Copyright © 2025 by Brittany Noelle
CASSIDY
A DOORBELL CHIME POPS our sweet, bubbled moment.
Chloe’s attention snaps to the door, her raspberry scent fading into the stale musk of a too-warm bedroom.
My heart squeezes. People. People are here. I grip the sheet and scratch behind my ear, forcing slow breaths. Pull it together, Cass. It’s just a party. I trace Chloe’s movements as she leaps off the mattress, claps her hands in excitement, and spreads her glitter-purple smile wide. Ready to take on the world.
Under all my nerves, my side-grin slips out. As long as I have her somewhere in my life, I know I can face anything. Even this party. Strange people, strange odors, strange voices… With Chloe anchoring me out of my black-cloud thoughts, I can survive this night.
My best friend tosses the silly navy-blue sailor hat at me. “Hurry, go get the door!”
I fumble with it, trying to match her energy. “Who’s, uh, who’s here already?”
Chloe laughs. “C’mon. Get that on, he’s waiting!”
“Who?”
“The pizza guy who’s going to drool all over you, obviously.”
“You don’t know that.” I’m blushing flames down my neck.
“Hat, hair, man, I did good. Go!” she orders. The doorbell chimes once more. “Hurry, hurry.”
You look downright… edible, the dark voice agrees inside my head.
I shiver and eye my abandoned yellow sweater on the floor, desperate to climb back inside. As if looped yarn could shield me from my own mind. Heart hammering, I plop the hat on and push my curled hair away from my sticky makeup face. Another doorbell chime makes me flinch.
Chloe pushes me out of the bedroom and tucks the spirit board into my hands. She practically tosses me down the stairs. “Go, go! I’ll get the music bumpin’.”
“Chloe—” I start, but she disappears back into her room. Seconds later, vibrations more than music shake the floorboards. If her dad had been home, the screaming match would have begun. But we’re alone, and I’m barely dressed, and the pizza guy just keeps on ringing the bell! I scratch at my ear. C’mon meds, this is not the night to digest wrong. Work your voice-melting magic.
What a soggy mess of clay you are, the dark voice says with a chuckle.
I ignore him as much as I can. Covering my exposed cleavage with one hand, I descend downstairs with as little noise as possible. Every free inch of skin feels like a flashing neon sign, welcoming any eager eyes to ogle and consume me. I drop the board off in the living room on the coffee table and glare at it, still not understanding Chloe’s desperation about the seance—and needing somewhere to channel my anxiety. The voices in my head aren’t going to respond to a silly board game.
The soft skin behind both my ears tingles in unpleasant patterns, like a strange tinnitus. A whirling white noise builds at the edge of reality. It sometimes happens when voices grow too loud, like this mysterious, English-accent guy. Loud and bodied and trying to steal my tie to reality. His cold hasn’t faded, seeming to follow me around the house.
But, as I near the front door, a new sensation joins it. Heat crawls up my cheeks, my temples, the crown of my head. A fever? Maybe I can play sick to get out of this party. A quick second of hope eases my tight chest. Then more heat billows across my face, radiates from beyond the front door. A fire? I sniff for smoke, smelling a trace. But not strong enough to be blazing on the other side. A neighbor’s grill? Perhaps it’s only my nerves mixed with anti-psychotic pills.
Take a breath. It’s just a person. A boring, real-life person, I tell myself.
I pull the front door open, keeping my costume, or lack thereof, hidden behind it as much as I can. On the other side, the uniformed pizza delivery guy stands there to greet me. I don’t register his face. I’m only going to see him for a few moments so my eyes unfocus, my movements go rigid, trying to interact as little as possible. That’s the goal. I’m more interested in the strange smoky scents than him.
Until he speaks.
“Well, hey there,” he greets.
I find his eyes immediately as they scan down my exposed skin, my legs. His grin brightens.
Something fuzzes in the back of my mind. A thought, faraway. As if forgotten for much too long, but finally resurfacing.
Do I… know him?
Several seconds pass in silence until I choke out a response. “S-sorry. For the wait.”
“Absolutely worth it.” His stare pierces through me, past my skin.
Direct eye contact always unnerves me, the attention of strangers so hard to meet, but this guy… I can feel his awareness like a knife against my throat.
“Got your pizza.” He nods to the boxes and adjusts the bright cherry-red cap on his head. It seems ill-fitting. As does the matching red jacket with a pizza logo ironed on over his heart, biceps pressing for escape from his sleeves. The streetlamps backlight his built figure, keeping his day-old scruffed face in half-darkness a good foot above me.
Except those piercing, knowing eyes. They almost seem to glow.
The longer we stand between awkward words, the more a scent builds—smoky, a strong bonfire. Burning wood and sap and soil. The short jacket sleeves expose his wrists as he holds out the square boxes, a discolored mark along the skin catching the porch’s light. A burn scar? Why does everything about this guy shout fire? Why is it so hot standing here with him?
For a moment, my confusion mirrors back in his own expression. A quirked eyebrow, a lowering frown. We both blink instead of speaking.
Where could we have met before?
He recovers quicker than I can. “Do you… want it?” Presenting the pizza boxes, he cocks an eyebrow.
Embarrassment stresses through to my core. “Right. Thanks. Let me just get the money.” I close the door. Chloe can handle this kind of intensity, not me. Ugh. How am I supposed to survive a whole party when a pizza guy glitches my entire mind? I wipe at my forehead, dizzy from the sourceless heat.
At the last second, a dirt-smudged boot holds the door open. I jump back.
Still smiling, the pizza-guy says, “Hey, don’t run away so fast, blondie.” Glancing inside, he takes in the black streamers and Happy Halloween banners that Chloe and I hung earlier in the afternoon. Including the little ghost cut-outs I made, which now look completely juvenile with this stranger seeing them. “Cute,” he says, grin glinting.
I cross my hands over my shoulders, hiding my cleavage from his interested gaze. “Just… let me get the money.”
“Having a party? Looks fun. Catchin’ that full moon tonight?” No longer looking at me, he traces the perimeter of the entryway with his eyes. And as he stretches forward, I see a double-lined scar stretched over his throat.
Too many dangerous possibilities glitch through my brain. Is he casing the place for a theft? Despite the obvious signs I’m the cold-open kill of the horror movie, I’m transfixed, held in place by a force I can’t describe. The closer he is, the warmer I feel. That strange heat is definitely coming from him.
Who is he? the wintery voice grumbles in my head. We’re both perplexed by this guy. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad sign.
“Chloe!” I shout behind, needing my anchor. I turn to look up the stairs. She doesn’t come running. The music drowns my voice. That split-second gives the stranger room to enter the house, stride toward the living room. “Hey!” I start after him but stop just as fast. What am I even thinking of doing?
He glances around the large space and nods once. “Lot of candles.” He lifts a brow.
There are a lot. For ambiance, according to Chloe. We piled them on every surface we could find. Thick crimson pillar candles standing at attention. On the entertainment unit in front of the TV. On the cabinet holding the “nice” dishes, shoving family pictures aside. Even on the bookshelves, to my absolute horror. But Chloe promised harm will never come to my darling books. She even replaced the bulbs in the hanging iron light fixture with small white candles, ready to be lit above the coffee table.
“Either romantic escapades or plannin’ some cult shit.” He side-eyes me. “What kind of freak are ya?” He laughs, friendly and disarming, but then stares me down for an answer.
How can someone’s eyes create such fire? I’ve read plenty of romance novels. Butterflies in the stomach, girding of loins. That’s not this feeling, as nice-looking as he is. With the jaw and the mussed hair and the knowing gaze.
This is a dangerous heat, a warning. So why am I not running away?
Hm… He needs to leave, the cold voice muses.
I fold my arms hard over my chest again, suck my stomach in as far as it will go. Be small. I agree with the voice in my head. Which doesn’t feel great, but having an ally gives me enough confidence to speak. “No, nothing like that. You… You need to leave.”
The stranger’s eyes catch on the coffee table, spark with recognition. He discards the pizza boxes next to the spirit board, then hovers a hand above the rows of letters, the YES and NO, the sun and moon. Enamored. Smile somehow relieved and heavy at once. “Here we go, you little devil. Trying to hide the fun.” His voice slows, the lower his palms go, closer and closer to the board. “Shouldn’t mess with stuff you don’t understand. Never know what might be waiting for an invitation…” Lower, his fingers tense, hesitating an inch above the moon’s smirk. His brow crinkles. “Wait, this isn’t it.” He pats the board, then flinches away as if expecting a zap.
I jump back, not realizing how close I had inched toward this complete stranger. What reaction was he hoping for?
The pizza-guy turns in a circle, then pulls at a stray wave of his black hair. “That… doesn’t make sense.”
So, he’s looking for something specific.
Ah, the voice in my head sighs, a gleeful chuckle coating his words. A collector, I see. Well, can’t have him ruining our fun.
An electric surge flickers through the lights above us. Chloe’s music garbles into nonsense notes, then static.
The house falls dark.
All light. All sounds. Gone.
Pizza-guy and I pause on opposite sides of the room, eyes toward the ceiling, searching for an explanation. I stay breath-stolen quiet. Did the voice… put out the lights? No, that’s not possible. It’s worse than that. My meds aren’t working. Auditory hallucinations are becoming visual.
Worries about the stranger in the house or where Chloe is both vanish. The real-world slips away. It’s like drowning, plunging into that darkness. I close my eyes and numb myself to every feeling, bracing for lightning, mental thunder, the schizophrenic churn of black clouds swallowing any tether to reality. The inevitable crescendo of my insanity consuming me. I’m thankful Chloe’s friends aren’t here to witness my breakdown. I clench my teeth, waiting for impact, expecting an invisible wall of voices to wave through my mind and consume every coherent thought. Take control. Use my body for deeds unspeakable like so many times in the past.
Chloe will never forgive me. But I can’t stop them. I can never stop them. No pills, no meditation, no therapy ever gets rid of them completely.
Heh, unclench, pet. Only me here.
I gasp. Open my eyes to shadows. The din does not come. Only one voice. His. That deep English voice, his drawling sarcasm scratching the inside of my skull. A singular soundtrack for the evening.
I try to ignore him, push him down to the bottom of my mind, like all the others. Nearly two decades I’ve heard them. I don’t know how to deal with their pleas or wicked words. Giving them attention only grants them more reason to talk, to scream, to worm into my ears and whisper maddening stories on repeat. Through the night, all day, haunting every step, every breath, every thought. Until I’m curled up crying on a sidewalk, a bus stop bench, in a classroom closet.
I’m not like them, am I?
No, he’s not. I’ve only experienced a full-bodied schizophrenic figment once before. The memory of creepy twin boys tries to eek its way to the forefront of my mind here in the dark. No, I have to shove it aside. Why is he showing me this? No, not ‘he.’ My brain. ‘He’ isn’t real. It’s all in my head.
Let’s handle this young blood, shall we? The temperature drops in the room. Again, I expect him to be there. A phantom figure manifested only for me.
Across the room, the pizza-guy rubs at his eyes as if in pain. As if the storm isn’t just in my head. As if this stranger’s been caught up in my dark clouds, too. What is the voice doing? No—what am I doing?
I check my hands, afraid of what I’ll find.
Until another voice speaks, also slipping through my medicated mind. All fury. She bursts like a crackling bonfire, accent rough with Scottish roots. Stoap bein’ stubborn, Kane. If you’d let me out, we coulda dealt with this already. But nooo…
Pizza-guy gnashes his teeth together. He turns away from me, drags fingers around his temples. His charming smile gone here in the dark. “I can handle it.”
Tha girl’s in danger, the female voice continues.
“I’m. Dealing. With It.”
Like you dealt with tha last one?
I breathe out in shock, a puff of cold forming in front of me. He… can hear the voice. He’s engaging in full-on dialog with it!
I take a step back, knock into an armchair. The invisible female’s rough voice is barking, demanding. It hovers on the pizza-guy like a piece of clothing. The heat, the smoky scents, aren’t coming from him.
They’re from her.
Every voice in my head comes with remnants of sensory information. Smells, tastes, temperatures. I tell myself the sensations are just stories my mind makes up for each voice, pieces of humanity attached to my hallucinations. But…
The pizza-guy’s glare darkens. Into something solid, intimidating. “Be sure to pour the salt directly in the wound,” he mutters at the bonfire voice.
Ye need me, she presses.
He can hear her. The bonfire woman—one of my hallucinations. But… how?
The light fixture above rocks to one side, then snaps from the ceiling. A burst of heat slashes through the room. The pizza-guy’s body launches backward without his control into the couch just as the fixture spins into the edge of the coffee table. Right where he was standing. The spirit board topples. Pizza boxes flip to the carpet. Tiny white candles litter the floor.
Pizza-guy and I meet eyes.
Dammit, I don’t have time for this, the cold Englishman sighs in my ear.
White candles rise in the air between us before turning horizontal and launching toward the pizza-guy like bullets. “Shit!” He rolls off the couch, out of the way. His boot destroys one pizza, sauce squished out of the box. A few candles pelt him hard in the left arm. One plucks his throat. He chokes and staggers to stand, preparing for another attack.
Then, a breath later, reality snaps back. Lights flare on, too bright. Music whirs into basal waves through the house.
Light means clarity. Sound means control. Or those are the lies I tell myself.
It’s always easier to pretend the voices in my head don’t exist in the light. Easier to chalk them up to a dangerously rampant imagination. Like the doctors say. Like my mother says…
But he heard it. And the dark English voice attacked him. Like a crime scene, the evidence lays before me. I cover my mouth, scared of the panicked sounds that might escape.
With a flinch, the pizza-guy rips the hat off his head, pushes his black hair back. “Okay, uh,” His scanning gaze returns to me with heavy seriousness. “Not a simple way to put this. It’s… not safe to be here.”
My logical mind betrays me, a dam of emotions cracking. Curiosity or fear, I can’t tell which plants me down to the floor. He is not a pizza guy. And for once, I don’t shrink from a direct stare—I study it. “What… just happened?”
“Uh…” Glancing down at himself, he winces at the red jacket. “I’m so not dressed for this.” He powers through a cringe. “I know this is a hell of a thing to ask, but you need to get away from this house. And anyone inside. It’s dangerous. I’m serious about the Ouija shit. Don’t do it.”
If I were any of my characters, I would have tricked this guy out of the house in a single, charming swish of my hips. Or threatened him with a poisoned dagger for his information about this supposed “danger.”
Instead, my heart pounds for escape from my chest, my limbs freeze in numbing defeat. I’m helpless to my emotion’s whims, questions ping-ponging back and forth in my head.
He wants me to just up and leave with him? Hell to the no.
But I saw what happened. What could that mean about the voices in my head? My pills?
That doesn’t mean he has good intentions.
Are answers worth the risk?
“Chloe!” I shout.
The strange young man holds up his palms, the burn mark on his wrist stretching beneath the bright red sleeve of his jacket. A focal point. The soft spots behind my ears tingle and buzz. With cold ice. With burning fire. I’ve seen the mark, or at least one like it, before.
“You have to leave,” he says. “You can yell at me later. Fine. But right now?” He reaches for me, heat energy spiking, ready to drag me outside, I’m sure. But he pauses as another electric surge slinks through the house, bulbs buzzing with too much voltage, then too little. It distracts him enough to give me time to step away.
Is that winter voice, the invisible Englishman… helping me? I hold my fists tight to keep my place in the world. A shiver rocks my shoulders left and right, as if the owner of the frozen voice stands just at my shoulder. Reality, fiction. It all mixes in an unmanageable pulse through my body. No, this is supposed to be a simple birthday night. I can’t let myself vanish into my imagined worlds, my psychosis. I can’t be persuaded by some not-pizza-guy into a decision that will crumble my reality. No voices, no craziness. Not tonight.
“Just stop it,” I hiss, breathy and wild.
Lights settle.
The Englishman does not respond, and his frigid breath at my shoulder fades.
The not-pizza-guy eyes me hard, realization melting into a stern stare. He takes a step away from me. “Is it you?”
If his eyes weren’t intense before, they drill into me now, searching my eyes like he searched the house. Scanning for a threat.
Again, that bonfire voice crackles through the air. Not her, she says, but will be soon.
The not-pizza-guy nods, and his scarred jaw clenches with resolution. “We need you out of here.” His eyes glow, intensity sinking under my skin—a fire too familiar to ignore.
I balk against the heat curling off him. “Me?”