a stupid scary story

“I’m pretty sure that’s cursed,” stuttered Kevin, tripping over the curb but catching himself before he fell.

“What is?”

“That house. Haunted, or whatever. Cursed.”

“No way. It’s just abandoned.”

“Can’t be abandoned, that light is on.”

I looked up to the third floor window that he was pointing at. There was a light on, sure. Dim, but stable. No flicker, no movement. A dim, sure light.

“Used to be a doctor’s office, I think,” Kevin continued.

“Nah, it’s a house.”

“Yeah, but some doctors worked out of their homes,” he retorted. “Not like strip malls existed in the olden days.

Kevin was dull, but he wasn’t stupid. Boring and loyal, he’d been my constant companion since grade school. A companion was all I needed. Nobody to bare my soul to, and nobody to bare his to me. His uncomplicated and unfettered perspective was as comforting as it was challenging. Kevin didn’t want trouble. He didn’t want fuss. He didn’t mind if nothing exciting happened in his entire life. But somehow it was his simple off-handed remarks that stuck in my gut and stirred my imagination. They were typically unplanned and unserious, never with a glint of rhetorical self-awareness.

Kevin was a keen observer, but had no talent for interpretation. In high school, when asked to write a scary short story for a unit on Poe he submitted a laundry list of things that frightened him. There wasn’t a hint of irony in his voice as he read it aloud in front of the class.

“Wildfires. Handcuffs. Nooses. The Plague. Black olives.”

He got an A, of course, and the teacher applauded his creative use of style and form. Classic public school bullshit.

“It’s not haunted,” I insisted.

“Maybe. Not everything spooky is haunted. There isn’t a doorbell.”

“What, are you saying you’d ring it if there were?” I teased.

“No, I didn’t say that.” he said plainly. “But you would.”

I laughed at his insight, multiplying inferences in my head nervously. Kevin remained oblivious to this, and continued.

“An old doctor’s office. My brother told me. He said it used to be hugely popular. Especially with the ladies. Some kind of new-age homo doctor. One of those that uses plants and smells and stuff.”

“Homeopath?” I corrected.

“Yes,” he complied. “A homeopath. Sorry, Mitch. That doesn’t sound like a real word. Homeopath.”

I twitched at his apology. It wasn’t insincere, but it made me twitch.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, even though anyone with any kind of people skills could see that I was, in fact, the worried one.