Chapter Thirteen Page Four, Dave, The House in the Woods

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Without the sound of sirens, Dave didn’t attempt to walk a straight path. His legs were sore. He stumbled. In other circumstances he would have been downright strollin’ but on this night he didn’t feel much like rushing or hurrying anywhere.

            He didn’t note the passage of time at all. He wrestled with his head, looked at the blood on his hands occasionally. Tried to figure out if any of the blood was his. His jacket was covered in it. Dave took it off and carried it awhile, trying to think of a place he could burn it. When he remembered that his lighter wasn’t with him, he put it back on.

            (He remembered his lighter wasn’t on him when he pulled out a cigarette again, intending to smoke it. But he didn’t have the lighter. He thought he should be experiencing withdrawal or something, because he hadn’t had a smoke all day. But his mind was chilled. His body was chilled. Everything felt chilled.)

            When he found the house he stood staring at it awhile. It wasn’t abandoned, and in fact, Dave wouldn’t have been surprised if it’d been inhabited. The wood was old, for sure, and the paint was chipped. But he knew people who lived in worse houses. Way out in the woods, there probably wasn’t a home owner’s association to keep you upkeeping your house.

            So that was why, when Dave moved slowly up the stairs (each one of which creaked, no matter where Dave placed his feet), and stood before the Red Door (the only part of the house that appeared to have been painted in the last five years), he knocked.

            The Door opened ever so slightly from the force of his knocking. He hadn’t really wanted anyone to hear if he’d knocked. He didn’t want someone to see him covered in blood, and ask him, hey, sup with all the blood? Dave pushed the door open the rest of the way.

            “Not much,” Dave said, in response to the imaginary query. He wasn’t bothered when his voice echoed from within the house.

            He imagined the tenant twisting their head, saying something like doesn’t look like not much.

            “Got into a fight,” Dave said, “It was kill or be killed.”

            Sounds suspicious, the imaginary tenant said. They were an old woman, Dave decided.

            “It’s not,” Dave said, “Listen, can I just come inside and use your shower. I’ll sleep in your basement. I’ll be out of your way. Out in the morning, tomorrow.”

            Oh alright, the old woman said, but only because you’re so handsome.

            “Fuck yes I am,” Dave said. He didn’t actually feel like it but he figured his subconscious was trying to cheer him up at that point.

            The imaginary tenant didn’t say anything to that. She wasn’t real. Dave questioned if he was actually real too. He rubbed his face. Dried blood flaked off. He coughed. Wasn’t really sure why he questioned whether or not he was alive.

He entered the house.

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