Chương 1: Haunted By A House

Play Scared Book One: Suburban Slasher PART I Tutorial I was outside sipping blackberry tea when the Sears Tower disappeared, and the end of the world began. Yeah, the Sears Tower. No real Chicagoan would ever call it Willis Tower. Fuck that noise. Anyway, my friend and I were at an outdoor café when the world ended. One minute we were chilling in the shadow of the third-tallest building in the United States, and then the earth below it yawned wide, and the Sears fucking Tower vanished down the hole.

But the scary part came a few moments later when millions of what looked like oily maggots boiled out of the hole, spreading across the ground. Tre would later insist they were NOT maggots and that he actually didn't know what species they were, which was somehow more terrifying because if Tre didn't know what they were, then who would? Also, 'maggots' was the only word my brain could conjure at the time. Shit. That might be confusing if you don't know who Tre is. Or who I am. I'm Nora, professional hermit.

I'd spent the last decade taking care of Mom after the one-two punch of my dad dying and her early-onset Alzheimer's diagnosis. It had been six months since Mom died in May, and my biggest accomplishments included: buying groceries, doing yoga (once), and winning the gold medal in pretending to be totally fine. Dad's life insurance had been enough to take care of Mom and leave me some cushion after. Enough that I could afford to do nothing for a while. So, I did. Well, not nothing.

I'd spontaneously burst into tears at least twice a day, ordered a ton of delivery, organized my books alphabetically by genre, and watched all 1, 418 episodes of the Law & Order franchise. Oh! Also, I smoked at least a joint per episode, and while I'm no mathlete, that's… a lot of weed? Tre Carter has been my best friend since we were basically babies. We grew up eating bowling alley pizza, while running wild through the arcade as our dads tried and failed not to come in last place in their league.

He was also the only person who didn't give up on me after I ghosted the world. Six months of ignored texts and invitations, yet he still kept asking me to come out. Due to my self-imposed hermit mode, I'd always declined, until today. Tre texted: "Bug Museum. You, me. Coffee after. No is not an option." And because I was tired of being haunted by my own house, I went. Not entirely for Tre, though I told myself it was.

Mostly because I couldn't remember the last time I'd done something just to do it, and the not-remembering bothered me more than the grief did. My car was a complete piece of shit with a fissured dashboard and a backseat that doubled as a fast-food bag graveyard. I should've been embarrassed by her, but she was the only thing in my life other than Tre with any reliable consistency, which was deeply sad. Still, she got me to Tre in one piece.

Tre's "bug museum," which was tucked between a laundromat and a coffee shop, its brick front dominated by a bright green banner stretched across the awning: THE INSECTARIUM! The font was colored neon green, bugs crawling out of letters, and all that jazz you expect from a place built for kids. The building was a converted furniture store that Tre and a couple of grad school friends had gutted and filled with tanks of bugs. They'd taken on a ton of debt to make it happen, but Tre never talked about that part.

Inside, the place had the earthy smell of terrariums and was buzzing with grade-schoolers on field trips. Looking out of place, but actually the most in his element, was Tre standing near a small butterfly exhibit. Six-foot-something and built like a superhero, he wore a lab coat plastered with enamel bug pins, nearly every inch of fabric colonized by beetles and butterflies.

"Fun fact," he told a group of middle schoolers. As he leaned down to point at the bugs in the display, the light caught his hazel eyes against his dark skin.

"Cockroaches can survive a week without their heads. They only die 'cause they can't drink water. Which, like, honestly? Same." He hadn't changed much from the kid I'd grown up with. Sure, he was a lot taller, and the white lab coat he was wearing fit him much better than the thrift-store lab coat he had as a kid that was two sizes too big for him. But his hair was still a wild crown of curls exploding in every direction, like his brain couldn't quite be contained.

And he still had enough enthusiasm to power a small city. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"The hissing sound comes from forcing air through openings in their abdomen," adult Tre was telling the kids.

"It's like if you could scream just by farting really loud." The children dissolved into laughter and fart noises of their own. Tre took a bow, returning the audible creature to its enclosure. Then he saw me, and his playful smirk morphed into something softer and genuine.

"Nora." He was across the room in two strides, gathering me into a hug that nearly broke my ribs. Tre always hugged like he was trying to save your life.

"You actually came," he said, easing back to look at me. There was relief in his voice. Maybe something else, too. I shrugged like it was no big deal.

"I had to come make sure you didn't actually steal the font on the sign from a Goosebumps cover."

"Well, I was one missed text away from breaking into your house just to make sure your corpse wasn't rotting in front of the TV."

"Here I am." I held out my arms for him to examine me.

"Alive and well."

"Mostly."

"So," he started softly.

"How're you holding up?" I hated that question from most people. But from Tre, it landed differently. He'd been there in the thick of it, helping with Mom's pill schedules and keeping me company in waiting rooms for hours. Tre had stayed over on some of the tougher nights that seemed to stretch on forever. When he asked a question, he actually wanted the answer even now, after I'd ignored his texts for months.

"We don't have to talk about it if you aren't ready," he added. But I wanted to talk about it. Tre was the only one who hadn't bolted when things got hard. My one person left. The thing was, Tre had his own shit going on, and I'd never reached out to him. I'd watched his silly social media account, BugBuddy, turn from a goofy side project into half a million followers. Even while I was ghosting his texts, I couldn't stop watching the numbers climb.

His nerdy, bizarrely charming bug content was inescapable; just last week, one of his videos broke five million views.

"I see you're beloved on social media now," I said.

"They love me enough that companies are sliding into my DMs," Tre chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's only a couple of sponsors: some weird protein bar brand and a bunch of dick pills. Oh, and a documentary producer wants to chat with me. But don't get too impressed. I still live in a studio apartment with a tarantula named Biggie Smalls and a very judgmental landlord." His shoulders dipped when he mentioned his sponsors.

"Influencer fame isn't exactly stable. Deals come and go. But rent and loan payments stay the same." I frowned.

"I thought the museum was doing well?"

"Me too." He forced his mouth into a thin, upward curve that was almost a smile. But the brightness in his voice thinly masked the sadness inside. How long had he been dealing with this? Had he tried to tell me? I had no memories of a conversation about Tre's financial situation. Which meant we never had, or we did, and I'd completely forgotten about it. That moment was my chance to show him how much I cared and how sorry I was for not being a better friend to him. But I hesitated.

What if the honest version of this conversation ended with Tre realizing I wasn't worth the six months he'd spent waiting for me to reply? Instead of showing any curiosity about his situation, I simply said:"Ready to get coffee?" We ended up at a café tucked into the shadow of the Sears Tower. Its walls were decorated with posters from the 70s Free Love movement, and Age of Aquarius was playing from speakers around the store when we walked in to order.

After, I insisted the weather was too nice to sit indoors and took a seat at one of the metal tables outside the café.

"On a scale from one to never-again," Tre asked playfully, "how scared are you of those hissing roaches?" I rolled my eyes.

"Pretty high. You'll have to pay for my years in therapy with all those social media ad dollars."

"Bold of you to assume I have money."

"Bold of you to assume I won't send an invoice."

"You don't even know any lawyers."

"I'll represent myself. I watched every episode of Matlock twice."" That's what I missed!"

"What?"

"Nora, when you reference Matlock, as a girl in her late twenties, in the current century, I know you're not talking about the Kathy Bates remake."

"There's a remake?" I sat up straighter than the moment warranted.

"Mom would've shat a cat." Had she been lucid enough to watch. Tre's loud, unbothered laugh made me feel lighter than I had in months.

"Shat a cat?!"

"Just made it up."

"It works," he said.

"But for real. You've got the most extremely random pulls of anyone I know. It's unhinged, but elite. I love it."

"I am not like you," I laughed.

"Blame Mom. Nearly two decades of old VHS tapes of her TV lineup rewired my brain. It's all Wheel of Fortune with Pat Sajak and WKRP in Cincinnati." Tre squealed in delight.

"I don't even know what the fuck that last thing is!" He leaned forward.

"God, I missed this. I missed you." That landed heavier than he probably meant. My face went hot, and I shifted in my seat, fighting the instinct to run or maybe melt into a puddle and slip away into a sewer drain. I didn't deserve him.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out. He tilted his head.

"For…?"

"For… ghosting you. After Mom—""I get it." Tre brushed it off with a casual wave of his hand.

"Soo-jin used to make you extra tuna sandwiches to give me at lunch. Losing her took me out for a minute, too."

"But I didn't even know about you struggling with rent, or the sponsors, or any of it. You were dealing with your own shit and checking in on me, and I just… wasn't."

"You were dealing with your mom dying. You don't owe me an apology, Nora." His tone had an edge, like he was telling himself the story he needed to believe: that my grief excused everything.

"And you'd be shocked to learn how fantastic tarantulas are at listening to you complain about life." He's not really talking about Biggie Smalls. A truck rumbled past, sending napkins fluttering on an empty table.

"You'll make it up to me." Tre flashed his usual, reckless, optimistic smile.

"Coffee's just the gateway drug. Next week, we're going to the record store. Then we might even get out to some bars. Then you could meet somebody—" I laughed despite myself.

"God, you're exhausting." Tre raised his cup in mock-toast.

"You missed me the most." I tried to keep a straight face but failed.

"Ha! Victory," he said, clinking our plastic cups together. I sipped my tea, and for a brief moment, my world was more than mourning and sadness. Then I set the mug down just as the table vibrated, caused by a low rumble under my feet. It was subtle at first, maybe another truck driving past us, but then it deepened, until the tea started to ripple in its cup. Tre frowned, straightening.

"Uh... what was that—?" I forced a nervous laugh.

"Guess Chicago's got earthquakes now. Or Jurassic Park just became something real." The rumble cut off, leaving only the hum of traffic and the rattle of a distant L train. And that's when the ground split open and devoured the Sears Tower whole. The end of the world had begun.