason it made the hairs on my neck stand up. I watched the doorknob twist, back and forth, over and over again, but the kid did a good job locking up. Even though he really fucked up my wall.

“What the hell is going on?” I whispered vehemently.

My little intruder stared at me then stared back at the door, wiping some of the sweat out of his eyes.

“My name is Lucas and THAT is a zombie. I saw him eat my neighbor’s dog.”

I wanted to laugh. Either that or start crying, I couldn’t really tell. “Uh….hate to break it to you but zombies aren’t real. I’m not saying it’s impossible but maybe this guy just has a really bad case of rabies or something. We should call the police.”

Lucas shook his head, and I noticed his eyes were darting around the house, taking in the windows and the stairs to the basement.

“I don’t think it’s just him. There were others in the street and people’s yards when I was running. Yours is the first house that was unlocked, which is kind of dumb by the way.”

I was taken aback by the comment but too freaked out for a witty retort. 

“Whatever, I’m still calling the cops. Don’t go anywhere.”

I walked back into the living room to find my cell phone, Scarlatti or whoever the hell it was still playing peacefully in the background. God, I should’ve just gone out tonight and partied instead of deciding to be a homebody and ending up with some random kid in my house. I made a mental note to lock my door in the future. 

“Hey lady, you’d better get back over here.”

Lucas’ voice drifted over from by the door and I snatched my phone and hurried back.

“We might have a problem.”

He pointed at my front window and I stared in horror at whatever the hell that thing was gnawing at me on the other side of the glass.

Its eyes were bugging out of its skull, half of the flesh on its face was ripped clean off, and it smeared black blood over the window in a desperate attempt to get in, though it wasn’t quite smart enough to just try and lift up the glass.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Okay. 

The kettle was screaming in the background and as Lucas ran over to pull it off the burner, the man at my window let out a shriek and whacked his hand against the frame. 

“Thanks for tuning in tonight folks. This was a Sonata in E Major by Domenico Scarlatti, as interpreted by our very own Tiffany Poon! We have more treasures of the Baroque era headed your way….”

Fuck I was right! Even though the song kind of sucked.

No offense, Scarlatti.