Short Story: Season 2

What Do You Do

[What's Your Job?]

Gillian Flynn's



...****************...

I don't stop working on masturbating men because I suck at it. I quit because I was the best.

For three years, I was recognized as the best in the Tristate area. The key is not to think too much. If you start to worry about engineering problems, or if you start to analyze the rhythm and pressure, you will become stiff. You have to be mentally prepared beforehand, then you have to stop thinking and trust everything in your body; let your body do it naturally.

The principle is the same as when we want to do a golf blow.

I masturbate men six times a week, eight hours a day, interspersed with breaks for lunch, and my work hours are always busy. I take two weeks off every year for a vacation, and I never work on holidays because masturbating on holidays is a sad thing for all men. So, for three years, I've probably masturbated men 23,546 times. So don't believe what Shardelle says if she says I quit because I don't have talent in this field. She's just a pathetic bitch.

I quit because after masturbating men 23,546 times over the course of three years, my hand began to show signs of joint pain in the wrist.

I first started this work with a sincere heart. Or maybe ‘with natural’ is a more appropriate word. I haven't done a lot of honest things in my life. I was raised in the city by a one-eyed mother (the opening line in my life memoir), and she was not a pleasant woman. He had no problems with alcoholic beverages or drugs, but he obviously had problems at work. He's very lazy.

Twice a week we would take to the streets and start begging. But because my mom doesn't like to do honest work, she always ends up doing it with specific strategies. Earn as much money as you can in the shortest amount of time, then go home and eat a Zebra Cake, then watch TV while lying on our mats that have been broken and stained. (That's the most obvious thing I remember in my childhood: stains. I don't remember the color of my mother's eyes, but I do remember the stains on our carpet that had been hairy and brownish in color due to the spillage of the soup sauce, the stains on the ceiling that were orange like burnt marks, and the stains on the walls are yellow like old urine.)

My mom and I always dress that ‘sa’ when begging. He was wearing a very worn shirt. While she put on whatever clothes she had at the time. First of all, we sit on the bench and start targeting the right people. This job scheme is very simple. The first option is a church bus that operates out of town. The church bus in town will only take you to church. But operating out of town, the passengers are always helpful, especially to the one-eyed woman with her sad-faced son. The second option was two women walking side by side.

Women who walk alone usually always run away or run away quickly; while women who walk in groups are difficult to serve.) The third option is a woman who walks alone but has a friendly face. You can certainly know it too; they are the same women you ask for directions or clocks, they are the ones we ask for money. Also a young man with a beard or guitar. Don't ask the guy in the suit; the cliche assumption turns out to be true, they're all assholes. Also do not ask the person wearing the ring on his thumb. I don't really understand, but people like that never help.

What do we call the people we choose? We do not call them victims or victims. We called them Tony, because my dad was Tony and he never said no to anyone (though I think he once said no to my mom when she asked him to stay with her).

Once you've intercepted a Tony, you can instantly figure out what way you're going to ask. Some people want to do it quickly like when they pickpocket. You should quickly say, 

“We need money to buy food do you have small money?” Some people want to pity our misfortune first. 

They'll give you money if you give them something that makes them feel better, and the sadder your life is, the more they want to help, the more money they will give. I don't blame them. Just like when we go to the movies, because we want to be entertained.

My mother was born on a farm in the suburbs. His mother died when he was born; his father grew soybeans and would only watch him when he was not too tired. He came to this city to study at university, but suddenly his father was stricken with cancer, and their plantation was sold, he was finally forced to stop college

She worked for three years as a waitress, but then her daughter was born, and the father of the child left, and eventually she became like this. Enter into the ranks of those in need. He's not too proud of that.

Now you know the story. But that's just the opening part. You can guess the continuation. So, all of a sudden I became an outstanding student at school (it used to be, but the truth is not important to tell), she said, and Mom needed money to buy gasoline to get me to school (actually I took three buses alone to get to school). 

Or if you really want to know the full story; I'm suddenly stricken with some sort of rare disease (named after the jerk-men my mother dated—Todd-Tychon Syndrome, Gregory-Fisher Disease), he said, and finally my medical expenses made us bankrupt.

My mother was a smart person, but very lazy. I am more ambitious. I have high stamina and no self-esteem. When I was thirteen, the result of begging me was more than him, and when I was sixteen, I left him, as well as the stains at home, TV—and, yes, I did, schoolku—lalu started living alone. 

I always go out in the morning and beg for six hours. I know who to approach, how long, and what to say. I'm never ashamed to do it. What I'm doing is purely transactional: you make people feel better and they give you money.

So, now you understand why men's masturbation work feels like career advancement to me.

Spiritual Palms (not me who named the place, so, don't blame me) is in the Tony's area west of town. Tarot cards and Crystal balls in the vestibule, and soft-core sex are illegal in the backroom. I initially applied for a job as a receptionist. But it turns out the job as ‘receptionis’ in question is to be ‘ prostitution woman’. My boss, 

Viveca, is a former ‘receptionis’ and can foretell by looking at the palm of the hand. (While Viveca is not a real name, her real name is Jennifer, but people won't believe that a person named Jennifer can predict the future; Jennifer can only tell you what kind of beautiful shoes you should buy or what market you should visit, which definitely is not telling you the future.) Viveca hired some forecasters at the front desk and did the other business in the back room. The room was like a room in a doctor's office; there was a paper towel, a disinfectant, and a checktable. The room itself is decorated in a very feminine style and only suits the tastes of women.

If I was a man who paid women to masturbate me, I wouldn't go in and say, “Yes, I smell a very fragrant perfume But I'm going to go into the room and just comment a little bit, like most of the men who come here do.

Men who come to be masturbated have a unique character. (And we only serve masturbation by hand here or rather I JUST use hand—I've already dealt with the police because of petty thefts, the stupid things I did when I was sixteen, nineteen, twenty, and I don't think it's necessary to add prostitution cases to my criminal record anymore.) Men who want to be masturbated are different from those who want a blow job or sex. 

Of course, for some men, masturbation is just a trivial thing. But I already have a lot of regular customers; they just want to be masturbated. They do not consider masturbation to be a form of infidelity. Therefore they are not afraid of infectious diseases, or do not dare to come again. They tend to be rigid men, a husband, or men from the middle economy. I don't judge them, I just give my judgment. They want you to look attractive, but don't look too much like a bitch. For example, I wear glasses every day, but I always let go in the back room,

because it will only distract them—they think you will provide special services for them by acting as a sexy library clerk, and eventually they'll get tense and wait for ZZ's top song to be played but they won't hear it, and then they'll be embarrassed to think you're going to act, then their attention becomes sidetracked and eventually the affair will take longer than either side wants.

They want you to be friendly and fun but that doesn't mean weak. They don't want to feel like they're predators. They want to consider all of this purely transactional. Pure service service service. So you should start with a chat about the weather and their favorite sports teams. Usually I try to find jokes that we can laugh every time we meet—candaan can serve as a symbol of friendship without having to do the friendship things that are usually done by others. So maybe you can say, “I think it's strawberry season!” or “We need a bigger ship.” (this is a joke that can only be understood in certain situations such as in my work), then the rigidity between you will break and they will not feel like a jerk forcing you to masturbate them because you are their friend, then the atmosphere will be more conducive so you can start your work smoothly.

When people ask questions; “What is your job?” I'll answer “I work in customer service.” For me this job is so much fun because it can make a lot of people smile. I know that sounds exaggerated, but it's true. I mean, I could've chosen to be a librarian, but I was scared because the job wasn't safe. At any time, the work may be abolished, because the book is temporary, but ***** is forever.

But the problem is that my wrist is already very painful. I was barely in my thirties, but my wrist was already like an eighty-year-old, and not very sexy. One day, Viveca came up to me in the back room. She has a large body like an octopus— wears decorative beads all over her body that are filled with wrinkles, and,

and there is also a scarf that coiled around his neck, also the smell of cologne is very stinging. She dyed her hair as color with her favorite fruit, but she denied it by saying that her hair color was natural. (Viveca; born as the youngest child in a middle-income family; affectionate with the people she likes; crying while watching TV commercials; repeatedly failing to become vegetarian. All of this is just my guess.)

“Are you a psychic, a nerdy kid?” tanyakanya. He called me a nerd because I wore glasses, liked to read books, and ate yogurt on lunch breaks. I'm not a bookworm; I just want to be a nerd. Because I quit school, so I taught myself. I read regularly.

. But I have no formal education. So I feel like I'm smarter than the people around me, but if I'm among the geniuses, you know, people who study at university, drink wine, and, and speak Latin—they'll be bored with me. A life full of loneliness. So, I decided to accept the call as a symbol of honor. That one day I won't bore geniuses. The question is; how am I going to find a genius?

“Honey? No.”

“Really? Have you ever had a vision?”

“Never.” For me, divination is for fools, as my mother said. He actually came from a suburban plantation area, at least this is true.

Viveca stopped playing her beads.

“I just want to help you.”

I get it now. Normally I'm not this stupid, but my wrist has started to get really troubled. It was so painful that the only thing I could think of

just how to get rid of this pain. After all, Viveca only asked other people when she wanted to just talk—she didn't really care about their answers.

“Every time I meet someone, I always get a vision,” I said by imitating the tone of his voice that always sounds like a wise man. 

“About who they are and what they need. I can see it as clearly as seeing the color, like there's a halo around them.” This is true, but not with the last part.

“You can see aura.” Her smile. “I've expected.”

Finally, I moved to the front room. I'll just read the aura, meaning I don't need any practice. “Just tell them what they want to hear,” Viveca said. 

“Please say they are all stupid people.” And when people ask me; “What do you do?” I'll answer, “I'm a vision specialist,” or “I give therapy to people.” Which is also the real thing.

As a fortune teller, my clients are mostly women, but as ‘payer’ masturbates, my clients are all men, so, we run this place of business alternately according to working hours. This place is not very big, though, 

we have to let the men into the back room, and make sure he has entered before any woman comes in the front room to ask for fortune-telling. You certainly don't want to hear the moaning of a man who's having an orgasm when a woman is telling you that her marriage is collapsing. Reasons like; “It's just a puppy sound.” can only be used once.

All of this is very risky, because most Viveca clients come from the upper class or upper middle class. Because they come from groups like this, they sometimes easily feel distraught. If a sad wife of a rich man does not want her fate foreseen by a woman named Jennifer, they certainly do not want to be predicted by a former sex worker with a sickly arm. Appearance is everything. They don't want to feel like they're in a slum. 

They are people who live in the middle of the city but want to feel like they are in the suburbs. Our front office is decorated the same as the Pottery Barn that appeared in the ad. I dress appropriately, basically I look like a funky artist wrapped in a blouse from J.Crew.

The women who come with the entourage usually look disheveled, like people who are drunk, they just want to hear things that are fun. But those who come alone, they want you to say what they want to believe. They are women who are so desperate that they need the help of a therapist. 

It was hard to hold on to their pity. I try so because it will be very strange for people who have mystical abilities and are considered to be able to do extraordinary things, but it turns out only can issue words such as, “Malang once your fate.” But this is all so weird. They live in big houses, have husbands who don't beat them up and sometimes even help you take care of the kids, sometimes even with a supportive career. 

And they still feel sad. That's what they always say; “But I'm so sad.” Sometimes sadness only comes when we have too much free time, usually. Really am. I am not a therapist with official permission, but sadness does come only when we have too much free time.

In such moments, I would say, “New passion will come into your life.” Then it is connected by mentioning the things they can do. Call it work that will make them feel better. Teaching children, volunteering at the library, caring for dogs, or doing greening.

But don't say it as if you're advising them, that's the key. You should say it as a warning. “New passion is coming into your life.You have to reach for it very carefully or it will ruin whatever you think is important!”

I'm not saying this is always easy, but sometimes it's easy. They want to feel passion and purpose in life. And when they get it, they'll come back because you can predict their future right.

But my client Susan Burke is different. He looked like an educated man when I first met him. One day, I walked into the front room, just finished masturbating my client. I'm still serving some of my favorite clients, and I just finished serving a rich man who claims to be Michael Audley (Cubile ‘confesses’ because I don't think rich men will give you his real name.)

Mike Audley; going to college on his own; very smart but not boasting; fond of jogging. Just my guess. The only thing I know about Mike is, he likes to read.

He always recommended me books with a passion that I wanted to emulate as a person who also wanted to be a nerd. “You should read this!” Soon we'll create our own book club. He really likes “Classical story Supernatural” and he also wants me to be like him “After all you ‘kan a psychic,” he said with a smile knot).

So, that day we discussed with the theme of grief and need in the book Haunting of Hill House. When I finished, I cleaned my hand with the sanitizer and grabbed the book she lent me; The Woman in White. (“You should read this! This book is the best of all time.”

Then I tidied my hair and blouse, then flanked the book with my arm and came out into the main hall. Not so punctual, I was thirty-seven seconds late. Susan Burke was waiting in the front room. He then greeted me with a stiff and repetitive rhythm

made me squint at him. I dropped my book and we bumped our heads trying to pick it up simultaneously. It's not really something you want to see from a psychic; act like a comedian.

I let him sit. I spoke like a wise man and asked him why he had come here. That's the easiest way to know what people want; ask them what they want.

Susan Burke was silent for a few seconds. Then, “My life is going through destruction,” he murmured. She looks so beautiful, but also so nervous and nervous that you won't realize she's actually pretty until you look at her more closely. Looking through his glasses all the way to his bright blue eyes. Imagine if her blonde hair was cut. He certainly looks rich. His handbag is simple but looks very expensive. Her clothes were a little disheveled but the stitches were very good. Actually, not her disheveled clothes, anyway,

he just wears it like that. Clever but not creative, I thought. Always afraid to say and do the wrong thing. Less confident. Probably because she was tortured by her parents, and now by her husband. Husband temperamental—the purpose of his life every day is to be able to get through the day without being beaten. He's also a lackey. He will be one of those who are always sad.

Susan Burke cried for a minute and a half. I was about to let her cry for two minutes, but she stopped herself.

“I don't know why I came here,”. He took out a handkerchief from his bag but did not use it. “My life has been fucked. And now it's getting worse.”

I calmed her down as best I could without touching her. “What happened in your life?”

He swept his eyes and looked at me for a few seconds, then flickered. “Didn't you already know?”

Then he smiled, as if he also had a sense of humor. Very unexpected.

“So, what should I do?” tanyakanya. He scratched the back of his neck.

“I have senses that can exceed normal humans,” I said. “You know what that means?”

“You can know someone's fate.”

“That's true, up to a point, but my strength is stronger than just a guess. I can use my whole senses. I can feel the vibrations of someone's body. I can see the aura of someone. I can feel despair, dishonesty, and,

or depression. That's the gift I got since I was a child. My mother was a very depressed woman and her life was irregular. The dark blue aura always overshadowed him—and from the smell of despair, the aroma itself smelled like bread.”

“Bread?” reworked.

“It was just the scent of a desperate soul.” I just mentioned something that could represent the image of a desperate woman. Not deciduous leaves, too common, but something more grounded. A mushroom? no, it doesn't sound elegant.

“Bread? That's really weird,”.

People usually ask what color their aura is. That's the first stage so they can get into this game. Susan changed her uncomfortable sitting position. “I don't want to sound rude,” says. “But... it seems like I'm not the right person for this.”

I flinch for a moment. Empathy is one of the most frequently used weapons in the world.

“Ok,” says Susan. She tucked her hair behind her ears—her diamond bracelet glitters like Milky Way—now she looks ten years younger. I can imagine her as a child, maybe she was a nerd, beautiful yet shy. Having parents who demand a lot. Always get an A in all subjects. “So, what can you see from inside of me?”

“Something happened in your house.”

“I told you already.” I could feel despair from him; desperate to believe me.

“No, you're just saying that your life is down. But I said that it had something to do with your house. You have a husband, I feel a lot of awkward things. I saw you surrounded by a dark green aura, like rotten yolk. It is also surrounded by a soft, greenish-blue vibe at its edges. That is, you have something good, but now it's bad.”

Obviously this was an easy guess, but I was satisfied with my color choice; it felt very appropriate.

“I feel the same vibe from you as my mom. Sounds like a sharp and discordant piano tone. You are desperate and sad. You have insomnia.”

Mentioning insomnia is always risky but can sometimes be very helpful. People who feel sad usually do not sleep well. People suffering from insomnia are especially happy if anyone realizes their fatigue.

“No, I slept for eight hours,” Susan said.

“But you did not sleep soundly. You always dream of unpleasant things. Maybe not a nightmare, maybe you can't even remember it, but when you wake up, you always feel tired and in pain.”

See for yourself, ‘kan? You can survive almost any missed guess. This woman was forty years old; such a person usually woke up and felt pain all over their body. I know that from the TV commercials.

“Your anxiety builds up around the neck,”. “And there is a peony scent. A kid. Do you have a child?”

If she doesn't have children, I can kink, “But you want to have a child.” And he can dodge it, “I never once thought of having a child.” Then I can keep pushing her, and she will finally believe, because only a few women decide not to want to be a mother without a doubt. It's a way of thinking that's easy to instill into other people. Except this one's very smart.

“True. I have two boys. One is my biological son and the other is my stepson.”

Step-son, here we go. I'll keep talking about this stepson.

“There is something wrong with your house. Is this about your stepson?”

He immediately stood up, then fumbled the contents of his bag.

“How should I pay you?”

This time I was wrong. I thought I'd never see him again. But four days later Susan Burke came back. “Is it true that every living and dead being has an aura?” tanyakanya. “For example an object. Or home?” Then three days later, “Do you believe in evil spirits? Is it true that it exists?” and next.

Almost all my guesses about him are correct. Full of grievances, too much demand, smart, ever attended school in the Ivy League, get a degree in business. I asked him, “What do you do?” He never ceaselessly explained about the great losses his company had suffered, restructuring, problems with clients, and, 

and when I started frowning me, he became impatient and said, “My job is to look for trouble and then eliminate it.” Life with her husband is fine, but not with her stepson. Burke's family moved to the city a year ago, and that's when his stepson went from trouble to trouble.

“Miles never be nice,”. “I am the only mother she knowsI have been married to her father since she was six years old. But he was always cold to me. He is also an introverted child and his life is empty.

 hate saying. I mean, it really doesn't matter to me if she's an introvert. But a year ago, ever since we moved into a new house, he's started to get more aggressive. He's always angry. Bleakly. Threatens. He scares me.”

Miles is fifteen years old, and has just been forced to move from the suburbs to the big city where he knows no one, and he is always clumsy when it comes to dealing with strangers. Of course he's angry. If I say it like that, it might be useful to him, but it's not. I guess this opportunity.

I'm going to try moving into the aura purification business in the household. Basically, when someone moves into a new house, they will call you. You just have to go around the house burning sage leaves, sprinkling salt, and muttering a lot. First of all, clean the bad energy of the previous homeowner. 

Now many people are moving to the heart of the city where many of the old houses are still standing. It seems like a new type of industry will instantly skyrocket. And now that Susan mentioned that she and her family moved into an old house that was a hundred years old, there must have been a lot of dark aura left there.

“Susan, have you ever thought that maybe your new home influenced Miles' behavior?”

Susan leaned towards me, her eyes wide. “Yes! I do think that way. Isn't that crazy? That's why I came back here again. Because... there was blood on the wall of my house.”

“Blood?”

He leaned over and I could smell the mint that disguised his bad breath. “It happened last week. I don't want to say anything. I think you're gonna think I'm crazy. But it's true. There's blood running from the ceiling all the way to the floor.”

Next week, I agreed to meet Susan at her home. While driving in my car, I thought it might not be blood, but just rust stains emerging from walls or roofs. We also do not know what such old houses are made of. We also do not know what will appear after hundreds of years. But the problem is how I act. 

I'm not too keen on doing things like exorcising spirits or explaining about demons. I don't think Susan wants to hear that either. But she has invited me to her house, and women like her do not arbitrarily invite foreign women into her house unless there is something else she wants. Maybe so I can give him some comfort. I will find out about the cause of the blood flow, but still confirm that his house requires spiritual cleansing.

The cleaning must be done many times. We haven't even discussed the cost. Twelve visits with a cost of $ 2,000 may be a reasonable price. Do not at once, this must be done gradually, once a month for one year for example, so that his stepson can control himself, adapt to the new school environment and friends. 

That way she'll heal and I'll be considered a hero, and maybe Susan'll recommend me to her friends who are also rich. I can do this business alone, so when people ask me, “What is your job?” I'll answer, “I'm a businessman.” With the usual arrogant attitude highlighted by entrepreneurs in general. Maybe Susan and I could be friends. Maybe he'll invite me to his book club.

I imagined sitting by the fireplace biting a piece of cheese and saying, “I am a business owner, or the term entrepreneur.” After I finished daydreaming, I parked and got out of the car, then breathed in the spring air optimistically.

But then I saw Susan's house. I was completely dumbfounded and kept staring at him, then my whole body felt trembling.

The house is different from the other houses around it.

There was a dark feel around him. It's the only Victorian house around. The front of the house is very stylish and has many stone sculptures,

the details are amazing. Two angel statues the size of a human body stood in front of his door, the arms on the statue raised upwards, their faces looking elated by something I did not know.

I still look at the house. The house felt like it was staring back at me through its tall windows so that a small child might be able to stand on its threshold. And there was a little boy standing there.

I could see her slender height; she was wearing gray trousers, a black sweater, and a well-tied red tie around her neck. His long, black hair covered his eyes. Then suddenly he jumped inside and disappeared behind the curtains.

The road to the house is very long and steep. My heart was beating so fast as I got to the top, then I passed two statues of angels, and pressed the bell that was on the side of the door. Waiting for me to read the inscription engraved on the stone near my feet.

Carterhook Manor

Established in 1893

By Patrick Carterhook

The carving was done in Victorian writing.

Susan opened the door with her eyes looking red.

“Welcome to Carterhook House Palace,” greet him in a highly contrived style. He saw me looking at him—Susan was never seen in good shape whenever I met him, but he never pretended to comb his hair, and there was an unpleasant smell emanating from his body. (Not ‘despair’ or ‘depression’, but bad breath and body odor only.) He flicked his shoulders and said, “I've not slept anymore.”

The inside of the house was not like the outside. The interior has been massively revamped and now looks like a rich man's house in general. The nuance feels more pleasant.

“Let's start with the blood flow problem you told me about first,” my advice.

We went up to the second floor. There are two more floors above it. As I climbed the stairs, I looked up from the side of the staircase and caught a glimpse of a face watching me from upstairs. He had black hair and eyes and stood near the porcelain doll. Miles. He looked at me for a moment, then disappeared back. That kid fits perfectly into the old atmosphere of this house.

Susan lowered a very beautiful painting onto the floor, so I could clearly see the walls.

“It was here.” He pointed from the ceiling to the floor.

I pretended to be watching the wall up close, but there was really no peculiarity there. He's been cleaning it, I can still smell the cleaning.

“I can help you,” I said. “There is a very deep sense of pain coming out from this direction and extending to the whole house, but I can feel it centered from here.”

“This house creaks every night,” he said. “Even almost like a moaning sound. That can't happen, ‘kan? Everything in here is new. Miles' room door was always slammed in the middle of the night. And he. his condition is getting worse. It felt as if something was possessing him. There was a dark aura behind his back like a conch shell.

He always seems to be in a hurry. I feel like I'd like to move, but we don't have any money. Again. We've spent a lot of money to be able to move here, besides if I could, my husband wouldn't want to move. He said Miles was just going through a period of maturity, and I'm just a mom who doesn't know how to deal with it.”

“I can help you,”.

“Let's take you around the house,” he replied.

We walked through a small corridor. This house is dark. A little bit of you move from the window, and the darkness will crawl you. Susan turned on the lights along the hallway we passed.

“Miles always turn it off,” he said. “I'm the one who always turns it on. When I asked him to keep the lights on, he pretended not to know. And this is our nest,” he said. He opened the door and opened a large room equipped with a fireplace and bookshelves along the wall.

“Library,” surprises me. They can easily collect thousands of books. The thick books are usually read by geniuses. How can they save thousands of books in one room and instead call it ‘sarang’?

I stepped in. Body begetar. “Can you feel it? Are you able to sense...the aura that is very pressing here?”

“I hate this room.” He nodded in agreement.

“I need to focus more on this room,” I said. I'm gonna relax in here alone for an hour and read whatever I want.

We returned to the corridor which was now dark again. Susan sighed and started lighting the lights. I could hear the sound of running footsteps galloping upstairs. We arrived at a closed door. Susan then tapped on it, “Jack, this is mom.” There came the sound of a chair being pulled from behind a door, a key that opened, then the door was opened by a little boy who looked a few years younger than Miles. His face looks like his mother. He smiled at Susan as if he had not seen her in years.

“Hai, Momma,” said. She hugged Susan. “I miss you.”

“This is Jack, seven years old,” Susan said. She's stroking Jack's hair.

“Momma no work with Momma's friend,” Susan said on her knees. “Solve reading your book and Momma will bring you snack.”

“Do I have to lock my door again?” Ask Jack?

“Yes, always lock your room door, dear.”

We started walking again after hearing the sound of a locked door.

“Why should he lock his room?”

“Miles don't like Jack.”

She could definitely see the wrinkles on my forehead; of course no teenager would like her little sister.

“You should have seen what Miles did to the babysitter he didn't like. That's one of the reasons why we don't have a lot of money right now. To pay for medical treatment cost.” He turned around and looked at me sharply. “I shouldn't have to say it. He wasn't hurt. Maybe it was just a little accident.I don't know what else to do. Maybe I'm crazy now.”

His laughter sounded bland. Next to his eyes blinked.

We continued walking all the way to the end of the corridor where there was one more locked room.

“I'll show you Miles' room, but I don't have the key,” he said briefly. “After all I'm too scared.”

He forced his laughter again. His laughter was so unconvincing, it even sounded so weak that it could not be said that he was laughing. We then went upstairs, where there were rows of rooms and paintings with Victorian-style furniture arranged haphazardly. There is a room equipped with a dump. “This room is for our cat, Wilkie,” Susan said. “The luckiest cat in the world; have a private room for where to dispose of his feces.”

“Later too you will definitely need this room for the right reasons.”

“He's a very sweet cat,” he continued. “His age is almost twenty years.”

I smiled in response as if it was an interesting thing.

“We have more rooms than we need,” Susan said. “We thought maybe we would.. maybe by adopting, but I don't want to bring another child into this house. So we decided to live in a house that was just this storage place.

My husband loves his collection of antiques.” I can imagine her spoiled and rich husband. A man who buys antiques but not by looking for them himself. Maybe he had an acquaintance of a woman who worked as a decorator who did all this work for him. Maybe he was the one who bought all these books. I heard it is commonly done by people today—buy used books that are sale, then display it like furniture. There are many fools in this world. I don't know how stupid people are today.

We went up again upstairs. This upper floor is just a very spacious attic with several chests along the wall.

“Don't you think those crates look so weird in there?” whispered. “My husband said, those crates make the atmosphere look more original. Hence he does not like renovation.”

So this house was compromised; her husband wanted the house to remain old-style, but Susan wanted it all to look new, so they divided the house into two parts; she said; the outside is not renovated and still looks original while the inside is renovated so it looks new. But instead of being satisfied, this family hated him. Even after spending millions of dollars, they were still unhappy. Rich people always like to waste money.

We went down the back stairs and arrived at the modern kitchen.

Miles was sitting in the kitchen. Susan was surprised to see it.

He looks smaller than his age. His face was pale, his chin was sharp, and his eyes were pitch-black like spiders. He seemed to be watching us. I think he's very smart but he hates school. Didn't get enough attention—even though she got all of Susan's attention, it's still not enough. He has a cruel and selfish nature.

“Hi, Momma,” said. His face instantly turned brighter, a glimmer of smile emanating on his lips. “I miss you.” He turned into like a Jack who was always being sweet. He imitated it perfectly. Miles wanted to hug Susan, and as he walked, he mimicked Jack's posture. She hugged Susan. Susan watched me from behind Miles' head, her cheeks flushed red, her lips tightly clenched as if she smelled something so stinky. Miles looked at him. “Why won't Momma give me a hug back?”

Susan hugged him for a moment. Miles immediately let go of his embrace as if he was doused in hot water.

“I've heard what you said to him,”. “About Jack. About babysitter. Everything was. Fucking bitch.”

Susan was shocked. Miles looked at me.

“I really hope you leave here and never come back. It's for your own sake.” He smiled at both of us. “This is a family matter. Yes, ‘kan, Momma?”

Then he walked by jerking his leather shoes and climbed up the stairs, his body bent forward. He was indeed bowing as if he was carrying a hard and shiny insect shell.

Susan looked down at the floor, sighed, then straightened her head back. “I need your help.”

“What does your husband think of all this?”

“We don't talk about it. Miles is his son. He raised her. Whenever I mentioned it, he just said that I was crazy. He used to say I was crazy for thinking this house was haunted. But maybe it's true too. After all, she's always traveling, she won't even know that you're here.”

“I can help you,” I said. “But maybe we can talk about the cost first.”

He agreed with the amount of the cost, but not with the timeframe. He said, “I can't wait a year for Miles to get better, he can kill us before it happens.” He let out that stiff laugh again. So I agreed to come twice a week.

I mostly come during the day, when the kids are already going to school and Susan is still at her workplace. I really cleaned his house. I burned sage leaves and sowed salt around his house. I boiled lavender and rosemary flowers, then mopped all parts of her house with it including the walls and floors. I sat in the library and read a book. I also went around and checked the things in the house. I could see millions of photos of Jack smiling widely, and there were only a few pictures of Miles and Susan with gloomy faces, but not a single picture of her husband. I feel sorry for Susan. An angry stepdaughter and a husband who always travels deserve his mind to be dark.

And even so, I can feel it too. This house feels alive. I can feel him watching me, does that make sense? This house is covering me. One day, I was mopping the floor, then suddenly I felt something slashing my middle finger—like biting—and when I saw it, my finger was bleeding. I wrapped my fingers in a clean washcloth and watched my blood flow out. And I feel like this house is satisfied.

I'm starting to get scared. But I still try to fight my fear. I'm the one who made it up saying this house is haunted.

It's been six weeks since I started to purify this house, back then I was boiling lavender flowers in the kitchen—Susan has gone to work, kids to school— suddenly I felt someone behind me. I turned around and saw Miles who was still in his school uniform, he was watching me, a grinning smile adorning his face. He's holding my book The Turn of The Screw.

“You like horror stories?” her smile.

He's been ransacking my bag.

“I'm trying to understand you. You turned out to be an interesting person. Didn't you already know something bad was going to happen? I'm curious.”

He walked up to me, and I started to move backwards. He stood close to the water I was cooking. His cheeks were flushed due to the hot steam.

“I'm just trying to help, Miles.”

“But can you feel it too? There is evil air in this house.”

“Yes, I feel it too.”

He stared at the water in the pot, then touched his finger on the edge, then pulled it back quickly, his finger immediately turning pink. He looked at me with his black eyes sparkling like a spider.

“You don't look like I imagined if I look closely. I thought you were.. sexy.” She said it with an irony, and I knew what she meant; a girl with lip gloss, curly hair, and large earrings. “You look like a babysitter.”

I retreated further from him. He's hurt a babysitter before.

“Are you trying to scare me, Miles?”

I wish I could grab the stove and put out the fire.

“I just want to help you,” he replied. “I don't want you around Susan. If you come back, you'll die. I don't want to say more than this. But at least, now I've been warning you.”

He turned around and left the kitchen. When I heard he had reached the front steps, I immediately threw my lavender water in the waterway, then ran to the dining room to pick up my bag and car keys. I gotta get out of here. When I reached for my bag, a very foul scent gushed into my nose. He threw up in my bag—my keys, wallet, and phone were already drowning in his vomit. I don't want to take my keys and touch that disgusting liquid.

Susan suddenly barged in from the front door. He looks very panicked.

“Is he here? Are you okay?” tanyakanya. “The school side called me and said Miles wasn't in class. He must have entered through the front gate of his school and ran out the back door. He doesn't like you being here. Did he say anything to you?”

Suddenly we heard a sound like an object being hit hard from the top floor, followed by a roar. We immediately ran to the source of the sound. In the corridor, a small, handmade cloth doll hung from the ceiling. A face was drawn there with a marker. His nose is made of red thread. A shout rang out from Miles' room at the end of the corridor. “Tidaaaaaaaa!!!! You bitch!!!!!”

We could only stand at the door of his room.

“Do you want to talk to him?” my many.

“No,” replied Susan. He then turned around.

He walked along the corridor sobbing. He then removed the doll from its hanger.

“I think this is a picture of me,” Susan said as she gave the doll to me. “But I don't have brownish hair.”

“I think it's me,” I said.

“I'm sick of constant fear,” he whispered.

“I understand.”

“No, you don't understand,” he said. “But you will understand.”

Susan went to her room. I'm back at work. I swear, I work. I cleaned her house every inch up to her walls and floors with rosemary and lavender flowers. I fumigated each room with sage flowers that had been burned before, then cast my magic spell that was just a careless commute as Miles shouted back upstairs and Susan cried in her room. Then I spilled everything in my bag into the sink and cleaned it with water until it was completely clean.

When I was about to open the door of my car, a middle-aged woman who had chubby cheeks called out to me from the end of the block. He walked quickly through the fog, there was a faint smile on his face.

“I just want to give you a thank you for your help to this family,”. “Because I helped Miles. Thank you.” Then she imitated the gesture of locking her lips with her finger, then immediately ran back before I could tell her that I had done absolutely nothing to help this family.

A week later, I was relaxing in my little apartment (one bedroom, fourteen books), I noticed something strange there. A stain, like seepage from a rusty thing on the side of my bed wall. It reminds me of my mother and my old life. All ‘transaksi’ we ever did—ini for it, it's for this—and there's no difference from it all until now. When the transaction was completed, my mind went blank again, waiting for the next transaction. But Susan Burke and her family are different, they still keep haunting me. Susan Burke, her family, also her home.

I turned on my old laptop and searched the internet for something; Patrick Carterhook. After waiting for a while, a link appeared that referred to an article from a university:

Murder in the Victorian Age; The Horrifying Story of Patrick Carterhook's Family

In 1893, a prominent department store owner named Patrick Carterhook moved into his mansion in the heart of the city with his exquisitely beautiful wife, Margaret, and their two sons, Robert and Chester. Robert is a troubled boy, always a victim of bullying by his schoolmates and endangering pets around his residence. When he was twelve years old, he burned one of his father's warehouses and stood there watching it burn. He was incessantly torturing his sister. At the age of fourteen, Robert could not control himself. The Carterhook family decided to keep him away from society. In 1895 they locked him in the house. Since then he has never been seen out of the house again. Robert slowly grew rougher in his dark prison. He littered his family's possessions with his own feces and vomit. A housemaid was rushed to the hospital with severe scars; she never returned to work in the house again. Their cooks also fled in the winter. Rumor has it that there has been a ‘ makap’ at work and he ended up suffering serious burns due to the boiling water flush.

No one knows for sure what actually happened inside the house on January 7, 1897, but the results of the blood test cannot be doubted. Patrick Carterhook was found dead in his bed with puncture wounds; of his body were found 117 stab scars. Patrick's wife, Margaret, was found lying dead impaled axe—kapak was still stuck on his back—when he was about to escape through the stairs and was running towards the attic. Chester, who was ten years old at the time, was found drowned in the bathtub. Robert hanged himself on the mast of his room. When his body was found, he was wearing pretty good clothes; he was wearing a blue suit that had been covered in his parents' blood and was still wet after he had finished drowning his sister.

Below the article is an old photo of the Carterhook family. Four smiling faces from behind their Victorian clothes. Seen there was a tall man who was about forty years old with a pointy beard. A beautiful young woman with blonde hair and sad and sharp eyes. Two boys, young blond like his mother. While the oldest one was black-haired with bright black eyes, he smiled grinning and his head tilted slightly. Miles. The oldest kid looks like Miles. Not really similar, but his aura was the same; his complacency, his superiority, his threatening mannerism.

Miles.

If you remove the floor tiles that have been flooded with blood and water; if you destroy the pillar that supports Robert Carterhook, and you collapse the wall that absorbs the echo of the cry, does that mean you destroyed the whole house? Is the house still haunted even though its internal organs have been removed? Or is the horror still in the air? That night I dreamed of a figure opening Susan's door, walking closer as she was asleep, then standing quietly nearby with a meat-cutting knife taken from her lavish kitchen. From his room there was a scent of sage leaves and lavender flowers.

I slept through the day and woke up in the darkness, amid the thunderstorm. I stared at the ceiling of my apartment until it was dark, then got dressed and drove to Carterhook Manor. I no longer bring my flowers.

Susan opened the door with her wet eyes. His pale face seemed to shine from behind the darkness of his house.

“You really are a psychic,” whispered. “I was just about to call you. The situation is getting worse and can not be stopped.” His word. He then threw himself on the sofa.

“What Miles and Jack are here?”

He nodded and pointed his finger up. “Miles told me last night very calmly that he was going to kill us.”. “And I was very anxious because.. Wilkie..” he came back crying. “Ya Lord.”

A cat then stepped into the room, a male cat that looked very thin and disheveled. Susan pointed.

“See what she did to... Poor Wilkie!”

I saw him again. In the upper thigh grill of the cat there is only a pinch of fur. Miles had cut off the cat's tail.

“Susan, do you have a laptop? I want to show you something.”

She took me to the library room and walked towards a Victorian table that clearly belonged to her husband. He pressed a button and the fireplace lit up. He then turned on his laptop. I showed Susan the Website and the Carterhook family story. I could feel her warm breath on my neck as she read the article.

I pointed to the photo that was there; “Did Robert Carterhook remind you of someone?”

Susan nodded as if she was unconscious again. “What does this mean?”

Rain flushed the black frame of the window. I want to see a bright day. The heavy air in this house makes me unable to bear it.

“Susan, I like you. I don't like a lot of people. I want the best for your family. And I don't think I'm the right person.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you need someone to help you. I can't help you. There's something in this house. I think you should move out of here soon. I don't care what your husband says.”

“But if we move.. Miles is still with us.”

“True.”

“Then... she will recover once we leave this house?”

“Susan, I don't know for sure.”

“I increasingly do not understand what you mean.”

“I mean, you need someone other than me to solve this problem. I can't afford to do it. I can't. I think you should go tonight. Go to the hotel. Book two rooms next door. Lock the connecting door. Then we'll find a way out. But the only thing I can do for you is be your friend.

Susan stood up but her body was about to collapse, she held her throat. He pushed me away from him, then asked permission in a whisper, and went to disappear out of the room. I'm waiting for him. My wrist is back in pain. I spread my eyes across the room filled with this book. No party will invite me. There is no chance of being introduced to rich friends. I destroyed my big chance; I gave him the answer he didn't want. But this time I feel like I've become a good person. Not that I said it to myself, but I really feel that way.

I saw Susan's shadow go through the door and down the stairs. Miles then ran after him behind him.

“Susan!” my yelling. I'm still standing but I can't control myself to get out of this room. I heard a whisper. The whispers sounded like screams and anger. Then silence. And still quiet. I told myself I had to get out. But I was too scared to go alone into that dark corridor.

“Susan!”

A boy who terrorizes his sister and threatens his stepmother. A child who calmly said that I was going to die. A boy who cut a cat's tail. An invading house that manipulates its inhabitants. A house that has witnessed four deaths and still wants more. I convinced myself to stay calm. The corridor is still dark. There was no sign of Susan. I was still standing then started walking towards the door.

Miles suddenly appeared in the doorway, he was standing tall and stiff, still wearing his school uniform. He's intercepting my exit.

“I told you not to come back here again, but you're still back—you're back again and again,” he said with excuses as if he was talking to a child who was being punished. “You know that you will die, ‘kan?”

“Where is Susan, Miles?” I stepped back. He walked towards me. He's just a kid, but he freaks me out. “What did you do with Susan?”

“You still don't understand, huh?” abugn. “Tonight is the night of our death.”

“Sorry Miles, I didn't mean to upset you.”

He then laughed so hard that his eyes wrinkled.

“No, you misunderstood. He's the one who's gonna kill you. Susan's gonna kill you and kill me. Look at this room. You think you're here by chance? Look at it clearly. Look at these books carefully.”

I have seen these books clearly. Every time I clean this room, I look at all the books that are here. I imagined I'd steal a book or two for my little book club with…

With Mike. Favorite customer. Every book I've read with Mike in the last few years is here. The Woman in White, The Turn of The Srew, The Haunting Hill House. I only congratulated myself when I saw him—how clever I am for reading books for this genius. But it turns out that I'm not a bookworm, I'm just a dumb bitch in the right library. Miles pulled out a photo from the desk drawer, a wedding photo. The sunshine in summer behind the bride and groom makes their picture a little dark. Susan looks so beautiful, so graceful, a cheerful version of a woman I know. Her groom? I barely recognized his face, but I was very familiar with his penis. I've been masturbating Susan's husband for two years!

Miles watched me, his eyes tapering, like a comedian waiting for his audience to understand his joke.

“He will kill you, and I'm sure he will kill me too.” His word.

“What do you mean?”

“He's calling the police now. He asked me to buy time. When he gets here, he'll shoot you, and he'll tell the police one of two stories. One; you're a con man who claims to have supernatural powers to prey on the powerless. You told Susan that you could help her mentally unstable son—and she trusted you—but what you did instead was come to this house and steal his belongings. When he tried to talk to you, you became rude, you shot me, then he shot you in self-defense.”

“I don't like this first story. What are the other options?”

“You really have supernatural powers. You believe that this house haunts me. But it turns out I'm not possessed by evil spirits, I'm just a regular sociopath. You pushed me too hard, then I killed you. He and I tried to reach for the gun, then he shot me in self-defense.”

“Why does he want to kill you?”

“He doesn't like me, he never likes me. I'm not his son. He tried to take me back to my mother, but my mother didn't want to raise me at all. Then he tried to kick me out of boarding school but my dad didn't approve. He definitely wants me dead. That's how he is. That's how it works; it seeks out and eliminates problems. He's a very bad man.

“But he looks very..”

“Unempowered? Obviously not. He wants you to think so. She is a beautiful successful executive. He's from above. But you need to think like you're preying on someone weaker than you. You should feel on top. Am I wrong? Isn't that how you work? Manipulating people who are easily manipulated?”

My mother and I played that game for a decade; dressing and pretending to be people to be pitied. I didn't expect to be a victim myself.

“He wants to kill me.. Because of your father?”

“Susan Burke had the perfect wedding, and you ruined it. My father is gone.”

“I'm sure just because it has some... ‘friends’ with another woman is not the reason for your father's departure.”

“At least Susan believes in that reason. That's the problem he has discovered and now he plans to eliminate it.”

“Does your father know that... I'm here?”

“Not yet. He always travels. But once my father found out we were dead and heard the story from Susan; once Susan told him she was scared and found the name card of a psychic in her Rebecca book, and desperately asking for help from her. His son died because he wanted to be masturbated by another woman. His wife was forced to defend her family and kill someone because she used masturbation services. His immense guilt will prevent him from apologizing to you. And that's the point.”

“Will he find me? From business card?”

“Susan found your card. He thinks it's weird. Awkward. My father likes ghost stories, but he's a very skeptical man—he'll never come to a fortune teller. But it's different if he's not a fortune teller. He followed my father. He made an appointment to meet. Then you walked out of the back room with the book The Woman in White, and that's where she found out.”

“Then he told you all these secrets.”

“At first I took it as a compliment,” he explained. “Then I realized that he just wanted to try to distract me. He told me his plan to kill you so I wouldn't realize that he would also kill me.”

“Why didn't he shoot me in a quiet place from a long time ago?”

“Then my father will not suffer. And what if he's found out? No. gabe. He wants to kill you here, where he'll be seen as a victim. That's the easiest way. So he made up the haunted house story to lure you here. Carterhook Manor, very terrible.”

“But the story I read on the internet.”

“The Carterhook family story is just fiction. Okay, maybe it's real, but they don't die the way you read.”

“I actually read it.”

“You read it because Susan wrote the story. That's internet. Do you know how easy it is to create a website? Then create some links that refer to your site, then let people find it and add it to their web pages? That's very easy. Especially for someone like Susan.”

“But the photo looks like..”

“Have you ever been to a flea market? There were piles of old photos like that there, just one dollar per sheet. It's not hard to find a photo of a child who's like me. Especially if you know someone who is easy to trust. Like you.”

“How about blood seepage on the wall?”

“It was just a made-up story. He wants to create a horror mood so you slowly trust him. He knows you like ghost stories. He wants you to come and believe him. He likes to make people go crazy. He wants you to be his friend, worry about him, and then—bam!— takes you by surprise when you realize that you're going to die, and you're scared of the wrong thing. He made your whole senses betray you.”

Miles grinned at me.

“Who cut your cat's tail?”

“It was a manx cat, stupid, they had no tail. Can I just answer the other questions on the way? I prefer not to wait and die here.”

“You want to come with me?”

“Try me first; go with you or stay and die. Yeah, I'd rather go with you. He's probably done calling. He's probably under the stairs now. I've installed an emergency staircase in my room.”

The sound of Susan's heels echoed from across the lounge room and towards the stairs. Susan was two floors down and ran upstairs and called my name.

“Please take me with you,” the door. “Please. Only until my father comes home. Please, I'm so scared.”

“How about jack?”

“He really likes Jack. He just wants to get rid of us.”

Susan's footsteps were heard from the ground floor and still rising.

We escaped with emergency stairs. It feels very dramatic.

We were already in my car, and I drove on before realizing where I was going. Miles' pale face reflected light rays from cars traveling in the opposite direction. Rain spots flowed from his forehead to his cheeks then down to his chin.

“Call your father,” I said.

“My father is now in Africa.”

The rain soaked the roof of my tiny car. Susan Burke (a master fraud!) having poisoned me with fear of the house, I have gone mad. Now all I can imagine is; a successful woman marrying a rich man. They have a very handsome son. Their lives are perfect except for one thing; a strange stepdaughter. I trusted him when he told me that Miles was always cold to him. I'm now convinced that he was the one who was always cold to Miles. I'm sure he's been trying to get rid of Miles from the start. 

A very calculating person like Susan Burke certainly does not want to raise a strange child from another woman. Susan's cruelty to her first child undermines their relationship. Her husband went away from her. Her touch was cold to her husband. Her husband went to see me and kept seeing me. We have a lot in common with the books, she tries to lie to herself that she is in a relationship with another woman while her relationship with Susan gets messed up. He finally decided to leave and leave Miles because he was traveling abroad— as soon as he returned home, he would arrange everything. (all of this was purely my guess, but it was Mike I knew, he said, who always laughed crisply when she came, looking like a man who would take back his son.) Unfortunately Susan learned her secret and blamed me for the destruction of her household. Imagine her anger when she found out a lowly woman like me was having an affair with her husband.

And now she has to live with a strange child and a house she doesn't like. How to solve the problem? He started to plan something. He lured me to his house. Miles was warning me in an obscure way, playing me, enjoying a bit of his game. Susan said something unclear to neighbor—that I was there to help poor Miles—so when the truth was revealed—that I was a former prostitution worker and con man—Susan would look devastated and miserable. And I'll look like a bad guy. That is the most perfect way to carry out a crime.

Miles looked at me with his big, smiling face.

“Do you realize that now you are a kidnapper?” said.

“I think we should go to the police station.”

“We have to go to Chattanooga, Tennessee,” his orders, and somehow it sounds impatient as if we are carrying out a plan that he has been drafting for a long time. “There is a Bloodwillow festival held there this year. The festival was always held abroad—ini is the first time the festival was held back in the United States since 1978.”

“You don't understand what you mean.”

“It was the largest supernatural gathering in the world. Susan wouldn't let me go there. So you have to take me there. I thought you'd be happy—didn't you like horror stories?. We can arrive at the toll road if you turn left at the third intersection from here.”

“I won't take you to Chattanooga.”

“You should. I'm the one in charge now.”

“You're dreaming, son.”

“And you were a thief, and now are abducting a little boy.”

“I don't do both.”

“Susan didn't call the police because he wanted to kill you.” He started laughing. “He called the police because I saw you steal. The jewelry is gone one by one.” He patted his blazer bag. I heard a clinking sound behind it.

“Now he returns upstairs and finds his troubled stepson kidnapped by a former prostitution worker who is also a self-styled thief and fortune teller. So we have to hide for a few days. Take it easy, Bloodwillow will not start until Thursday.”

“Susan wants to kill me because he found out about my relationship with your father.”

“You can tell the truth that you masturbated my father,”. “I won't take offense.”

“Susan knows it.”

“Susan knows nothing. He really is a smart idiot. I know it. I borrow my dad's books all the time. I found your card, I found your note on the outskirts of the book. I went to your place of work and knew everything. Some of what Susan said was true; she did think I was weird. 

When we moved here—after I told her I didn't want to, I guess I've been very clear telling her that I really don't want to move—I started making up strange happenings inside the house. Just to smear it. I was the one who created the website. I'm. I made up stories about the Carterhook family. I led Susan to see you, just to see if she'd be able to realize it and then leave. But it turns out not, he instead believes your nonsense.”

“So Susan was telling the truth, about all the terrible things that happened in her house. You really threatened to kill your sister?”

“That's what I'm so excited about, he trusts me so easily without any doubt as to whether or not I'll actually do it.”

“You did attack your nanny to fall down the stairs?”

“Yeah, he fell. I'm not that rough, I'm just smart.”

“And what about that day, when you vomited into my bag, your screams upstairs, and the doll hanging?”

“I threw up in your bag because you wouldn't listen to me. You don't want to go. The doll was also me who made it. Also the tip of the razor on the floor that hurt your finger. Actually it was an inspired idea from the war strategy of Rome. Have you ever read..”.

“No. What about that scream? You sounded really angry back then.”

“Oh, it's not contrived. Susan cut out my credit card and left it on the table. He tried to lock me up. But then I realized that you were my only chance to get out of that fucking house. I need an adult to do everything, really; drive a car, stay in a hotel room. 

Because I look younger than I am. I'm fifteen but I look like a twelve-year-old. I need someone like you to go anywhere. Because I know you're not going to the police station. I'm sure someone like you must have a criminal record.”

Miles's right. People like me will never go to the police station, because they will never believe in us and instead we will go to jail.

“Remove here,” the command.

I turned my car to the left.

I trusted the story, then turned, and checked the place.

“Wait. Susan said that you cut your cat's tail off. You said it was a manx..”

Then he smiled.

“Ha! That's a good question. So now you know someone's been lying to you. I think you're the one who has to decide to believe the story of who you believe. Do you want to believe that Susan's the one who's crazy or me, that's what I'm giving you. Which one will make you feel comfortable? At first I thought it would be better if you thought that Susan was crazy—so you would be a sympathizer to my circumstances, and we could be friends. Travel companions. But then I thought; maybe it would be better if you thought I was the bad one. Maybe that way you will understand that I am the one in charge here.. What do you think?”.

We were silent all the way while I was weighing my options.

Miles then cut, “I mean, I'm sure it's a good thing for the three of us. If Susan is crazy and wants us to disappear from her presence, well, we are indeed leaving from her presence now.”

“What will he say to your father when he comes home later?”

“It depends on which story you want to believe.”

“What is your father now in Africa?”

“I don't think my dad is a factor you should consider in making a decision.”

“Ok, what if you're the one who's crazy, Miles? Your mother will call the police to come after us.”

“Stop at the church parking lot there.”

I watched him from top to bottom, looking for if he had a gun. I don't want to be a dumped corpse in an abandoned churchyard.

“Do it, ok?” snapped Miles.

I stopped at the church parking lot near the entrance of the highway. Miles immediately jumped out through the rain and ran up the stairs and stopped under the roof of the church's front door. He pulled out his phone from his blazer and called someone, he turned his back on me. He talked on the phone for a minute. Then he slammed his phone on the floor, stomped on it a few times, and ran back into the car. It smells like a scent in the spring.

“Ok, I just called my stepmother. I told him you were driving me crazy, I was fed up with that house and all its weird behavior—he habit of bringing in unpleasant people—so I ran away and stayed at my father's house. I told him he just got back from Africa, so I'm gonna stay there. He would never call my dad.”

And he's also destroyed his phone so I'll never know if he really called Susan or if he's just pretending again.

“And what will you tell your father?”

“Remember, if you have two parents who hate each other and are busy working or traveling and want you to get away from their lives, you can say a variety of reasons. You have a thousand reasons to choose from. So you don't have to worry. Pass this highway and there'll be a motel about three hours from here. They have cable TV and restaurant.”

I also walked on the highway. This boy is very smart even though he is only fifteen years old. Even smarter than me when I was twice his age. I began to believe that this was the right course of action; that virtue was only for freaks. I'm starting to think this kid might be a good partner.

This tiny teenager needs an adult to be able to move in this world, and there is nothing else that a female con artist needs other than children. “What is your job?” Ask people later, and I will say, “I am a mother.” Imagine the things I can solve and the deception I can do if people think that I am a mother.

That Bloodwillow meeting sounds cool anyway.

We stopped at a motel three hours later, as Miles had expected. We booked a room next door.

“Sleep soundly,” Miles said. “Don't dare go at night, or I'll call the police and tell them that you kidnapped me. I swear that's the last time I'm gonna threaten you, I don't want to be considered an asshole. But we have to go to Chattanooga! We're gonna have fun there. I can't believe I'm going there. I've been dying to go there since I was a kid!” Miles then danced a strange dance of excitement and walked into his room.

He seems like a pretty fun kid. But he may also be a sociopath. I'll go with the smart kid to a place where everyone wants to discuss books. I'm finally leaving town for the first time in my life, and now I can act like a new mom. 

I decided not to worry about anything; I might never know what really happened at Carterhook Manor. But my choice right now is between screwing things up or not, so I choose to believe that I won't mess things up this time. I've convinced many people to believe in many things in my life, but this will probably be my greatest achievement; convincing myself that what I'm doing is reasonable. Not a good thing, but the most unreasonable.

I went up to the bed and noticed the connecting door in my room. I then checked the key, turned off the lights, looked at the ceiling, then looked back at the connecting door.

I slide the wardrobe to the front of the door.

Now I have nothing else to worry about.

...[completed]...

...****************...

😧 This time author crazy up many times than before because.. eumm do not know also why maybe because you want to test the time yes 🤔🤔🤔.

Actually many drafts that the author has but only 500 words

but later if you want to author crazy up more often you should often nih zhirain author with how to give tips rate star 5 Vote comments like papay

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Note\= Crazy Up 11684 words in 5 days

This is just a copy of yesterday's novel