5421 Pine Needle Lane

It costs a lot of money to get your shit together. Too much, actually. That’s how all of this started.

               The money was good. Not great, but good. I had never had this much money. Every week, the cash and checks appeared in my mailbox, carefully filled out with my name and signed in a spidery signature that did not resemble any human letters. When the cash and checks first started showing up, my boyfriend did not ask nor did I tell him what had happened that day. It was better for the both of us. He simply nodded at me, as if to say let’s never talk about this. I fear I will have to take this weight to my grave.

               It was a hot day in the dog days of summer. Everyone was already tired of the heat and their thighs sticking to their plastic deck chairs. We were poor, victims of both circumstances and our own choices. I wanted to go to college, but we did not even have two pennies to rub together. I was willing to do almost anything to pull us out of the quicksand our lives had become. We both lived in a minivan, not even able to scrap the first month’s rent and security deposit together. We told each other that this was the life we wanted, that it was better than being tied down to a house or an apartment; really, we were just lying to ourselves, attempting to pretend that we were living the glamourous van lifestyle from TikTok and Instagram.

               I combed job boards, looking for anything that would pay more than UberEATS and my cashier job. Always finding jobs that I would love but did not have the education for while our resources slowly drained a little more each day. Which is why when the housekeeping job for 5421 Pine Needle Lane popped up on Craigslist, I applied. They responded immediately, literal seconds after I sent my resume. They made me sign an NDA, claiming something about a start-up in the basement. Even at the time, it was strange, but we were desperate, and the payment was generous. We just figured it was either a start-up or a fetish thing. 

               My boyfriend drove me to 5421 Pine Needle Lane, wary of the job but knowing we needed the money. It was maybe two miles away from the nearest neighbor, isolated but fairly normal in this area. It sat back from the road with a long gravel driveway. It was a large white Victorian house complete with the stereotypical tower and black roof. It was a clear day, the sky a bright blue, but as we got closer to the front door, I swear, for a split second, the sky became dark and stormy. I swear I saw a flash of lightning. My stomach was rolling with unease, but I ignored it as I walked up to the door and used the worn brass knocker.

               A tired man with jumpy eyes opened the door just a crack.

               “You the new keeper?” he asked, shifting around, as if something else would hear him.

               “Yeah, I’m the new housekeeper.”

               He did not correct me. Instead, he opened the door just enough to slip out and then he closed it, taking care to lock it behind him with a skeleton key.

               He shoved the key in my hand, mumbling something about good and evil, virtue and vice, before fixing me with those jumpy eyes, “Whatever you do, don’t let it out.”

               I did not think to ask questions. Instead, I thought he was just a paranoid and overworked businessman trying to protect his future fortune. I should have asked more questions. He handed me the key and then left as if something was chasing him. Maybe something was.

               I went into the house, the cool air hitting my face and the smell that all old houses have filling my nose. It was incredibly cozy, with pictures of a family on the walls, subdued wallpaper with a complicated pattern, and older furniture. Vaguely, it reminded me of my grandmother’s house before she disowned me, before I had moved into a van.

               I found my way into the living room, though it was likely a parlor with its ornate but uncomfortable looking chairs. A woman sat, her back as straight as a pin, on a dull pink chaise. She was older, looking like an aged southern matriarch with her dangling gold earrings and lipstick. She may have well been the spitting image of my grandmother with just slightly darker hair. There was something off about her, like looking at a gas station neon sign through the bottom of a glass bottle. My survival instinct was screaming at me to run, to get out while there was still time.

               I greeted her and she fixed her eyes on me. They examined me like I was prey with a gaze too focused and direct to be completely human. Then, after a moment, she smiled at me, her teeth slightly too sharp to be human. Still, I ignored it. Everyone is allowed to have something odd about them, especially with what they were paying for me.

               “Would you like me to play a game?”

               “I’m just here to clean, ma’am.”

               “That’s not I asked: would you like to play a game? I promise, I am quite good” Her voice had a strange lilt to it.

               “I need to clean first.”

               “Don’t worry about that. What I really wanted was a companion. I’ll pay you either way.”

               “I mean, if you’d like to, I don’t mind.” I sputtered out.

               She was not lying about wanting a companion. We talked for hours everyday. She listened to whatever I wanted to rant about and laughed at my jokes. We baked cookies together; we often broke bread together. When my boyfriend and I fought, she let me stay in a guest room and told me I was too good for him. She told me stories about the past, though often times I could not tell how far back the stories actually took place. At some point, I just accepted that I was dealing with something that I did not quite understand. The job paid too well for me to care. Over the next months, as the two of us got closer, lucky things started to happen to me. My grandmother called and we sorted our differences out, every time I went to a restaurant my food was somehow comped, debt collectors forgot my debts.

               One day, I went to her house and her mouth was in a grim line.

               “I think you know what I am.”

               I did not respond.

               “Does it not matter to you?” She asked.

               “As far as I am concerned, our friendship is genuine.” I replied.

               She smiled, “Indeed.” Then, “I have done many favors for you.”

               I was confused, “You have?”

               “Yes, I have. Now, I have a favor to ask of you, my friend.” Her voice cut into my bones, a slow terror rising in my chest.

               She continued, “I want the key.”

               Suddenly, I remembered the scared man from all those months before. What choice did I really have? If she had truly done all of those things for me, what could she do to me?

               “Are we truly friends?” I asked.

               “My kind cannot lie.”

               “Why should I believe that?”

               “I cannot prove what cannot be seen, but we both know I have never lied to you.”

               I felt the inclination to believe her. My terrified mind began grasping at straws.

               “A deal.” My voice was shaking, “A deal, then.” I steadied myself and thought of something from a stupid book I read, “No harm from you and yours shall befall me and mine.” Then as an afterthought, I added, “Nor shall me and mine ever know want and hunger again.”

               She thought for a second, “A smart one, indeed. You were taught well.”

               She had been the one to teach me.

               She extended her hand and smiled, “I accept the deal.”

               I handed her the key.

               Sometimes, when my boyfriend is out, she still comes. We still play games. We still chat. We still bake cookies and break bread together. She still does little favors for me and I am still her companion.

               Though, I still don’t know what I released into the world.