The Eighth Gate

6 | Little Talks

The abandoned townhouse’s cramped, run-down exterior had given Mary and her friends the impression that its interior layout would be just as cluttered. Instead, after minutes spent tiptoeing from room to room, skittering across the narrow halls like overgrown mice, it came as a surprise to everyone that the inside was actually quite large. The part of the house they were currently located in had two decently sized bedrooms that sat on opposite ends of a dark hallway, which was lined with white walls layered in grime. A musty odor wafted off the chipped pale paint, contaminating the humid air with the thick smell of mold and salt. The tiled floor was slippery, coated in dew and dust, and one of the doors to the bedrooms was missing.

As Mary explored the house’s domains with her friends, she felt that familiar wave of exhilaration settle upon her, like a bird returning to its nest. There was always something sickeningly exciting about going on these little adventures. It was sort of like riding a rollercoaster—terrifying and electrifying, all at once. This night had the potential to go wrong—very wrong—yet it was that possibility for disaster that made the experience satisfying. Perhaps it was quite masochistic of Mary, how deep down, residing in some sick, twisted part of her like an ugly black stain, was always that muted hope for glowing red eyes, for black, shadowy figures, for eerie, disembodied whispers in the dark.

Tonight Mary felt no different—but there was something else, another feeling vying for dominance alongside her dark desires. It was that constant nagging at the back of her mind, buzzing around in her ears like an impatient fly. She was antsy; jittery; her feet itched to carry her to a room that wasn’t in this hall, a room that Tamara and Noah had insisted on visiting last, because that was where the murder had occurred.

The master bedroom.

“I’m telling you guys,” Tamara began matter-of-factly as she set up the EVP tape recorder in the room with the missing door. She was clicking away at the thing, gazing down at it with mild interest. “I don’t feel anything weird in this house. You’re lucky you know that my dad fully endorses this sort of thing—he even wished me good luck tonight, my God—or else I’d be out of here with some excuse that he wants me home. This is such a waste of—”

“Shh,” Noah hissed. “God, you’re so loud.” He addressed Mary. “Isn’t she loud? It’s like she wants us to get caught trespassing on private property. Again.”

Mary opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by what was indeed a very loud, high-pitched voice.

“Hey,” Tamara piped up defensively, “that last one was all on you, buddy.”

Noah snorted. “Really? Because the way I remember it, it was you who screamed so terrifyingly loud that the whole neighborhood heard us. My dad and a few cops were there before you closed your mouth shut.”

“Well it’s your fault for scaring me half to death! When I climbed down into that empty theatre’s basement, I saw you lying on the floor. You told me you were being choked, remember?”

“No, I told you I wanted my coke,” Noah corrected. “I was eating Lays and one of the chips went down the wrong way.”

“Liar. That suicidal actor’s ghost was totally choking you.”

Tamara was enjoying the banter, in that sort of cute, teasing kind of way you treated the boys you liked. Mary knew her childhood friend well enough to assert that none of it really meant anything—her quick verbal sparring was simply an intrinsic part of her flirtatious nature. Nothing ever truly came of it; Tamara hadn’t ever even had a boyfriend, much less a first kiss. Yet the moment Noah mentioned Mary’s name, the corners of her quirked lips drooped into an annoyed frown.