It's still raining. I begged God for one break, and he couldn't even give me that.

I park my Volkswagen Beetle on a residential street and glance in the rearview mirror.

Odds are, Ted is already looking for me. He knows practically everyone at school, not necessarily by name but by their car, make, and model. He's driven my car a couple of times and pointed out dings and scratches. If he sees my car, even at a distance, he won't mistake it for someone else's.

The Winchester area isn't exactly a sprawling metropolis. Ted is from around here, too. His family has lived here since, well, colonization. He knows plenty of "people" like him. So, it's only a matter of time. He will find me.

Maybe I should leave the area. I could go home...

Norfolk is about four hours away, on the Virginia coast. Although it's a Thursday, and I can't deny that I'm tempted, I have a midterm first thing in the morning and a game tomorrow night. The available room on Craigslist is my only option if I intend to take the exam, somewhat well rested, and fulfill my obligation to my school.

I did study while I was avoiding Ted in the library, the least likely place he'd be. But who am I trying to kid? I should drop out and try again later, somewhere far from here. 

What's stopping me? My reasons to stick it out are getting weaker by the day, but there's one that never fails to surface. I don't want my parents to be right about me.

I received an athletic scholarship to cover some of the cost, but otherwise, I'm on my own. I don't have their financial or ideological support. They don't think I'm ready for college or college material in general. According to them, I'm too trusting, too distractible, too nice to the wrong people.

I look in my rearview mirror again, this time to check my eye. Even in the dim streetlight, I catch a glimpse of the proof. My parents are right. They just can't find out about it. If I can minimize public exposure and avoid future damage, perhaps they'll never have to know.

Pulling up my hood, I make a run for it.

On each step to the porch, there's an intricately carved pumpkin. Beneath the shelter of a second-story balcony, I pause to catch my breath. It's a modest two-family house. The paint is chipping on the pillars, and the wood planks are warped, but it's free of leaves and clutter. The house stands out in the neighborhood, in a good way, but that says more about the neighborhood than the house. It isn't the best.

Through a hole in the shades, I peek into the first-floor apartment. I can't see much. It looks vacant, though. In what would probably be the living room, there are just bottles and cans, broken or dented, and a few crates and unlit candles in a roughly circular shape.

Beside the door leading to the second floor, a mechanical witch cackles in response to my movement, scaring me half to death. Dry ice puffs out of her cauldron.

Halloween isn't for another two weeks...

Whatever. Immediate vacancy. And I almost have enough money for it. I will by tomorrow, I hope. My paycheck should cover me until November.

I ring the doorbell. My phone buzzes at exactly the same time.

Jael: Enter at your own risk. 👻

He must have seen or heard me coming. I glance up and spot a camera in the crook above the door.

It's a red flag, probably one of many.

From what little "Jael" has told me via text, it's a peculiar arrangement. He's not the landlord or related to the landlord. He is, however, the only tenant—at the moment—and the property manager.

There's no lease, nothing to sign, no security deposit or anything. It's just "month to month," and I'm supposed to pay him the rent in cash. If I have a problem, I go to him. If I have a problem with him? He's my only point of contact, so I guess I don't complain. Or I leave whenever I feel like it. It's $500 a month, and I got a deal for my first two weeks. It'll be only $200. It's a lot of money for someone who busses tables a few nights a week, but it is actually doable.

I realize this is like the unicorn of living arrangements, especially for Virginia. And when things are too good to be true, they probably are and all, but it's at least worth a look, right? 

What's the worst that can happen? Uh, yeah, please don't answer that...

As instructed, I let myself in and head up the "creepy" stairway. My movement is accompanied by strobe lights and the cries of the "dead."

"Come in," I hear before I have a chance to knock.

At this moment of indecision, I can practically hear my stepfather's condescending voice—for whatever one sows, that which you will also reap. Still, I go right in, pretending none of this is weird.

"Hi, you must be Sam," Jael greets me from behind a desk like he's a receptionist in a lobby. What would be the dining room is set up as an office. He looks more tech savvy than I will ever be. I have a printer curse that's rather severe, so I'd say this is a point in his favor. 

He seems tall, even from a chair, slim but strong. His fitted black shirt draws attention to all of the above. His black hair is overgrown. He shaves, just not often, and looks deathly pale in the greenish light of his computer. And I cannot get past the dog collar. But, to the right girl, someone edgy and rebellious, he'd be, well, kind of hot. Beyond that, he looks content and comfortable—not nervous at all. He has a steaming hot beverage on a coaster, a half-eaten omelet, and a pile of bacon on a plate, like it's breakfast time and not ten o'clock at night.

"That's girl Sam, not boy Sam." His voice is playful, pleasant. It seems to contradict his appearance. I'd expect some rasp and some growl, even when he's being "nice."

"And you're boy Jael," I reply, not knowing what else to say. I suppose "Jael" could be a girl's name, but I already had a strong feeling that it wasn't. I'm not that lucky.

My parents are going to disown me. A male roommate and one they'd hate at first sight?

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

"Is that a problem?" He glances me over. His lips quirk into a slight frown. Tiny. Blond. A little young for this. I'm barely eighteen. And I'm obviously a cheerleader. Everyone always says that, and it pains me to say, they're right. I'm a flyer—the girl who gets thrown around on the field and off apparently, too. If he hasn't seen the black eye yet, it's only a matter of time. The hoodie and bad lighting will only get me so far.

"Um . . . no?" I take a gulp and start again. "Uh, wasn't there supposed to be a 'Lexi' looking at the third bedroom?"

A two-to-one girl-boy ratio is something I could live with. And maybe my parents would at least try to understand.

"She stopped by earlier. She declined," he states, cool and dry as his ice downstairs. It's just a meaningless fact to him. 

This girl probably took one look at the place—Halloween decorations literally everywhere—and went screaming into the night.

"I hope you don't mind the ambiance." It's as if he read my mind. "Halloween's my favorite holiday."

"I can see that."

A chuckle escapes him. At the same time, I burst out laughing. Next thing I know, I'm hunched over, sobbing in this strange boy's lair. Man, I should say. As he rises from his chair, my eyes scan upward and flit downward. He is certainly no boy. 

"You can say no." He takes two long strides to his right, like he wants to comfort me, and then he pauses beside his desk, conflicted or unsure. "I don't mind. I'm used to it."

He doesn't want to crowd me? He's not the touchy-feely type?

Whatever. It's probably for the best. I'm just as torn over what's right and what's necessary. It's a constant battle.

"It's not that." I reach into my pocket and pull out twenty-seven dollars and forty-three cents. "I don't have enough for the first two weeks. I get paid..."

I'm about to put every cent to my name on his desk.

He puts up a hand before I get the chance. "Keep it. I'll give you a week or two to figure it out."

I attempt to wipe my face dry with my damp sleeve. "Thank you."

An uncomfortable silence billows into the room. Thankfully he breaks it before it gets oppressive. "It's not a bad night once you're out of the rain. Why don't you have a seat on the balcony?" He points through an archway. In the candle-lit living room behind the couch, there's a set of glass-paned doors. "Can I make you some tea?"

Did he say tea?

Does he know me?

I could drink it around the clock, almost any flavor, and since he's doing me a favor, I should accept his hospitality, right? We are roommates now.

"That'd be great." I manage a polite smile.

The balcony is open-air but covered, and the patio furniture is surprisingly dry.

I sit down on the "loveseat"—and try not to think of the pitfalls of that—and stare at the rain like I'm the apartment's very own zombie mascot. If I lean forward and extend my spine, I have an adequate view of the neighborhood and can just make out my car on the other side of the street.

I try not to peek at it more than once . . . or twice. I'm not usually paranoid, but today, I can't help it.

It takes Jael a few minutes to meet me out here. "Witch's brew," he says, handing me the steaming mug. "I added a dash of milk and a half-teaspoon of sugar. I hope that's all right."

"It's perfect. Thank you," I tell him, and I mean it.

How did he know how I take my tea? Rather than question it, I take a sip and read the label. It's pumpkin chai, a kind you can buy at any grocery store. Still, it's like a balm to my fractured soul. I haven't eaten anything since daybreak. I can't remember the last time I had something to drink. And I've been crying half the night, pleading for a calm and clean release—to no avail—when I should have been studying.

Jael lingers in the doorway sipping his own tea, furtively concerned or curious—I can't tell which.

He's thoughtful. Reserved, maybe. His eyes give a lot away. He reminds me of a puppy, one that misses its owner. Or doesn't and feels guilty about it. Dark, sad, mysterious . . . lonely? I don't know. Maybe I'm overthinking it. They're just eyes. Nice eyes, I admit, but...

He eventually turns to go. It's my gasp that calls him back outside. Or it's the squeal of wheels. I'm not sure which. It all happens so fast.

After a reckless U-turn, Ted parks his massive pickup truck about an inch behind my car. He slams the door, and his eyes dart to where I'm sitting. I'm too slow to crouch down in time. I think he saw me.

"Sam, I know you're up there," he shouts from the middle of the street. "25B, goddamnit. I know all about it!"

How did he find out? I've been so careful. Jael is the only one who knew.

Ted crosses the street, his fists already clenched.

Jael disappears in the blink of an eye. I can't say I blame him. Not my problem is probably the first thought that comes to his mind. And yet, the next thing I know, he's facing Ted on the sidewalk. He's not built like Ted, the linebacker, but he is tall when he isn't slouching. They are eye to eye, and that seems to startle Ted. It's not something he's used to.

Jael's lips move. What does he say? I wish I knew. He doesn't ever raise his voice. I guess he doesn't have to.

As the words are said, his eyes flare, a clear back off. I catch a flicker of red and gold in the warning, like a fire is smoldering deep within and the flue just opened, letting the flames lick out.

Ted jerks away and steps back without a fight, something I've never seen him do.

Jael takes a stance on the sidewalk, guarding his territory until Ted's truck speeds away. He then whirls around and glances up at me, his expression hard and unreadable. After an explosive breath, he comes back inside.

He never returns to the balcony. I just sit there, trying to make sense of it all, hoping the monster who vanquished the monster won't turn that power back on me.

Soon I can't process it anymore. I'm cold, damp, and exhausted. The rain has only let up by about half. I can't even bring myself to get my stuff out of the car. I'll have to survive the night without it.

I finish the last of my tea and go inside, ready to ask about the furnished room Jael supposedly has waiting for me.

He's sitting at his computer again like nothing ever happened. He deserves an explanation. I'd be willing to give him one for the kindness he's shown. But he doesn't ask. He simply gets up and shows me to my room. It may have an institutional-looking setup—double bed, white sheets, one of those warm but cheap blankets with the fake-satin trim—but it's a luxury to me.

I kick off my wet canvas sneakers, peel off my damp outer layer, and plop down on the bed like Ted is on top of me. He'd like that I thought of him in this context, and I wish it could have been avoided.

"Well, I'm off," Jael says from the doorway, his toe placement strategic, like there's an invisible barrier he's too polite to breach.

Off to bed? Off to guard duty? Off to save the world? Or to plan my undoing, the "ritual" yet to be decided?

"Sleep tight," he adds.

"Yeah," I sigh, already maneuvering myself under the covers. "You, too."

Sleep tight.

Once he closes the door, his footsteps fade quickly in the thrum of the rain. Before long, I stop listening and close my eyes.

Could Jael be the perfect roommate? He's mellow, nice to me, terrifying when it matters most. He doesn't expect any reward for his behavior or even an explanation for Ted's, and he's respectful of my space and privacy.

Will I survive to see another day?

If I'm his human sacrifice, he'd probably wait until Halloween, right? That gives me two weeks to plan accordingly.

The thought isn't comforting. Even so, I fall asleep and sleep soundly, until, in my dreams, Jael points that fiery gaze at me. And what's worse, I like it . . . a little too much!