Silence reclaimed the house, heavy and suffocating. The only sound left was the rhythmic, hollow tapping of water dripping from the kitchen faucet onto the wet steel of the sink.

  David stood frozen, his gaze locked on the golden rope resting on the sofa.

  The shock was beginning to curdle into a cold, hard realization. Something was obviously wrong. The house had been a mess for years, leaky, dusty, and broken, but it had never acted like this.

  He connected the dots. The morning he woke up naked. The impossible water pressure. The TV turning itself on.

  It all started the moment he brought that rope up from the ground.

  Suddenly, the phone on the coffee table burst into life, vibrating violently against the wood.

  David jolted, a sharp sting of adrenaline spiking in his chest. He gasped, pressing a hand over his heart.

  "Oh God," he whispered, exhaling shakily. "That scared me."

  He walked cautiously toward the table, moving slowly, but his eyes never left the golden coil on the cushions. He felt like he was keeping eye contact with a venomous snake.

  He glanced down at the screen. Aunt Dorothy.

  He slid the green icon and pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

  "Hello, David?" Dorothy’s voice was tinny on the old speaker.

  "Yeah?"

  "Oh, I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said, her voice gentle. "Are you at work?"

  "No," David said, his eyes drifting back to the rope. "I'm currently at home. I told them my situation. They said I had to handle things here before I come back."

  "Oh, you must be overwhelmed right now," she said.

  David paused. He looked at the wet floor in the kitchen. He looked at the TV that had just spoken to him.

  "Yeah," he said. "Overwhelmed."

  "Well, don't worry," she continued, her voice brisk and capable. "I’ll handle the funeral arrangements. I’ve already bought a casket. It’s cheap, but it’s sturdy. We couldn't afford a pricey one, but it will do the job."

  David’s focus snapped back to the conversation.

  *Oh, damn it!*

  He gripped his forehead, fingers digging into his scalp.* I should have told her about the money. We could have bought a better casket.*

  He glanced toward the hallway where his room was. *Thousands of dollars were sitting in his drawer right now.*

  But wait, he thought, hesitating.*I still haven't touched it. Knowing James, that cash is probably from a loan shark. He had a habit of borrowing big. If I spend it, and then some guys show up looking for their principal + interest, I’m dead.*

  "Oh, and Jonathan," his aunt continued, her voice dipping slightly.

  "Oh," David said quickly, pushing the money worries aside. "How is he?"

  He looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the answer.

  "Well... he’s a little sad that his father is gone," Dorothy said. "But I'm not really sure. He’s not really showing it emotionally. But at the same time, he’s been talking less ever since he heard the news."

  David frowned.* If Jonathan isn't talking, then it must have hurt him.*

  Jonathan was never quiet. He and James had a strange, surprisingly strong bond, even if the visits were rare. David remembered those days clearly. Whenever Jonathan came over, James would do the impossible, he would actually resist the urge to smoke or drink. For half a day, sometimes a whole day, James would clean up his act.

  They would sit for hours, just talking and joking. Jonathan had inherited a slice of his father’s personality, but it was dialed up. He was a jokester, the kind of guy who never took anything seriously. For him to be silent now... that meant the grief was real.

  "I hope he's alright," David said.

  "He’s doing fine," his aunt replied, though her voice wavered slightly. "But this is really going to impact him. I mean, his nineteenth birthday is just a month away."

  David’s eyes widened.

  *Wait, he's turning nineteen?* he thought. *I almost forgot. He’s only a year younger than me.*

  Before David could respond, Dorothy continued. "Well, just make sure you're free on Tuesday, alright? Since we live so far away, we’ll drive up to Riverdale. You'll meet us at the local cemetery."

  "Right," David said. "I'll meet you on Tuesday."

  "Alright. Goodbye, David. Take care of yourself, okay?"

  "Yeah."

  The call ended. David lowered the phone, letting out a long sigh.

  "Tuesday, huh?"

  He ran the mental calendar. Today was Tuesday. That meant the funeral was a week away.

  "I can't dodge work for a whole week," he muttered. "I’m going to have to go in tomorrow."

  He set the phone back on the coffee table. His gaze drifted back to the golden rope.

  "No way."

  He stared at it. After what happened with the TV and the water, he didn't want that thing in his sight.

  He carefully extended a hand, brushing his fingers against the fibers. It was smooth, smoother than silk, almost like hair. But what made him recoil wasn't the texture.

  It was the temperature.

  It wasn't cold anymore. It was warm. It radiated a gentle heat, like a living body that had been sleeping in the sun.

  "It’s warm," David whispered, snatching his hand back. "Why is it warm?"

  He looked toward the front door.

  "There is no way I'm having this thing in my house," he decided, grabbing the coil with a grimace. "What if it's haunted? Yeah, I'm throwing it out."

  He marched to the door and shoved it open, stepping out onto the small wooden balcony.

  He stopped.

  To his surprise, there was a large moving truck parked in front of the house next door, Miss Madison’s place. The back ramp was down.

  Two men in blue coveralls were hauling a piece of furniture up the driveway. It was a grey couch. It looked brand new, sturdy, and impossibly comfortable.

  David looked at it, then thought back to the sagging, spring-broken torture device sitting in his own living room. It had been there for five years, and it felt like it.

  *Must be nice,* he thought bitterly.

  His eyes widened, his heart giving a sudden, heavy hammer against his ribs.

  Someone had stepped out of the house next door.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  It was a girl.

  She paused on the walkway to let the movers pass, bathed in the morning glow. She had long, curly blonde hair that seemed to drink the sunlight, shimmering like spun gold. Her skin was bright and smooth, flawless even from this distance.

  David couldn't hear what the movers were saying to her, the sound was muffled by the blood rushing in his ears, but he saw her smile. It glinted, radiant and easy.

  She turned to head back to the truck, her movement fluid. She was wearing tight jeans that hugged her hips, showing off the undeniable curve of her figure. She grabbed a cardboard box from the back of the truck, still smiling, and threw her heavy hair back over her shoulder with a casual toss of her head before disappearing inside the house.

  *Whoa,* David thought, his mouth slightly dry. *Who is she?*

  For a moment, the world narrowed down to the memory of her walking up the driveway. He forgot about the funeral. He forgot about the water. He forgot about the object in his hand.

  Suddenly, the rope in his palm changed.

  The gentle, organic warmth vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by a biting, aggressive cold. It didn't just cool down; it froze, stinging his skin. It felt... daring. It felt like a warning.

  David flinched, his attention snapping back to his hand.

  "Right," he muttered, shaking the lingering image of the blonde girl from his head. "Get rid of it."

  He tightened his grip on the freezing coil and marched around the side of the house. He passed the dead garden where he had unearthed the bunker, ignoring the patch of disturbed dirt, and headed straight for the back fence.

  Behind the property lay a small, narrow service road paved with old, uneven bricks.

  David groaned, winding his arm back. He hurled the golden rope with everything he had.

  It sailed through the air, glinting once in the sun, and landed with a soft thud on the other side of the brick road, rolling into the tall weeds opposite his fence.

  "That should do it," he said, dusting his hands off on his pants. "Right?"

  He sighed, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders, and turned back toward the house.

  But as he walked, his mind drifted. The image of the girl next door, the way her hair caught the light, the curve of her jeans, started replaying in his head on a loop.

  As he walked along the side of the house, David slowed down, glancing back at the movers and the blonde girl.

  *Is she moving in?* he wondered. *Wait... does that mean Miss Madison is moving out?*

  A spark of genuine hope flared in his chest.

  *Oh man. *I hope that's what's happening. Please, let her take that stupid dog with her.*

  He stepped inside and closed the door, cutting off the sunlight. Immediately, the air in the house pressed against him. It was hot, stiflingly so. The air was heavy and still, trapping the heat of the day.

  "Man, it’s hot in here," he sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "And I have to pay the bill in the morning, which means no fan tonight. It’s definitely going to get worse."

  He walked down the dim hallway to his bedroom.

  "I’m going to take a nap," he decided. "I’ll deal with the electricity and the water bill when I wake up. I can't look at another number right now."

  He pushed his door open and closed it behind him, sealing himself in the quiet sanctuary of his room. He sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off his shoes, and peeled off his socks, throwing them into the hamper.

  He collapsed onto the mattress, staring up at the corner of the ceiling.

  There was a spiderweb there, spanning the angle of the walls. A small spider sat in the center. As David watched, the web began to vibrate. It shook rapidly, not as if caught in a breeze, the room was dead still, but as if the spider was trembling, reacting to something else in the room.

  David narrowed his eyes at it, but his mind was too tired to focus on arachnids. His thoughts drifted elsewhere.

  He thought of Kate.

  A pang of guilt shot through him. She had told him she was sorry to hear about James, and without hesitation, she had offered to fill in for him at the diner while he dealt with the funeral.

  She was kind. She was twenty-three, a few years older than him, but she had a bubbly, almost childish attitude that made the grueling shifts bearable. She was the one person at that greasy job who actually smiled at him.

  David smiled now, picturing her face. It was the first time he’d smiled for real in days.

  *She’s a lifesaver,* he thought.

  His eyes grew heavy, the image of Kate fading as the heat and exhaustion pulled him under.

  The sun crawled across the sky, dragging the afternoon hours with agonizing slowness.

  David shifted endlessly in his bed, sprawling out across the mattress. He was used to sleeping alone, taking up as much space as he wanted.

  He woke with a groan, his skin tacky with sweat. The heat in the room was stifling.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, peeling his damp t-shirt off his chest. He scratched his abdomen, grimacing at the heavy, stale air.

  "Man, it's hot," he muttered. "Dammit, I forgot to open the windows."

  He walked over and threw the sash open, shoving the curtains aside to let the evening breeze circulate. It didn't help much, but it was better than the oven he had been sleeping in.

  "Yeah," he said, rubbing his face. "I gotta go pay those bills. I was going to use the money anyway."

  He went to the storage room, hauled a water jug to the kitchen, and filled the electric kettle. Once it boiled, he carried it to the bathroom and mixed it in a bucket for a wash. He scrubbed the sweat and the day’s stress off his skin, the warm water loosening the knot in his shoulders.

  He dressed in fresh clothes, all black, his favorite color.

  He grabbed a stack of cash from the drawer and headed out. He decided to leave the bike behind. For the first time in a long time, he could afford a luxury: he called an Uber. He knew he’d be buying groceries, and he didn't have the energy to balance bags on handlebars all the way home.

  The rest of the day blurred into a series of completed tasks. He paid the overdue water bill. He paid the electric. He bought food.

  The car dropped him right at his front gate. David stepped out, loaded down with plastic bags, and let himself into the house.

  He unpacked the groceries in the kitchen, organizing the shelves. Then, he took the receipt for the electricity token and punched the long code into the meter box.

  The screen flashed and updated. One hundred dollars' worth of credit.

  David smiled at the glowing numbers.

  *This is going to last me for months,* he thought. *Finally. One less thing to worry about.*

  Since he didn't have a fridge, he couldn't save the perishable stuff. He grabbed the cold drink, the chips, and the biscuits he’d bought, and settled onto the couch.

  He flicked on the TV. He surfed through the free channels, looking for a distraction. It was February, which meant every station was flooding the airwaves with romance movies.

  "Nope. Nah. Boring," he muttered, clicking past weeping couples and rain-soaked kisses. "What is up with these people? I’m looking for some action."

  He stopped on a title that caught his eye: Danny Boy.

  He pressed the information button.

  Plot: Danny's parents are murdered by a shadow syndicate. Taken in by the same organization, he is trained to become their ultimate weapon. But when he learns the truth, he escapes and plots a bloody revenge against the masters who made him.

  "Wow," David said, leaning back. "This might actually be a good movie."

  He poured his drink, ripped open the bag of chips, and settled in.

  Two hours later, the credits rolled.

  David sat there, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand, his expression dead.

  "That absolutely sucked," he said to the empty room.

  He glared at the screen. "So what? He just dies at the end? He took down an entire organization, survived a hundred gunfights, and then he just... dies taking a bullet for the love interest?"

  He shook his head, disgusted.

  "He died for a stupid girl? What a waste."

  David sighed, letting his head rest heavily against the back of the sofa. The slow, melancholic music of the end credits washed over him, lulling him into a stupor.

  "I need to go to work tomorrow," he mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut. "I can't even set an alarm on that broken phone... I'll just have to hope the sun wakes me up."

  He didn't have the energy to move. He drifted into unconsciousness right there in the living room.

  The night passed in a blur of deep, heavy sleep.

  Then, the sensation started.

  Faint sounds of birds chirping filtered into his dreams, signaling the approach of dawn. But David was distracted by something else.

  Something soft and braided was pressing against his lips.

  It slid into his mouth,dry, fibrous, and cool.

  David frowned in his sleep, spitting the object out. He turned onto his side, burying his face in the pillow, trying to escape the annoyance.

  A moment later, it returned. The braided texture brushed against his cheek and slipped between his lips again, insistent and invasive.

  David groaned, spitting it out a second time. He shifted his head, but the object followed him. It pressed against his mouth again, forcing its way in.

  He bit his lip, his brow furrowing in irritation, and finally snapped awake.

  He opened his eyes.

  The room was dim, washed in the grey-blue light of the pre-dawn hours. The air was cool, raising goosebumps on his skin.

  As his vision focused, his breath hitched.

  Lying on the pillow right next to his face, coiled up intimately, was the golden rope.

  David scrambled backward.

  He rolled off the mattress in a panic, his limbs tangling in the sheets. Gravity took over, and he hit the floor hard.

  The wood was freezing against his bare skin.

  "Ow!"

  He sat up quickly, looking down at himself.

  He was in his boxers. Again.

  He looked around wildly. He wasn't in the living room. He wasn't on the couch where he had fallen asleep. He was in his bedroom.

  He stood up, his heart hammering, and looked at the bed. The golden rope was resting in the indentation where his head had just been.

  "What the hell?" David stammered, his hands hovering over his bare chest. "How the hell did I... what is this?"

  He spun around, eyes darting to the chair near the dresser.

  There they were.

  His clothes, the black jeans and shirt he had worn yesterday, were folded again. Neatly stacked. Military precision.

  He looked back at the golden rope resting on his pillow.

  "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "This isn't happening."

  Adrenaline overrode his shame. He didn't think; he just reacted.

  He snatched the rope off the pillow, sprinted out of his room, and bolted through the front door. He didn't stop to put on shoes. He didn't stop to put on pants.

  He ran across the dead grass of the yard, wound his arm back, and hurled the rope with a guttural shout. It sailed over the fence and landed in the weeds on the other side of the road, just like before.

  David stood there, his chest heaving, the cool morning air biting his bare skin.

  Then he froze.

  A man was standing on the other side of the road, staring right at him.

  He was scrawny, with sharp, angular features, wearing dark sunglasses despite the early hour. He was chewing aggressively on a toothpick, and resting casually on his shoulder was a rusted iron crowbar.

  David stood there in his boxers, shivering, staring at the stranger.

  The scrawny man looked David up and down, took the toothpick out of his mouth, and scoffed. He shook his head as if disappointed.

  He turned to walk away.

  David watched him go, confused, but then his eyes locked onto the back of the man's neck.

  There it was.

  Right above the collar of his jacket, inked into the pale skin, was a black dragon. The head snarled, and the neck dissolved into stylized flames.

  It was the exact same tattoo as the biker at the hospital.