You already don’t want to be at this stupid party. Not only had you been more content to sit at home and left to your own devices, but the only reason you’re here is because your now MIA friend had told you there would be booze. As it turns out, the host couldn’t get hold of his dad’s ID (“lost it”, he’d said) and the entire party wound up booze-less. This didn’t stop people from bringing beer of their own, but the drunks hogged it and now you’re stuck with some shitty punch that hadn’t even been spiked. Some jackass is standing behind you, breathing down your neck and trying to get your attention.
“So, uh, you like movies, or…?” he trails off as you walk away.
Wading through the crowd of teenagers — half angry because they aren’t drunk, half stumbling because they are, all stupid and giving you a headache — you try to find your friend so you can ditch with her. She’s nowhere to be seen in that living room, lost somewhere, maybe off with some guy. You scan the entire living room, shuffling through parts of the crowd, and all you manage to find in one lonely corner is a strange looking boy. His black hair is a mess and he’s got some creepy stitched doll in his hand, other hand holding a pin.
“What’s this? Some kinda voodoo bullshit?” you ask.
“Bullshit?” he parrots, not looking at you but looking intently across the room near the punchbowl. “If that’s what you think, sit down, shut up, and watch this.”
Now curious, you do so, glancing at the doll and then at the punchbowl.
“See our dumbass host?” he asks rhetorically. “He’s about to find himself face first in the punch.”
You watch as the host draws nearer to the bowl, empty cup in hand. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the creepy voodoo boy poke the doll’s left foot with the pin, pushing it through to the other side. The host gasps and his ankle gives way under him, sending him just as the boy had said: right into the punchbowl. Punch goes flying, soaking people in the crowd near him and causing a ruckus. You laugh at the sudden chaos, but voodoo?
“Yeah right,” you say, “that was just a coincidence.”
The boy dismisses you with a, “if you say so.”
Unperturbed by you, he reaches into his pocket for a slingshot and a small pellet. He puts the pellet in the belt and aims at the kitchen light. He makes a single sound-effect under his breath — a high-pitched “pew!” — and lets the pellet go. It hits the light, shatters it, then ricochets into the midst of the crowd with a loud pop when it hits the ground. If there was chaos before, it had just escalated tenfold.
“What the hell is wrong with your house!?” shouts one of the attendees.
“You got ghosts or something, man!”
The boy is giggling on the couch beside you, sounding so childlike for a teenager.
“C’mon, everyone!” the host urges, drying his face. “Let’s just take this outside for a bit!”
Seems like a decent plan, with his house rather secluded. You wonder if this creepy boy is going to follow them outside and cause more mischief, but as the door handle is turned, the boy whispers behind his hand and the door refuses to budge.
“It’s… It’s locked!”
“Well, unlock it, you idiot.”
“I can’t! There’s no lock, only a handle!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t believe me?” the boy asks you. “Just watch.”
His tired, dark eyes stare right into yours, a smirk on his face, and a — a carpenter nail? — poking out from between his lips. You look him up and down. Watch what? What’s that supposed to mean? There is a shriek from one of the girls in the crowd, followed by concerned and questioning remarks.
“L-Look outside! Out the window!”
Anyone who looks immediately freaks out so you stand up and peer out of the window beside the couch to the front porch. Only there is no front porch. Behind the previously closed blinds, there is a darkness, a shadowy amalgamation of disembodied eyes and sharp-toothed mouths looking in from every side. You try to scream but the gasp gets caught in your throat as you back away, letting the blinds drop back into place. The boy is standing behind you; the crunching of him toying with the nails in his mouth, rolling them between his teeth gets your attention. He giggles.
“It’s not real,” he says softly.
You don’t want to. You really, really don’t want to see again what you’d just seen. But the boy’s bizarre ways, his calm demeanor, the nails, the voodoo doll, the eyes he seemingly summoned — he makes you so very curious. You take a deep breath, ignoring the screaming and scrambling around you, and peak outside again. All is normal — the grass is green, the trees are in their early spring bloom, and the sky is twinkling with stars. But still others look outside and go ballistic. You whip around to the boy, panting. He’s smiling at you. Not a jovial or cute smile in the least — no, there’s a malice in his innocent facade. Your fingers grasp the windowsill behind you and your body tenses as he takes a step closer.
“What’s wrong?” he coos. “Don’t like it?”
You’re stricken speechless by this tired-eyed, creepy boy. You mouth words that never come to fruition.
He pulls his lips back in a bigger grin. “Whaddaya say we ditch this party? I’m done here — it’ll be hard for that dumbass to recover from this.”
He snickers behind his hand, an extol of his abilities and the chaos he created. It chills you. Your adrenaline pumps as he holds said hand out to you, silently urging you to take it. A sudden eagerness courses through you as you accept his hand and let him lead you through the crowd of panicked teenagers, all of whom seem to steer clear of you without realizing. Even at the door, a path is created unbeknownst to their hallucinating minds. There is a lock on the door, invisible to all but you and this strange boy. He takes you outside and shuts the door, drowning you both in silence. His hand releases yours.
“Voodoo bullshit, huh?” he asks with a condescending sort of tone.
You’re still shaking off everything that had happened. The punchbowl was obviously a coincidence, the light was clearly his doing with the slingshot, but the… Well, the everything else couldn’t be explained away so casually.
“How… How did you do that?” you ask, amazed you managed to keep yourself together to ask a coherent question.
He closes the gap between you, your back now against the front door. He’s got his arms out on either side of you and he’s looking deep enough into your eyes that you swear he could taste your fear. And your rising excitement.
“Stick around and find out,” he replies, his voice low.
“Who are you?”
His smirk holds strong. “Doesn’t matter.”
He leans into you, height towering over your meager frame. When he’s close enough, you bridge the gap and kiss him. His pale lips are warm on your own. You can taste the iron flavor of the nails on his kiss, feel the warm, wet teasing of his tongue against your currently closed mouth, wondering how far you’re willing to let him go. For this creepy, alluring, somehow intoxicating boy you met at this party…? Who knows. All you know for sure is that you’re glad you came to this stupid party.