It’s the last week of November! I don’t know about you but I’m thankful. Yes, that 2020 is almost over but also for horror and for writing and for this blog and the opportunity to share some of my creepy stories with all of you unsuspecting readers! This story is a particularly interesting one to me. It has started out as a genuine story about learning to love oneself – but I was having far too much fun writing horror and well, here we are. Trigger warnings for bad dates. And I threw in a sonnet. Yes, I know, eyeroll. But I was feeling poetic. Enjoy the final submission for Horrah Novembah 2020!

The Night I Fell in Love

“Tonight’s the night,” says Stephanie as she approaches my cubicle. 

I smile, nod, and try not to think about my already-sweaty hands. It’s been a while since I’ve gone on a date. 

“I’m so glad you’re getting back out there. Where’s he taking you?” she asks.

“We decided on Café 59,” I answer.

“My fave! And 59… curious, adventurous, sensual… perfect numerology for a first date,” she says. 

I smile. Stephanie is weird. And my best friend. 

“You need to call me the second you get home! And I’m not even going to say that you can text me the emergency code because you won’t need to!” she says, using air quotes on ‘emergency’ and ‘need to’. She holds my gaze until I nod in what she seems to assume is understanding. 

She smiles warmly and places her hand on my shoulder before walking back down the hall to her cubicle. I don’t usually like when people touch me, but Stephanie started easing me into it a couple years ago. I don’t mind anymore.

I log out of my work computer, say goodbye to my boss and head out for the day.

I don’t have to be at the restaurant for a couple hours, so I plan to take a cat nap and then take my time getting ready. 

I’m heading up to the third floor when the door to the stairwell opens. 

“Tonight’s the night!” says Malcom. His booming voice echoes up and down the stairs.

It takes everything in me not to shush him like a child. He’s loud, but always very positive. I nod in response but avoid eye contact. 

“You don’t look excited,” he says.

“This is my happy face,” I say in my best Tommy Lee Jones impersonation. Our favorite movie is Man of the House. But not because of the movie, because of the reviews on Rotten Tomatoes.

He smiles and laughs. “Well just don’t nap too long. You don’t want to be racing all over the place and get all panicked right beforehand.”

I look him in the eyes, incredulous. “Why do you assume I’m going to take a nap?” 

His shoulders settle and he raises his eyebrows. 

“Okay, fine,” I say. I feel my cheeks flush. 

“And when I get home from my shift at the bar tonight, I better not see your light on,” he says.

I smile.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘naps equal late nights’, I know. But it makes sense for me, J. I actually have to be up till 4am most nights,” he says as if waiting for an explanation. Two years, he’s been waiting.

I’m still smiling but shift from foot to foot. The stationary dance of awkwardness.

He starts to make his way down the stairs. “Hey, if I had such cute cats, I’d probably take more cat naps myself.” 

I smile. He waves goodbye and I reciprocate. 

I count myself lucky to have such a good neighbor. He wanted to be friends almost as soon as I moved in. Some people had gone missing right around that time and he said it was good to keep an eye out for each other, especially since we both keep later hours. I found it hilarious but endearing.

I hear the faint jingle of collars while unlocking the door. How do they always know when I’m home? 

Meow, says Juniper, a large ginger cat that loves to snuggle. 

Meow, says Crucible, a sweet, black cat with large eyes that see into my soul. 

“Hello, hello, hello,” I say as I sit down on the floor to give them hugs and pets. 

When we’re finished with our greetings, I set out their dinner before making my way to the most comfortable bed I’ve ever owned. It’s covered in nostalgia blankets (the kind grandma used to throw over the back of her couch), a few too many pillows, and an assortment of books. 

I snuggle into the bed and listen. I hear nothing. I wonder if it’s too quiet. But in no time at all, Juniper is tucked into the space between my shoulder and my neck and Crucible is curled into the most adorable little spoon that ever existed. Cat nap initiated. 

I wake up with plenty of time to get ready but still somehow find myself rushing around for an extra ten minutes past when I should have left. I’m one of those people who has to check that I turned off the coffee pot at least four times, check the oven even if I haven’t used it, check the lock on the closet, etc.

“You three be good!” I yell as I lock the door behind me. I pause in the hallway. Only two cats, I think. I laugh at myself as I race downstairs to meet the ride service. I guess I’m more nervous than I thought. 

“Thank you for waiting! I’m so sorry,” I say as I get in the backseat. 

“You made it just in time,” he says. He doesn’t seem annoyed. 

The car is clean and our ride is quiet for the first five minutes or so. But as always seems to happen, we start talking. I can’t imagine I look very inviting, always staring out of windows like I’m listening to sad music. Yet people always engage me. 

“So, do you like this area?” he asks. 

“I do. Lots to do all year-round,” I say my canned response. 

He tells me that he just moved here. I offer a handful of suggestions for places to try, things to do, and events to follow.

“We seem to like a lot of the same things,” he says. 

Our gaze meets in the rear-view mirror and we share a smile.

We reach the restaurant and I say thank you. He turns around as if to say something important but hesitates. I smile again and reach for the handle. 

“Thank you for all your suggestions. Much appreciated,” he says.

“No problem!” I say and close the door. I wave goodbye awkwardly as I always do to ride shares. 

“Jordan?” I hear behind me.

I turn around to see George, my date, standing near the entrance to the restaurant.

“Hi!” I say a little louder than I meant to. 

He looks alarmed by my energetic greeting.

“Sorry, a little nervous.” I put my hand out to shake his.

“No need to be.” He smiles and opens the door. “Shall we?”

Once inside, we make our way through the crowd at the bar to a table in the side room. 

“This place is pretty cool,” says George.

“Love this place. Sometimes, they have an N64 at the bar,” I add, nodding. 

A server approaches. We make eye contact in that too-much-for-a-stranger kind of way and are both awkward about it. I don’t think George notices. 

“Hi, I’m Mark and I’ll be your server tonight.” He doesn’t look at me directly but asks, “Know what you’d like to drink?” 

“Oh, um, I’ll have a glass of the cab sauv,” I say. When I look back at George, his eyes borrow through me, his eyebrows raised. He seems surprised. 

“I’m going to need a minute with the wine menu,” he says, still looking at me. 

“Let me know if I can make any suggestions,” Mark says to George, adding “and I’ll be back with your cab,” in my general direction. 

“Odd kid,” says George, watching Mark walk away. “So, you come here a lot. Don’t even need to look at the wine menu,” he continues, his eyes shifting back to mine.

“One of my favorite restaurants!” I say. 

“What, do you bring all your dates here?” he asks. 

I’m uncomfortable but brush it off. I just met George. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. 

“I don’t date much,” I say. 

George nods and goes back to looking at the menu. 

“What kind of wine do you like?” I ask. 

“Definitely not cabernet,” he says.

Is he trying to be rude? I’m sure he’s not. Probably just concentrating on the menu. 

“Red or white?” I ask, ready to help him narrow down his choice. 

“I mean, it should really depend on what I’m ordering for my food. But we haven’t even looked at the food menu yet. So, I guess I’ll go with white,” he says with a sigh. 

“I’m sure Mark could bring you a dinner menu if you wanted to look at food first,” I say, turning to see if I can flag our server down. 

“What? No. I’m not going to be rude,” says George.

“It’s not rude,” I say, seeing Mark emerge from behind the bar with what looks like my wine. “I think he’s heading back this way anyways. I’ll ask him.”

I don’t look at George because I can feel something building in his chest cavity. I’m not sure if it’s anxiety or anger but I’m hoping it will dissipate. 

Mark sets my drink down in front of me. “Thank you so much,” I say. “Would you mind bringing us a dinner menu before George picks his wine? Pairings,” I say, lowering my voice on “pairings”, with a shrug and smile. 

“Of course,” says Mark and walks away to get a menu. 

“What are you doing?” asks George. He’s fuming. His face is red. Is that actually steam coming out of his ears? 

I slouch and am silent for a moment before saying, “Getting you a menu.”

“If I wanted it, I could have gotten it myself,” he said. 

I hesitate. How do I defuse this? 

“They actually usually have them on the table together,” I start. I don’t finish my thought.

Mark is back in no time with the dinner menus. George is quiet, staring intently at the wine list.

“Sorry about that,” says Mark. George huffs. 

“No problem,” I say with a smile. 

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” says Mark. 

“Thank you,” I mouth. 

Mark forces a smile as he walks away. 

“Do you know him?” asks George. 

“No?” I say. 

“It seems like you know him. Or he knows you.”

“I don’t know him.”

George stares at me, his right eyebrow twitches twice.

“He’s been my server before?” I say, asking if that answer is enough.

George picks up the dinner menu. The furrow in his brow eases. 

The rest of the dinner goes fairly well. We talk about what we have in common, what we don’t have in common. What we find funny, what we don’t find funny. It’s made clear that one thing George does not, under any circumstance, find funny is himself. 

“Another drink?” he asks as Mark picks up our plates.

“No, I think I’m–”

“We’ll have another round,” George interrupts me. 

Mark seems to freeze, holding our plates like he’s the fulcrum of a large scale. He looks at George, almost pleadingly. Maybe chivalry is not dead. But he says nothing. He looks back at me and I nod. 

Thankfully, George has already had enough wine not to notice the interaction. 

We finish our final drink and Mark sets the check on the table. 

I get my wallet out and set my credit card on top of the leatherbound booklet. 

“Oh, you don’t have to pretend,” says George.

He picks up my card and tosses it back in my direction. It hits the table with a click clack and slides over the edge into my lap. I catch it and see Mark out of the corner of my eye backing away from the table. 

“Really, we can just split it,” I say.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” says George. His misty eyes linger on my face as his mouth becomes a churlish grin.

“Well, thank you, George,” I say. 

“You’re welcome,” he says with what he seems to believe is seduction. He reaches across the table as if offering to hold my hand. 

I look at his hand and excuse myself to the restroom. 

I reach the back hallway just as Mark turns out of the kitchen.

“Hey, anything new on your brother?” I ask.

“Nope, been long enough now, I think the cops are about to move on. Especially with… his history,” says Mark the last words in hushed tones.

He looks at me for a moment without saying anything, almost like he’s trying to read my mind. He seems to give up as his eyes fall back to his hands. I put my hand on his arm.

“It’s almost over,” I say in my most comforting voice.

He meets my eye again and I nod toward my table where George is ordering one last glass of wine.

Mark’s eyes grow a size or two before his eyelids return to their natural lull. He puts his hand on my arm now. We stand in an almost embrace for a few long seconds. I try to break away but Mark doesn’t let go. I wait for him to say whatever he needs to, but all he does is mouth the words “be careful”.

He’s right. I’m not sure if this night has gone worse than I expected but it certainly hasn’t gone well. I book a ride before leaving the restroom.

When I return, George is signing the receipt. 

“Next time, we’ll have to remember to get a few bottles with the way you drink,” he smiles and laughs. 

I smile but don’t sit back down. 

George had already finished half his new glass of wine. I wonder if he’s a half-full or half-empty kind of guy.

“What’s the hurry?” he asks, motioning to my seat. 

“Oh, I have to be up pretty early tomorrow. It’s been a lovely night, though, thanks again,” I say, walking away. 

He finishes the glass of wine in one gulp and is at my side before I reach the next table over. He puts his hand on my back to usher me through the crowded restaurant. I stop and let him and his hands go ahead of me.

We reach the door and George opens it for me. 

“Thanks,” I say, still smiling. 

We stand on the sidewalk in silence. The street isn’t very busy but too busy to cross without warning. 

“My car’s this way,” he says. 

“That’s okay, I called a ride service,” I say, watching him closely. 

He takes a few steps away from me. I hear him sigh. 

He walks toward me again and I back away from him. His eyebrows are furrowed and the right one is twitching again. 

“After all this, after listening to all your bullshit through dinner, after paying, after pretending to have fun at this shitty restaurant, you’re going to call a ride service?” 

He’s not yelling. But it’s close. 

“Yes,” I say.

“Unbelievable. Fucking Stephanie. I should have known you were gonna to be another one of her pet prudes,” says George. 

My ride share pulls up. George continues taking steps toward me and for the first time in a long time, I actually feel afraid. The same driver, my friend from the ride to the restaurant, rushes out of the car and between George and I. 

“Back up,” he says to George. 

“I’m sorry,” I start, “He’s drunk–”

The driver raises his hand to acknowledge me but says nothing more. George is standing in front of him, huffing like a bull facing a matador. After what could have been thirty seconds or five minutes, George leans around the driver to swear at me once more and then walks down the street. 

I’m silent. 

The driver puts his hands in his pockets as he turns to face me. “Ready to go?” he asks with a calm that is out of place but welcome. 

“Yes,” I say and get in the front seat of the car. 

We ride in silence for the first half of our drive. 

“Are you okay?” he asks me. 

“Yes. Thank you for doing that. You didn’t have to–”

“I didn’t like those steps. Seen those before,” he says. He doesn’t offer any further information and I don’t ask. 

“I really appreciate it,” I say. 

He nods. 

When we eventually pull up to my building, I thank him again and move to get out of the car. But I glance back at him and his face is sad. So sad. 

“Not everyone in Buffalo is like that,” I say, leaning back into my seat. 

The comment seems to break his trance and he chuckles to himself, “Yeah, I know. Just, uh, just bad timing. I was glad to be your driver again. Just want you to know that.”

He looks at his hands while he speaks. 

“I’m glad I got you again too,” I say.

I wait for him to look at me and then smile. The silence in the car gets louder as neither of us moves. Awkwardness fills the space between us and I open the car door. “Thanks again. For everything.”

“Anytime,” he replies. 

I shut the door and cross in front of his car. This time, I make sure I stay in plain view of him to wave. 

A spark ignites in my chest. I feel like I could recite a sonnet as he drives away.

I unlock the gate and make my way up the walk to the door, thinking about the driver. Once inside and making my way up the stairs, matching the rhythm of my steps, I whisper to myself: 

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
(Shakespeare, Sonnet XIX (19))

“How did it go, Shakespeare?” Malcom breaks my thoughts clean in two. I hadn’t even realized I’d reached his door. 

I smile and shrug. 

He scrunches up his face before putting his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be better next time.”

“Thanks,” I say, wriggling myself out from under his hand.

“Oh, sorry. No touchy. Forgot. But for real, dude’s a douche if he didn’t roll out the red carpet. You know that, right?” he asks as he locks his door.

I nod, but follow it up with, “I’m pretty tired.”

He nods too and reaches out his hand to pat my shoulder but catches himself at the last minute. Instead, he shoots a finger gun at me before flushing ever so slightly. “Have a good night, okay? And if you’re still up in a few hours, come have a drink. On me.”

I nod again and continue down the hall. 

I hear the jingling on the other side of the door and I’m so glad to be home. 

Again, I sit on the ground just inside the door and give the kittens some love. Without moving, I get out my phone out and scroll through my contacts until I reach Stephanie.  

“Soooooo? How did it go?” she asks. 

“Steph. He’s perfect,” I say. 

“I know, right? I knew you’d love him,” she says.

“Where did you find him again?” I ask her as I get up and walk into the bedroom. 

“Some bar on Elmwood at like 3am.”

“Good find. I don’t know how you do it. Oh, speaking of which – I might have someone interested in joining us if you wanted to look into him. I’ll send you his info.”

She squeals in excitement, “Yes, yes, yes! You know I love new friends!”

I can’t help but smile at the excitement in her voice, “Okay, well, I gotta go. Have some cleaning up to do.”

Stephanie laughs, “Yeah, you do. Oh, did you see Mark tonight?”

“He was our server.”

“No, he wasn’t!”

“Yes. Yes, he was.” 

“Well then I guess he doesn’t need an update. I bet he knew before I did,” she says.

“He definitely does. He kept a close eye on us the whole time.”

Stephanie squeaked again, “Which George hated, I’m sure.”

I laughed in agreement.

“Well, good. I’m glad. Let me know when swap day is, yeah?” 

“Yeah, I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and before I left today, I yelled into the apartment ‘you three be good’ like he’s a pet.” 

Stephanie laughed until she cried.

I like how well I’m getting to know Stephanie. Friendship means more when you know exactly what will make the other laugh.

“Just don’t tell the cats,” she says.

Then, I laugh too.

I hang up and text Stephanie a screenshot of the driver’s information before throwing the phone on the bed. I take a look around room. 

I look at the pictures I’ve hung on the wall, the bedspread I bought at Home Goods, the lamps, the nightstands, the books on the shelves. Everything is exactly the way I want it. When I moved here and got this apartment, I was worried I had made a mistake. Then I met Malcom. Then started working at the hospital and met Stephanie. Shortly after, we met Mark and his psychopathic brother. I have friends. I even have confidants. I’ve started a real life here. It makes me wonder what being in love really would be like. Or even what looking for the kind of love everyone else looks for would be like. I mean, going on these dates is always fun but it does make me think about love in a more permanent way. After all, what is life without love? 

I breathe deep, letting the comfort of my circumstances course through my veins. My eyes continue to survey the room before resting on the closet door. Oh, the walk-in closets. If there is one thing that sold me on these apartments, it is the closets. They are enormous. 

I walk toward the door, stopping at the large armoire to grab the lock box, then into the closet I go. My happy place. I set the lock box on top of the extra-large dog crate in the middle of the room. I open the box and take out one of the filled syringes. As I press the liquid into the IV hanging out the side of the dog crate, I have an epiphany. The kind of love I want and need from a romantic relationship isn’t going to come from another person. That’s not me, that’s never been me. Unconditional love, the kind they write about in fairytales, no one can give that to another person. Not really. No one can love me like that… except for myself. That’s it. That’s the answer.

Jerry, curled into the fetal position, bound and gagged, begins to stir. 

I truly am the happiest I can be. Because I have myself. And that’s the relationship I’m going to focus on. The realization has me giddy.

“Well, hello, stranger,” I whisper through the bars of the cage.

Jerry tries to scream but it’s muffled and the walls are thick.

“Mark says hello,” I say, standing and going back to the lock box. I place the empty syringe back in the box and get out a knife, plyers, and a pair of children’s scissors Jerry had once plunged into Mark’s stomach before telling his mother Mark had done it to himself. 

I can see the panic in Jerry’s eyes. 

I begin to unlock the cage, “Oh, don’t worry so much. It’s all over! We found a new one. So, tonight’s the night!”

I am honored to say that this story was edited by Lillian Boyd. I’m a huge fan of her podcast Rank and Vile. She is so wildly knowledgeable about all things pop culture that I am in awe. Even if you aren’t in a tawdry love affair with horror, the podcast is a true delight. Definitely give it a listen!

Special thanks to Cafe 59 for letting me use their restaurant in my story. I miss so many things about Buffalo and Cafe 59 is a big one! So, I thought to myself, how best to pay homage? Well, obviously set my serial killer’s date there! Go buy their food!