the wall in front of me. I leave the room cackling, the sound of Daya’s cursing following me out of the room. She knows damn well that she’s beautiful, which is why I tend to tease her about being the opposite. Someone’s gotta humble the sexy bitch every once in a while. She’ ll get too big for this Earth if I don’t. I dump the trash bag by the front door and make my way into the kitchen. I grab pineapple juice from the fridge and turn towards the island to start making more drinks. I draw short. My lungs constrict and ice flows into my veins, my blood flaking into ice chips. On the island sits an empty whiskey glass with another single red rose next to it. Only a drop of my grandfather’s whiskey remains. The glass wasn’t here before. Neither Daya nor I have left the second floor for the past hour, both waist-deep in old people things. I circle the duo, as if they’re a slumbering python and could snap and bite me at any moment. My heart thunders in my ears as I tentatively reach out and grab the glass, inspecting it as if it’s a Magic 8 Ball and going to reveal the person who drank out of it. Clearly, no one is in this kitchen with me. I can see the front door from where I’m standing. Yet, my eyes comb through the entire expanse of the kitchen and living room, looking for the person who snuck into my house, grabbed a glass and a bottle of whiskey, and proceeded to have a drink. While my best friend and I were upstairs, none the wiser to the danger lurking below us. I hadn’t heard anyone come in. Not a single sound. Angrily, I storm towards the front door and twist the handle. Locked. Just as it always fucking is. Needlessly, it seems, since a locked house isn’t enough to keep a creep out. “Where’s my drink, bitch? I’m hearing whispers and shit,” Daya calls loudly from the second floor. “Coming!” I shout back, my voice breaking. I walk back into the kitchen, still searching as if there’s a wormhole to another universe and the weirdo is going to pop out at any moment. There’s an entryway on the right side of the kitchen that connects to the hallway on the other side of the stairwell. Darkness spills from the depths of that entrance. The person could be in that hallway, lurking just out of sight. Or hiding in one of the bedrooms even, waiting for me to pass by. Another surge of adrenaline rushes through my bloodstream. I could be one of those dumb bitches you see in slasher flicks who go investigate that you want to yell and scream at for being stupid.