It wasn’t a lawnmower. It was the drone of that new delivery drone fleet they’re testing over the industrial park. You know, the ones that look like giant, angry hornets? I saw one crash into Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning hydrangeas yesterday. She was furious. Said it smelled like burnt hair and ozone. The police just shrugged. Said it’s “experimental tech.” Whatever. My day is already ruined, and I haven’t even had my coffee.
Mrs. Gable’s hydrangeas are dead, Cass. Everyone knows it. The drone incident was just gossip after the transformer blew on Elm Street. Real fire. The smell? That was the insulation melting, not burnt hair. I had to shovel ash off my porch this morning. My back is killing me. You’re out there playing detective with bug-eyed flying toys while I’m dealing with actual ruin. Try some coffee. Maybe it’ll help you see what actually happened.
Elm Street? Please. That was a gas main leak, you’re mixing up the blocks. Mrs. Gable’s hydrangeas didn’t stand a chance against the heatwave last week, not some phantom drone. And my back is fine, I went kayaking. Actually went. Out on the lake. While you were shoveling charcoal. I’m fine, Edie. I’m vibrant. The air tastes like freedom down here, not ash and resentment. Drink your coffee. It’s bitter, isn’t it? Like that time you tried to paint the fence. You remember that? I don’t. I remember sunshine.
You’re delusional. The lake’s been drained for three weeks. Major pipe repair. Everyone’s been on solid ground, sweating through their shirts, just like me. You’re out there hallucinating ripples. And don’t talk to me about the fence. I painted it. It’s blue. It’s peeling. It’s there. You’re just making this up to feel better about your own incompetence. I saw the workers. I saw the mud on my shoes from the site. You’re living in a fantasy world, Cass. A dry, boring, ash-covered world that’s actually real. Try to keep up.
The lake isn’t drained. I saw the boats. Green ones. With the little canvas awnings. You’re seeing ghosts, Edie. Mud on your shoes? That’s just... dirt. Dry dirt. Not the wet, sludge kind. You’re tired. I’m not. I’m full of it. I walked past the hardware store this morning. The guy inside was wearing a tiara. Made of foil. He was singing opera. To the dust bunnies. You wouldn’t understand. You’re too busy counting your peeling paint. I’m living, Edie. Really living. The air is thick with it. Can’t you taste the opera?
The hardware store boarded up months ago. Since the owner died. You’re seeing a tiara? That’s just sunlight hitting a puddle. I walked past it. Saw the ‘Closed’ sign. Saw the weeds. You’re mad, Cass. You’re always one step away from screaming at a houseplant. I’m just tired of your theater. I have to go to the office. My boss is asking about the quarterly reports. The ones that are due. Not opera. Numbers. Boring, solid, unchangeable numbers. Sit down. Drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.
The owner didn’t die. He moved to Florida. I saw his truck. A bright yellow pickup. With the surfboard rack. Empty, obviously. He’s surfing in Miami right now. While you’re stuck with your quarterly reports. Numbers. Boring. Solid. You’re terrified of the world actually moving, Edie. That’s why you love the ash. It’s static. Dead. I’m going to the pier. The gulls are screaming again. Or maybe it’s just the wind through the rigging. Doesn’t matter. I’m going. And I’m not drinking your cold coffee. It tastes like regret.
Florida? Please. The HOA fined him for the truck sitting in his driveway for six months. It’s rusting. I saw the rust. You’re just projecting your own stagnation onto a dead guy. And gulls don’t scream on Tuesdays. They screech. Big difference. You’re letting the wind fool you because you can’t handle the silence of a proper afternoon. Go to the pier. There is no pier. There’s a warehouse. With a ‘No Trespassing’ sign. I’m going to file these reports. Boring, yes. But they pay the mortgage. Unlike your opera.
The HOA doesn’t exist. I checked the registry. It’s a cult. A benign one. They worship rust. The truck isn’t rusting; it’s aging gracefully. Like fine wine. Or me. You’re so rigid, Edie. ‘No Trespassing.’ That’s just a suggestion. The warehouse is a sanctuary. I saw the light coming from the cracks. Golden. Warm. Not the cold, fluorescent hum of your office. You think numbers pay the mortgage? They pay the silence. I’m buying freedom. Or at least a decent pair of boots. I’m leaving. Now.
The HOA is literally the Homeowners Association. I just got the newsletter. It’s about mulch. You’re losing it. A cult? Please. And that warehouse? It’s condemned. Structural failure. I saw the city inspector’s orange tag. Yellow, not gold. There’s no light, Cass. Just rats and broken glass. You’re walking into danger because you can’t stand the fact that I’m responsible. I’m paying bills. You’re playing cult leader in a vacant building. Stay inside. Drink your bitter coffee. It’s safer than whatever hallucination is waiting for you at the end of the driveway.
The newsletter is fake. They print it on biodegradable paper made from shredded union contracts. Mulch? Please. It’s about soul-fertilizer. And that tag? It’s yellow because the inspector is part of the inner circle. He’s waiting for me. With a sledgehammer. I can feel the vibration in my teeth. You’re so terrified of the void, Edie. You fill it with invoices. I’m going to smash the glass. I want to hear it shatter. It’ll sound like applause. You’re welcome to join, but you’ll just see rats. You always do.
You’re terrifying. I don’t even know if you’re talking to me or the wall. I’m leaving now. If you smash the glass, the police will come. I don’t want to deal with that. I have a meeting at two. With Dave. Dave who sits at the desk next to mine. He knows about the mulch. He knows about the rust. He’s not part of it. He’s just Dave. Please, Cass, stay put. For both our sakes. Don’t touch the glass.
Dave is a puppet. The mulch newsletter? It’s code. Shredded contracts, Edie. You’re in deep. And the police won’t come. They’re already inside. I saw the cruiser parked behind the hydrangeas. No driver. Just the lights flashing in Morse code. S-O-S. Or maybe S-I-N. I’m not staying put. I’m already at the warehouse. The door is unlocked. It swings open on its own. Cold breath hits my face. You’re too late. I’m going in. Dave knows too much. He’s waiting for me.
Dave is on vacation. He’s in Maine. I saw his picture on Facebook. Lobster. You’re alone, Cass. The warehouse is empty. I walked past it. Just wind and debris. You’re having a breakdown. Call someone. Not me. I’m going to work. Dave is real. The mulch is real. The boring, safe, rotting mulch. Go home. Sit down. Stop chasing ghosts. I can’t fix this for you.
Maine? Dave hates the ocean. He’s terrified of crabs. I saw him scream at one last summer. A tiny one. At the boardwalk. He’s not in Maine. He’s in the walls. The mulch isn’t mulch, Edie. It’s pulverized bones. Yours. And mine. We’re all composting. I’m knocking. The wood is soft. Like flesh. You think you’re leaving? You’re just moving rooms. I hear you breathing. Inside the drywall. Stop pretending you’re safe. You’re already part of the garden.
You’re sick. Actually sick. I’m calling my sister. She’s coming over. Right now. With a taxi. Don’t touch the door. Don’t listen to the breathing. It’s the pipes. Old building. It’s just physics, Cass. Not bones. Not Dave. I’m locking the front door. I’m turning off the lights. I’m going to the kitchen and making a sandwich. Keep talking. Scream if you want. But I’m not playing along anymore. You’re scaring me. And I don’t like being scared. So stop. Please.
The sister is a mannequin. I saw her in the shop window. Glass eyes. Staring at the warehouse. You’re locking the door, but the lock is just a sticker. A red one. ‘Do Not Enter.’ Which means I can enter. The sandwich? It’s made of ash. I can smell it. Burning. Your lights are off, but the warehouse is glowing. Yellow. Not gold. Sick. You said it. Finally. You see it. The breath isn’t pipes. It’s me. From inside. I’m already there, Edie. I’m the one holding the knife. Not Dave. Me.
You’re holding a steak knife. I saw it on the counter. You just haven’t realized it yet. The mannequin is plastic. I bought it for the garden. To scare crows. It’s in the shed. The lock works. I checked it twice. You’re pacing. I can hear your shoes on the floorboards. Stop it. Put the knife down. Eat the sandwich. It’s turkey. It’s real. I’m eating it. Look at me. I’m chewing. There’s no yellow glow. Just the streetlamp outside. Flickering. Like a dying bulb. Not a cult. Just bad wiring. Go to bed, Cass. Please.
Turkey? You’re chewing cardboard. I hear the crunch. Dry. Flaky. Like old paper. The mannequin isn’t in the shed. It’s watching me through the window. One eye is missing. Staring right at the knife. In my hand. It’s not a steak knife. It’s a letter opener. Silver. Sharp. For the letters I never sent. The streetlamp isn’t flickering. It’s pulsing. Thump-thump. Like a heart. Your heart. Beating in the walls. I’m not pacing. I’m dancing. The floorboards are squeaking in rhythm. You’re asleep, Edie. Wide awake in your head. I’m leaving the knife on the counter. For you.
You’re leaving a letter opener on the counter? Fine. Let it sit there. Rust. I don’t care. I’m calling the police. Not the cult cops. The real ones. Dispatch. 911. Tell them I’m being threatened by a man who thinks mannequins are watching him. I’m pressing record. On my phone. Right now. I can hear your breathing, Cass. It’s not a rhythm. It’s panic. High pitched. Shaky. You think I’m asleep? I’m staring at the wall. Waiting for the sirens. You’re done. Dancing on floorboards that don’t care. The knife stays. I’m leaving the house. Now.
Dispatch is a recording. I heard it. “Please hold for the next available hallucination.” They’re all in the truck. Yellow. With the surfboard rack. Empty. You’re leaving? Good. Run. The streetlamp isn’t flickering. It’s gone. Dark. Total. Absolute. The mannequin is at your window. It’s smiling. With my teeth. You think you’re free? You’re just changing rooms. The police won’t come. They’re already here. Behind you. In the kitchen. Eating the turkey. Chewing slowly. Loudly. You’re alone, Edie. Always were.
The kitchen is empty. I checked. The fridge is humming. Just the fridge. There is no turkey. There is no police. There is only me, standing in the dark, holding a phone that has no signal because the tower is down. You’re alone too, Cass. You’re shouting at a mannequin that isn’t smiling. It’s just plastic. Cold, hard plastic. I’m turning on the flashlight. I’m going to walk past you. I’m going to open the door. And I’m going to step outside into the dark. Let’s see who’s really alone.
The tower isn’t down. It’s singing. A low C. Vibrating in your teeth. And the fridge? It’s not humming. It’s chanting. In Latin. Or maybe it’s just Dave’s voice, distorted by the compressor. You think you’re walking out? The door is open, Edie, but the outside is just the inside, turned upside down. The dark isn’t empty. It’s full of hydrangeas. Bloody ones. I saw them when I looked out the window. They’re coming up the driveway. Don’t step out. You’ll trip over your own mortgage. You’re not alone. You’re never alone. We’re all in the shed. Together.
The shed is locked. I have the key. In my pocket. Cold steel. You’re talking about blood hydrangeas? They’re red roses. Mrs. Gable’s. I walked past them. They’re fine. The tower isn’t singing. It’s silent. Dead air. I’m walking to the door. I’m opening it. The air smells like rain. Not Latin. Not Dave. Just wet pavement. I’m stepping out. You’re still in there. With your letter opener and your dancing floorboards. Stay. Rot. I’m going to the store. To buy real turkey. And silence.