We’re all staying in the big old house. Of course, we’re not alone: lights turn off and on, items are moved, and the walls make strange, high-pitched sounds.
Thirty years on the job. Her career is ruined in one day, but she couldn’t be happier. She sits and watches it all unfold with a big smile.
I want to get away, even if for a day. I could go to L.A. or New York. In the end I decide to go nowhere to save money. Can’t afford extravagant trips right now.
My roommate hacks someone to death, but she’s okay with me calling 911. She’s bought two large bags of popcorn because she knows they will be her last. Her friends don’t realize what has happened at first, and they start trying to clean up. I flip out. “Stop touching everything,” I shout. “This is a fucking crime scene.” A cleaver is stuck into the floor. Blood everywhere.
At night, I break into the family-run pizzeria next door over and over again because I can, because I just like to stand there, inside, in the silence.
I want to get on the roller coaster, but I’m carrying far too many books. I try to organize them, to stuff some into my zippered jacket pockets and some in my bag. But they’re still all spread out on the ground when it’s time to get on, and I miss my turn.
We’re in a room jammed with red velvet antique furniture pieces—chairs, chaise longues, sofas—stacked on top of each other. We have to be careful because there is a danger, vague but real, of never being able to leave. Each room in this building has its threats.
The little girl is hiding somewhere in the room. We find her curled inside a transparent plastic box under the bed.
Once you start with the cards, you open up a door. So you’ve got to be willing to go all the way.