Chapter 4: Card
1264 Words
“What do you mean you saw a ghost?”
Demi asked El curiously as he sipped his chai latte.
El was supposed to respond to his best friend's question, but he noticed something strange.
The sound of Demi’s voice didn't just fade—it curdled.
The low hum of the party chatter began to stretch and distort, pulling like taffy until the laughter sounded like the slow-motion grinding of metal.
El looked down on the floor, but the floorboards weren't wood anymore.
They were packed, frozen dirt—the exact gray-brown clay of his childhood playground.
He looked up, and the room was gone.
The ceiling had vanished, replaced by a sky the color of a bruised lung.
He was standing in the center of a rusted merry-go-round that groaned as it spun, though there was no wind.
There, perched on the jagged edge of the slide, was a figure.
It wore a coat that looked like his own, but the person inside was hollow—a silhouette made of static and dry leaves.
The thing turned its head, and where a face should have been, there was only the pinned-wing symbol, carved deeply into the skin in raw, weeping red lines.
“You were never supposed to leave the dirt, El,” the figure whispered.
The voice didn't come from its mouth; it echoed from inside El’s own skull.
The figure stood, its limbs twitching with the rhythmic clicking of a broken clock.
It took one step toward him, and the ground beneath El began to liquefy, turning into a sea of black ink.
He felt his shins sink into the cold muck. He tried to scream, but his throat was filled with the taste of copper and playground dust.
The figure reached out a hand—fingers elongated, tipped with the same charcoal he’d used to mark his closet a decade ago—and touched El’s forehead.
"EL!!"
The world slammed back into place with the force of a physical blow.
The suffocating chill was replaced by the cloying heat of the crowded room.
The sky-lung was gone, replaced by the dim, recessed lighting of the lounge.
El gasped—a jagged, desperate sound—as he lurched backward, nearly toppling a nearby drink table.
His hand shot out to catch himself, knocking over a salt shaker that clattered to the floor.
The air in the café was still thick, but now it was just a stagnant mix of roasted coffee beans and someone's overpriced vanilla latte.
Normal.
Safe.
Humans.
Beside him, Demi was practically shaking him. His hand gripped El's shoulder with enough force to leave bruises.
"El! El, you okay, man?"
Demi's face was pale, his eyes wide with genuine fear.
"Bro, you were just—you were staring at the wall and your eyes went all weird
and I've been calling your name for like a full minute. A minute, El. People were starting to look."
El blinked.
Once.
Twice.
His mouth opened, but his throat still tasted like copper and playground dust.
He swallowed hard, forcing it down.
"I'm good,"
El answered, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
He even managed something that might resemble a smile.
"I'm good. Just... zoned out. Long night."
Demi stared at him, clearly not buying it. His grip on El's shoulder loosened, but he didn't let go entirely.
"Bro, you look like you saw a real ghost. Your face is literally the color of skim milk."
El laughed—a short, hollow thing.
"Thanks. Very reassuring."
Who would be okay after seeing something like that?
After feeling the ground turn to ink beneath your feet?
After hearing a voice that didn't come from a mouth but echoed directly inside your skull like it had always lived there?
And that memory—the closet, the charcoal marks on the wall, the thing he'd tried so hard to forget.
It was twenty years ago, buried under years of therapy and "growing out of it" and his parents' relieved smiles when he finally stopped talking about the shadow in his room.
But it was never gone, was it?
It was just waiting.
El glanced at the wall where the figure had stood.
Just beige paint.
Just a potted fern.
Just ordinary, boring, blissfully empty space.
"You were never supposed to leave the dirt, El."
The words coiled in his chest like smoke.
"I'm good," he said again, this time to himself.
A reminder.
A prayer.
Demi wasn't convinced.
His brow stayed furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
"You sure? We can leave. I don't care about my latte, man. That stuff is acidic anyway."
El shook his head, forcing himself to breathe.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth. Normal people things.
"Yeah. Let's just—" He stopped.
Looked at his hands.
They were shaking. When did they start shaking?
"Let's just finish our coffee. That's why we're here, right?"
Demi hesitated.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
They sat in silence for a long moment.
El's coffee had gone cold—not that he'd taken more than two sips.
His hands were still trembling slightly, so he tucked them under the table where Demi couldn't see.
Demi, to his credit, didn't push.
He just stirred his chai with the focused intensity of someone trying very hard to act normal.
After a moment of silence, Demi finally asked, "El, so what was written on the card?"
El hesitated.
Telling him the truth—Stop looking for the exit—sounded like something out of a horror movie, not something a beautiful woman would write after a casual café encounter.
So he lied.
"Just her number," he said, shrugging like it was nothing.
"You know. In case I want to call her."
Demi's face transformed.
His eyebrows shot up, his mouth dropped open, and for a terrifying moment El thought he might actually cry.
"HERE WE GO!"
Demi slammed both hands on the table, making their cups jump.
A nearby patron shot them a death glare.
Demi didn't care.
"Your boring life is about to change, El! The drought is over! The curse has been lifted!
We're burning your sad collection of instant noodles tonight in celebration!"
"It's not—"
"Do you know how long I've waited for this moment?"
Demi continued, completely unstoppable.
"Years, El. YEARS. I've watched you swipe left on everyone.
I've watched you make eye contact with women and then immediately pretend to find your shoes fascinating. I've watched you—"
"I get it."
"—develop a genuine emotional connection with your barista because she remembers your order,
and I thought, 'That's it. He's done. He's going to marry that espresso machine.' But NOW—"
"Demi. People are staring."
"—now you have OPTIONS. You have a NUMBER.
You have a beautiful, mysterious woman who probably owns a penthouse and a small European country, and she wants YOU to call her!"
El opened his mouth to correct him—to explain that the card was about something else entirely, something dark and terrifying and definitely not romantic—but Demi was already on his feet, addressing the entire café like he was giving a TED Talk.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,"
Demi announced, arms spread wide.
"MY BEST FRIEND, EL IGANCIO, HAS RECEIVED A PHONE NUMBER FROM A WOMAN WHO IS OUT OF HIS LEAGUE. THIS IS A HISTORIC DAY."
A woman in a business suit looked up from her laptop, unimpressed.
"Sir, some of us are working."
"WORK CAN WAIT,"
Demi declared.
"LOVE CANNOT."
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