First Night

“Did you hear about the shooting at Water Witch?”

A steady stream came to a finish, followed by the sound of flushing.

“That night club? When?” Farah O’Connor sat up from the toilet seat and zipped up her pants.

Demi Jackson, in matching service-wear black, kept her eyes straight in the mirror - which was no more than a busted medicine cabinet. She shuffled to the corner of the divey bathroom to allow Farah room for the sink.

“Last night. No one died, but like, 10 people got hurt.” Demi turned to browse the bathroom graffiti.

Farah scrubbed soap into her skin, occasionally checking the veins on her wrist. She attempted to reclaim eye contact through the mirror, “Wow. Was it always this bad?”

“Dunno. Feels like people are a lot angrier as of late.” Demi responded out the side of her mouth. Her eyes slid back to Farah’s, and then fell to the rest of her body.

Farah caught this routine on more than one occasion: Demi was comparing herself again. Farah wouldn’t understand the rationale - they were totally different, and that was okay.

Demi was taller and pale, though more fuller in body, which was covered in various traditional americana tattoos. Her brunette hair was chopped in an asymmetrical bob, done by herself, with the exception of twin braids that fell from behind her ears down to her clavicle. Occasionally, she would fidget with the silver bull-ring in her septum, or the frame of her tortoiseshell coke-bottle glasses. Demi would often express how “nerdy” she was growing up, but Farah found her to be cooler than anyone else she had met.

“Any reason for it?” Farah inquired.

Demi shrugged, despondent.

After drying her hands, Farah surveyed herself as well. Her fingers combed through her black waist-length hair, which she made quite the effort to keep straight in spite of Wherewithall’s overwhelming year-round humidity. Her brown complexion had darkened more thanks to an especially brutal summer sun.

“Is there acne again?” She purposely mumbled and scraped her long, ruby-painted nails under her flattened bangs… No, clear as day. Farah knew she was attractive, and against her own claims of apathy, she put lots of effort into maintaining her image.

The two of them never spoke of it, but Farah knew her habitual self deprecation pissed Demi off. It made Demi even more upset when they’d talk about boys, so Farah rarely did.

They were best off drinking together, when nothing mattered and everyone wanted to have fun: that’s how things worked in Wherewithall.

A knock rapped on the door, followed by the twisting of the tarnished knob.

“OCCUPIED.” The two shouted in unison.

“Hurry up, I gotta piss!” A muffled voice whined.

The pair both let out huffs.

“People are so rude.” Demi remarked.

“Yeah, like us,” quipped Farah, “Time to go.”

—

An alabaster shotgun-shack dumped in a rocky lot, shaded by towering oaks. A 5-step stairway on the side of the building led to a dungeon-like door, cracked ajar to let the late summer wind inside. A few folks stood outside chatting, chewing on dwindling Marlboro 100s and staring at the night-sky through the canopy.

The floors inside were checkered, smudged, and cluttered with feet. Pink neon softly hummed on the wall twisted into a cursive sign that read, “Live, Laugh, Love.” A tiny flat screen played a B-grade monster film. The rest of the space was decorated in an attempt to turn a man-cave into a Victorian mansion: silhouette portraits hung next to sports memorabilia next to framed doilies next to Playboy advertisements.

Behind asymmetrical walnut countertops, Demi hustled around the bar clearing emptied bottles, cans, and dirtied glasses, while Farah took orders and rattled a shaker with anxious precision. Tourist season was at its height in the historic, coastal city of Wherewithall - and everyone, always, chose the cocktail bars to close out their Saturday night.

“Hey, welcome to Howard’s. I’ll be with you in a second.” Farah called out with her head craned down to the pour of two espresso martinis.

“I have the time, no need to rush.” A nasally male voice responded over the fuzzy music.

Demi came to a halt beside Farah, a starstruck smile spreading across her face. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Hello,” the man replied with manufactured gravel. He was somewhere in his early 20s, with a dirty mullet curling around his bearded face and neck. His eyes were intense, like two cuts of raw garnet glinting in the low light. Then there was his funny fashion: a wrinkled and stained white button-up tucked in-and-out of baggy jeans, paired with combat boots and a black, tattered doublet jacket. “Would you be able to aid me?”

“Sure! What would you like?” Demi opened up her chest and brushed one of her braids over her shoulder.

Farah pivoted to hand the finished martinis over to a pair of older chatty women.

“He’s handsome,” One of the women cooed, “If I weren’t married, I would eat that poor boy up!” The other chortled into her drink.

Farah kept a lopsided smile and looked to their subject.

This new man was leaning too comfortably on the counter, recording Demi’s every flirtatious move with his simmering gaze.

On the contrary, Farah thought: he would eat her up.

“So, like, not to be rude - but where are you from? Your accent’s so… I’ve never heard of it before. Are you from Boston?” Demi asked, pulling her dishrag from her other shoulder and tucking it in her back pocket.

“Ah, uh, no,” he laughed some, “I am-I’m from London. I came over on the Mayflower.”

“No way, stop!” Demi giggled.

Harris recoiled, “Alright then.”

It was about time for the regulars to filter in, and Howard’s squeezed to fit everyone all together. The bar was becoming a can of hipster-sardienes.

“How long have you lived here?” Demi then inquired.

“Hm, a-while now.”

“Me too, that’s crazy! I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other before.”

“Who’s this?” Farah chimed in, scooching in hip-to-hip with Demi.

“Oh,” Demi shared reluctantly, “This is Harris.”

Harris met Farah’s quizzical expression with his own, “Pleased to meet you…”

“Farah. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Sure, what do you have?”

Farah couldn’t help but scowl. “Alcohol.”

Harris nodded slowly and folded his hands together, “Ah.”

“Let me get you a menu,” Demi piped up.

“That’s okay, what do you recommend?” Harris asked cooly.

“How about we all do shots?” Demi made pleading eyes at Farah.

“I don’t want one,” Farah resigned, keeping her sight trained on Harris, “Do you have an ID? You look young.”

He coughed and rubbed his nose, and Harris laughed. “If you wanted to see my address, you could always come home with me.”

Demi’s eyes blew wide with anger, which was immediately directed to her friend.

Farah groaned and made a face, “No, dude, I need to see it to serve you.”

“For a water?” He retorted.

Farah stared him down, “Yeah, I can get you some water.” She looked to an exiting patron nearby and stepped away to sweep up their check.

Demi threw Harris a glance, “I’ll be right back.”

—

The pair moved towards the cash register, Farah zoned into her task of adding the scribbled tip amount to the closed tab.

Demi leaned over her station, “What’s your damage?”

“I didn’t like the way that guy was looking at you,” Farah stated.

“Like what? Like he liked me?” Demi snapped.

The faulty cash drawer spat out, though there was no change to make. “Like he wanted you - not in a good way.” Farah shoved it back with some aggression and fisted the receipt inside a nearby mason jar that held a growing collection. “He only wants to get into somebody’s pants.”

Demi’s tongue pushed against her back teeth and she folded her arms, “Oh, my god, you’re not my mom.”

Farah strained a breath and bit her cheek. Finally, “There’s an empty glass back there.”

“Whatever.”

Demi sauntered back to Harris, wearing a sweet smile. “Sorry about her,” she said as loud as needed for Farah to hear.

“Whatever.” Farah echoed to herself. Her frustration turned to the stacked stereo. As if on its own, the volume dial cranked.

Patrons turned their heads up to the speakers, omitting mixes of grievances or confusion as The 80s Hits now blared aggressively.

To cover her tracks, Farah reached around a cabinet to a panel of light switches labeled “funky time” with painter’s tape and sharpie. String lights and disco-bulbs came alive, turning the establishment into a basement rave.

Harris flinched at the surprise party, his shoulders rose and made him appear like a halloween cat. Demi’s repeated giggles won over his attention.

“You find this fun?” Harris wretched.

“I think your face is funny,” Demi said, “And cute.”

Harris gave her a sideways glance. A smirk crept across him. “Say,” his voice lowered and he leaned forward, “let’s leave.”

—

Farah pulled a fresh glass from the dishwasher and scooped a chunk of melting ice inside. Her other hand reached for the soda gun and her eyes kept steady on the couple. Why was she so angry tonight? Farah couldn’t pinpoint what had gotten into her - besides this guy. Everything felt heavier. There was some sort of miasma in the air.

“Bless ‘em…” Farah facetiously prayed over the filling glass with water.

“Do you want to come with me?” Harris offered.

“Where?”

He smiled coyly.

“I’m working ‘till 1:00.” Demi huffed.

“We can leave now.”

Demi rolled her eyes, “Like I said, I’m working ‘till close.”

“Farah can take care of your work.” Harris gestured to the bartender as she approached.

Farah held the glass in her hand. The water was clouding in her grasp. “What’s this about?”

Demi leaned over the counter and grazed Harris’ arm with her fingertips. “We were making plans,” she hinted, “Hey, could I call it early? I’m sure you’ve got it here.”

“What?! No. Do you not see this crowd? Or are you blinded by this– guy’s spell?”

Harris scoffed, “Don’t accuse me of witchcraft!”

Farah flinched against her better judgement. They locked eyes - and a chill ran down her spine.

His garnet eyes had lost all luster.

“She’s got a job to do.”

“Seriously?” Demi piped up.

“Just-” Farah sputtered and held up a hand, “Please, c’mon.”

“You’ve been a buzzkill all night.”

“I’m parched here.” Harris interjected.

It was only the two of them - even if there were regulars present, management didn’t keep a bouncer as often as she would prefer.

Farah swallowed hard. “I suggest you find a different establishment for the night.”

His eyes narrowed and his knuckles whitened in his clasped hands.

“Farah, knock it off.” Demi barked.

Demi reached for the glass in Farah’s hand.

Farah retracted her arm quick, “Stop-”

Demi didn’t. She attempted again to rip the glass of water out of Farah’s hand.

Customers sitting at the bar put hold to their conversations to watch the argument.

Harris shifted in his seat, curling his lips back.

The disco-lights were trite and distracting now.

“Stop it!” Farah shouted, her grip sliding.

The liquid was swirling with trails of light. Her lilac wrist twisted under the bottom of the glass and Demi’s force shoved it forward and-

The glass of water was flung directly onto Harris.

—

A haunting scream was set loose from the odd man, who flung himself out of his chair and to the ground.

All of Howard’s stood still while the flesh on Harris’ face began to sizzle, peel, and melt.

The women wrapped hands around one another.

A clawed hand from below slammed on the countertop.

Farah jumped. One of Demi’s hands betrayed her and adjusted her glasses.

Each breath became more rapid, just as quickly as his features changed. Farah and Demi watched Harris pull himself to his feet and scowl: ribbing skin crossed and scrunched over his nose and forehead, his pupils split, slit, and multiplied, and his lips and gums curl back to reveal ancient decay and razored fangs.

“You! Witch!” He shrieked.

Farah’s blood ran cold - and was pulsing violet throughout her veins.

“I’ll kill you!” Harris declared, “I’ll eradicate you all from this sanctioned earth!”

That’s when the disco lights burst. And the endless screams began.