It’s around three in the afternoon when I finally wake up. My eyes are met with the dirty tile ceiling of my cramped bedroom in the crappy apartment I’ve been living in. I really don’t like it, but when you’re twenty and dead broke you learn not to be too picky. Like most days, I just lay there as I reflect on my life. I figure that I’ll just lay around for a while, maybe scroll through videos on my phone until it dies, and eat random girl-dinner-style snacks throughout the day. Every day is almost exactly the same, and it’s pretty miserable, but I’ve taught myself not to care. Sometimes lying and thinking like I’m doing right now eases a bit of the boredom.
I don’t know what it is about today, but for some reason my parents have popped into my mind, completely uninvited. My dad died a long time ago, but I didn’t even know him and he barely knew me. When I was really little he was around more, but my parents had never been together, dated, gotten married, or any of that. I’m a mistake in more ways than one. Anyway, the only meaningful memory I have about him is Christmas of one year—I was too little to remember the exact age, but under ten—and for some reason beyond me, I asked him (or Santa or something), for a dump truck toy because I was a devious kid who liked crashing cars because I thought that was the coolest thing in the world like a little psychopath. My dad bought me this cool, detailed, yellow dumb truck toy and a cute doll that fit inside. I guess when he handed it to me I smiled really big because I remember him smiling back, and that one memory is the only thing that makes me just the slightest bit sad, even though he disappeared from my life by choice just a little bit later.
This reminds me of my mom. My dad didn’t have a funeral, or at least not one I was invited to, but my mom did, and seventeen-year-old me was in charge of planning it, but you just don’t have that kind of money as a kid, (or even now in my case), so my hometown’s church community came together and held something small for her. I don’t know why I didn’t cry. I guess I just didn’t have any special memories of her. She worked a lot, but the money drained fast, and she was never smart with money, so I barely got anything when she did die. I don’t get sad thinking about either of them. I never had a great relationship with them. I feel completely neutral feelings about them both, and I physically can not shed one tear for them. Now I have nobody. No pets, or friends, or family. My parents are dead, my grandparents are dead, and siblings don’t seem to exist in my family tree.
I don’t have money or talent for college, so that means I’m supposed to have a job. But my application isn’t very interesting yet, and I’ve been rejected from about a billion places so far, so I’ve lost hope. I’ve lost at life, this is it for Riley Morin. Well… almost. There’s this suspicious job offer I found online last night—I know it’s most likely a scam, I’m not that dumb—but what do I have to lose? The entry is fifty bucks and the reward for completion is a lot of money. It takes less than a week, there are free necessities, and it’s with other people—maybe I can even make some friends. The subway is reasonably close to my apartment building, and it’ll be filled with a bunch of other desperate weirdos to talk to. This could actually be good for me.
It’s a quarter past nine, which means I still have another twenty or so minutes until I have to be on the subway. I sigh, nervous as I turn the corner of another sketchy street. The sun has completely set, making the sky a perfect midnight blue. I don’t see any stars or the moon, which gives me goosebumps, and I’m unsure why. As I walk past a clothing store brightly and colorfully lit, the streetlight in front of me flickers, sending a chill down my spine. I stop in my tracks and hold myself in my arms for comfort. As I squeeze myself, the mini scrap of paper from some weird online newspaper crumbles a little in my hand. I slowly open my fingers and read it again, making sure I’m in the right place. Flicker Ave, I read in my head as I clarify my paper, and the street name is the same. I nod, reassured, and continue walking down the sidewalk, although there aren’t any cars on the streets anyway, and there haven't been in a while.
As I walk farther down the street, I see more and more people, which is oddly comforting because none of them seem too chatty or friendly. Most of them are grouping up or heading toward a strange dip in the sidewalk. As I get closer, I realize that this dip is the subway I’m supposed to be on in. . . a check of my watch tells me I’m still looking at another sixteen minutes until I should be sitting on that train. I look around, still uncomfortable and nervous. Maybe this isn’t the right place or this whole thing is just a big scam. I mean, fifty grand is a pretty large sum of money just for a job that could take less than a week to complete. It all sounds a little sketchy, but so was that website. I guess I’m pretty desperate, so I don’t have many options regardless. What’s the worst that can happen anyway? I mean, seriously. What, am I gonna get arrested? Killed? It’s just a silly job for extra cash.
I examine the street a little further to try and ease my nerves. Apparently, there was a vote with me and a few others who applied to decide where this job would be done. I chose "house" and am thankful it won because it seems like the safest option, but none of this seems safe, so I don’t really know what I’m saying. There are a couple of small trees beside the subway, standing guard like gargoyles. Ominous apartments stand tall, with a few windows cracked or ajar. On the other side of the street, there are more stores and clubs with only a few people—if any—in each one. No one looks wealthy. . . I turn around. . . people walking out look skeptical and paranoid. Friends whisper to each other on the street; most people have left the sidewalk at this point. I’m convinced the roads must be closed off and I doubt if a car tried to drive by anyone would move anyway.
I kind of hate it here, especially since I’m all alone. I always feel more comfortable with some sort of companion - I mean, who doesn’t? But that’s no longer an option. I shudder and hug myself, regretting my decision yet again. I turn only my head to face the sidewalk from where I came. The streetlight flickers again. For a moment it’s like I hear whispering all around me, but can just barely make out what they’re saying. Something, “back?” The ‘b’ in “back” is emphasized and loud.
I feel like I’m losing my sanity. “Turn Back, Turn Back, Turn Back,” it slowly becomes clearer. Someone bumps into me. I blink my eyes and focus again. I feel tired and sick. What time is it again? Again, I bring my watch up to my eyes and read it to myself. Ten minutes have gone by!? I’m dazed and confused. I swear I only looked at that corner for a second. Regardless, I gotta run.
I turn for the subway and slowly walk down the steps, keeping to myself as others group up or also go solo. The clicking of my steps seems louder than it should be. I’ve been in a subway plenty of times before - I don’t really have a good reason to be scared of this one. I silently step onto the train and start to walk farther back, for a seat if possible. It’s all kind of awkward in a way. If people are talking, it’s just a whisper. It feels like they’re talking about me with their eyes bouncing up and down, roaming around my body, but I might just be paranoid. The yellow lights of the car flicker, and I freeze up and just stand there by one of the doors. I look down at my feet, unsure what else to do or how I’m going to be able to tell when it’s my turn to get off.
Slowly, I bring my eyes up and notice an old, beat-up suitcase sitting in an empty seat with my name on it in clear, red print. Riley Morin, it basically calls out. My muscles tighten and I’m now extremely uncomfortable. I take a step closer. . . the lights flicker again. I feel a little less at ease. I ignore my concerns and step closer. Again, the car becomes dark for just a second. I keep walking closer and closer until I am right in front of the case, the lights failing for a moment with each step. I unclick it. . . the lights go out and I open it up. By the time the lights have flicked back on, the case displays a folded pair of black jeans, a dirty old white shirt, black shoes, a few pads, tampons, and a toothbrush with toothpaste.
“What the he. . .” my voice fades away as I examine the materials. I click the case closed and pick up the suitcase, unsure what to do with it other than pick it up because it is without a doubt mine. Once I stand up straight again I realize that I’ve made it to the back of the train car with no one in front of me except for the lights and a few more seats. I shift my focus to the bottom of the seat the suitcase was on where a large black spider creeps along the wall. The center of the body is red and thick while the long legs are a discomforting black. I back up in disgust and am immediately pushed back by someone behind me. I trip forward and the doors fly open, causing me to fall out. I scream in both surprise and fear, I mean, the damn train is still moving: not too fast, but enough for me to tumble out and do a few unscripted summersaults. The train honks, as if it’s mocking me. I struggle to push myself up into a weak sitting position. I can feel the scratches and soon-to-be bruises covering my legs and upper arms, and wonder if this shove was really an accident. Either way, it happened, and I have no clue where I am or how I’m going to be able to find this "house" now.
“E-ew,” I wince at the blood dripping from a large cut right above my left knee. I’m cold and it stings and I really hate blood. The sight, the dripping sound, the smell. It’s all extremely disgusting, but as much as I hate it, I’m not the kind of person who literally gags or throws up over it. I still hate it, though. Like, a lot, so I look away. My face is wet, assumingly from the moist grass or the faint, forming tears of shock that have developed from the fall. I wipe in between my upper lip and my nose, smearing the liquid onto my hand. It’s pretty dark out, but it’s easy to make out the disturbing reality of more blood I’ve just stained my hand with. Great, now I’m bleeding from my leg and nose. I fully push myself up to stand and feel immense pain coming from both of my legs, from the knees to ankles, and I feel like I’m being watched. It’s worse than thinking people are judging me.
I look up and examine wherever I am. There’s a lot of grass, hills, and trees, and behind me are the train tracks and tunnels for the subway which is weird, because any subway I’ve ever been in has been completely underground. There are only a few visible stars in the sky here, and I can spot a few dark clouds. I anxiously look around for something unusual or maybe something familiar - just something that can help me. I squint, desperate for anything, and am satisfied to make out some sort of brilliantly illuminated block out in the distance, on one of the medium-sized hills. Before starting my journey, I struggle to search the ground for. . . there, my suitcase! I pick it up, relieved it’s still closed, and start hiking to my only hope: the little block in the woods.
It’s a long, annoying, hopeless trip, filled with infecting my wounds, getting more along the way, and going crazy due to loss of sleep. It’s what? Almost eleven by now? My watch has died and I’ve been told not to pack anything because necessary resources would be provided. I just have to remind myself that by the end of the week, I could be fifty grand wealthier than before. I really need this, so I just have to push through, and then I’ll be safe in a house to do some effortless dark web job. It’ll be fine. Easy, maybe...if I can find it.
As I approach the small hill, it becomes clear that this is in fact a house in the middle of nowhere. I really don’t care that it isn’t "the house," whatever that might mean, it’s shelter, most likely with people and a phone I can use to find my way. I scurry up the hill and go to knock on the door, but read the purple poster paper taped to the weary wooden door. welcome to Flicker! Congrats, you made it :O, it reads. Um, what? Excuse me? Was I supposed to fall out of that train? There’s no way I’m here by coincidence, right? I jiggle the doorknob and click, I’m in. I cautiously pull it open and find myself stepping into a yellow-tinted house with a living room, kitchen, and dining area all in one, large room. There are three doors leading to who knows where, and worst of all, people. Other people just like me waiting inside, all of their heads turning to face me.
“Uh. . . hi,” I greet, sheepishly, closing the door behind me. They all stare at me as if they don’t speak English. Maybe they don’t. It doesn’t take me long to notice that each of them has a suitcase, just like mine with different names written in bold, red print. I really made it. I examine each one of them. There are eight in total, and they’re all scattered around the house, alone or in small groups. Three of them stand out to me. They’re wearing different clothes. Like, normal, colorful clothes. And the rest of them have the same white shirt and black pants get up I found in my suitcase.
“Are we just gonna stare at her or...” asks one of the three in normal clothes—a guy—who is a fluffy-haired brunette wearing a teal blue shirt and white jeans, accessorized with round silver glasses. I shrug slightly and wave shyly. Another girl in normal clothes who is leaning on the kitchen island over exaggerates a shrug and looks at him, sarcastically dumbfounded. The same person who asked the question rolls his eyes at her and pushes himself off of the dining table on the left side of the huge room. He steps up closer to me to greet himself. “I’m George,” he starts, breaking the endless silence.
“Riley,” I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear. I take this time to inspect the house and the rest of the people. The girl wearing normal clothes is wearing a white shirt with a rainbow sprawn across the middle, black short shorts, and black fishnet leggings under the shorts. Her light brown hair is up in space buns and she looks exhausted already. I guess they all do. This is the first time I realize how exhausted I am. I’ve been stressed out of my mind trying to get rent paid every month just so I can stay in some super small, crappy apartment. That’s the only reason I’m doing this lame job. If I’m late again, I bet the owner will kick me out personally.
“So...is this everyone?” a tan boy with curly black hair questions as he examines the room. No one answers. I guess we all know just as much as he does. I study him a bit more. This kid looks young, maybe around the same age as me, but now that I think about it, nobody looks older than twenty-five, maybe? He’s wearing the same outfit as almost everyone else. I then realize I have to change, too. I mean, I assume I have to since nearly everyone else has at this point. I look down, forgetting what I have on now, but find myself wearing the white shirt and black jeans.
“What the?” I mumble because I have absolutely no memory of changing. I mean, when would I have? I grabbed the suitcase, was pushed out of the train, and walked a little until I arrived here. I click open the suitcase, curious, and wouldn’t you know it, I find my black and white gym shorts and oversized purple tee shirt I had on before this. I know my style is questionable, to say the least, but to be fair, but I’ve reached the point in my life where the owner of the apartment building I’ve been staying at is permanently pissed at me for being late on rent every single month, so I really no longer give a crap about my clothing choices. Some might say that somehow, this plain, mysterious outfit we all have on is way better than anything I’ve worn in a while.
Suddenly, the TV in the living room area to my left turns on and starts going crazy with static. We all look over and watch as words suddenly appear over the black-and-white static. It’s subtle but still audible. “Welcome to Flicker. . .in this game there is a good and evil team. . . some players have abilities they can use when the lights go out. . . each day, players will vote to eliminate someone from the game. . . good luck. . . you'll need it.” Then the TV shuts off and we’re all just standing there, clueless about what to do now. I mean, good team? Evil team? Game? I thought this was a job offer. Suddenly, all eyes are back on me for some reason, or, that’s at least what I thought they were looking at.
“Uh, Riley?” a sort of bigger guy starts. He’s closer to the kitchen and has really silky light brown hair and the same outfit as all of us except for the three in normal clothes. He is slightly nervous for me, and even though I don’t know what’s happening, I get really scared. Before I can ask him what’s wrong, he continues. “Look behind you.” I turn around and find a sheet of paper that must have just popped out of the mail slot in the front door. I pick up the paper and before looking at it, open the door just to find a dark emptiness. Weird.
“What the heck?” I ask quietly, now looking at the paper. I hesitate before reading the words in green print loud enough for all of us to hear. “Role list: survivor, detective, psychic or spy, medic or savior, muffin man or twin,” I pause and move on to the words in red. “Murderer, witch or scout, assassin or dark psychic.” Once I’m finished I look up at everyone, still confused. “Did any of you understand any of that?” I ask with a small smile. It fades almost immediately. Unexpectedly, a short girl with long straight hair who’s been sitting right in front of a door near the kitchen this whole time pops up. She’s not one of the people in normal clothes but stands out because she’s been holding a small, brown notebook, unlike anyone else.
“Your roles,” she begins. Her voice is higher than I expected, but still fits her face just fine. “They’re in your journal. All of you have one, it’s in your suitcase. Just don’t tell anyone your role, yeah? Bad things can happen.” I know I can’t be the only one who still doesn’t understand. Bad things? What bad things? And how does she know this? A journal? Last time I checked there was no journal in my suitcase. However, I literally don’t have anything to lose, so I check anyway. Oh my god. I should have expected it at this point. An identical journal to the short girl's is now sitting on top of everything else in my case. The others find theirs, too. I quietly open mine up and read the note placed in between the pages of the bookmarked area. You are...SURVIVOR. You are part of the GOOD TEAM. Help the detective, find the murderer, and most importantly, SURVIVE! On the next page there’s a bullet point that reads, Eliminate EVIL team.
“So...now that we know our roles, should we just burn them?” the final girl in normal clothes—a white tee shirt, red plaid dress, and red bucket hat—suggests after we’ve all taken a look in our notebooks. She’s over by the fire, kneeling real close so her big, black eyes ignite a perfect reflection of the flames. Her hair is up in pigtails and she looks about the same age as the short girl with the journal. I wonder how she and the other two passed through this house without obeying the dress code. It’s unusual for sure, but I have such a bad feeling about all of this. I swear, whoever pushed me out of that train has got it coming for them. The girl in red suddenly continues. “Or I guess we could keep the sheets in our notebooks,” she offers, throwing out another suggestion.
“No, let’s burn them,” a dark boy with pierced ears chimes in almost imminently. He’s the first one there and the first one to burn his role. Nobody argues, so we all meet in the living area and one by one crumple up our papers and toss them into the fire. Well, all of us except for the short girl who I’m not sure if her paper has been tossed or not. She’s still over by the door, already scribbling something into her notebook. No one seems to notice her but me. She’s the one who warned us about sharing roles though, so I can only assume she’s gotten rid of hers somehow. Moments later, we’re all sitting either next to the fire, on the couch, or near the coffee table on the floor, still in the living room area. We all introduce ourselves, and I learn a lot.
George used to own a bakery with the support of his parents, but after he went no contact (for a reason he doesn’t share), he went broke almost immediately and spent the last of his savings on this job. Some of it he used to pay for his own clothes, and the rest went to getting his preferred role, which he also doesn’t admit. The girl in the rainbow shirt’s name is Kacey, and she claims she didn’t have anything better to do after losing her parents in two different accidents. Jayden is the tall boy with curly black hair, and he desperately needs this money so he and his younger brother can continue to afford to live in some old, beat-up rented house all the way in New York. The bigger guy is named Jonah, and he has a younger sister who expects him to be home once this whole thing is over. Penny is the short girl, and her parents took this job when she was little, but died shortly after. I guess that explains why she knows more than the rest of us, but she still doesn’t give us much more. I don’t know how to feel about her, to be honest. Chase is the dark boy with the pierced ears who used to compete in motorcycle races and shows, but was forced to quit after he was found to be sleeping with one of the judges. He took this job for quick cash to get him back off his feet. The girl in red's name is Mikaela, and she used the last of her money to pay for some nice clothes, and damn, I really wish I knew that was an option before I entered my name in this dumb ad.
“Hey Riley,” some guy who I realize I haven’t heard from yet whispers once the nine of us have started to chat casually. This guy has pretty spiky dark hair and a body type I can’t describe very well. I mean, he’s definitely not skinny, but at the same time not athletic or chubby either. He’s got broad shoulders and a lean waist. “I’m Neil Francais and I don’t think you’ve introduced yourself yet,” he reminds me with light, honest eyes. He goes on once he’s noticed my expression has changed back into panic. “You don’t have to, it might just make you seem more innocent, I guess.”
“Yeah, of course. Um, I’m Riley,” my voice softens, “. . . but I guess you knew that already, and uh, well, I probably shouldn’t say my role, not that I’m evil, I’m not, I swear, I just need the money to pay for rent, I have no job, no family, and obviously no money, haha, uh, but that’s why I took this stupid job. Ya know? Quick cash and I’m back to my sad, miserable life,” I manage to stutter. Neil stares at me blankly. “Uh, sorry, that just made me sound a whole lot more suspicious. I don’t really have any special abilities,” I admit since my notebook hasn’t listed any. “How about you? I don’t think I’ve heard from you yet either,” I say, mostly just so I don’t have to talk anymore.
“Oh, I guess I haven’t,” he admits. “Well, I was gonna attend medical school. I’ve always been good with a medkit ever since I was taught at some dumb summer camp. My hopes were way too high in high school, though. I really thought I’d get a scholarship, but by the end of senior year surprise, surprise, I get rejected and can’t pay for any of the schools I applied for,” he pauses and switches his focus to the floor, ”I know it’s too late for medical school, and this job barely pays the same as my job as a waiter but I figure it’ll help.” He finally brings his eyes back up.
“I’m assuming you’re medic then?” I ask, quiet enough so just the two of us can hear me. He doesn’t answer, but smiles sheepishly, which is enough for me to understand. I feel like I can trust this guy, so knowing he’s on the good team is a huge relief, although I still don’t know why it really matters. The two of us sit there silently for a little while longer while everyone else bonds and chats. There’s some playful bickering, mainly between George and Kacey, and I can tell they like each other already, but it’s hard to tell what exactly their relationship and future holds. Jonah, Mikaela, and Jayden occasionally chime in too. Neil and I either stay quiet or talk amongst ourselves, and Chase and Penny stay out of it completely. I can’t even tell if they’re listening. Suspicious, I guess? I don’t share these thoughts with anyone else because I realize I don't really know what I’m talking about, and I’m aware of that.
I don’t find much more out about anyone. For the most part, they all seem like pretty friendly people, and I decide my role as “survivor” isn’t gonna be as hard as I thought it was. Things get kinda interesting as we grow deeper into the night and all start to get tired. It is decided that because this house is so small, we should separate ourselves into pairs, and each share a different room for the night. I awkwardly make my way over to Neil, who doesn’t object, so we make our way into the only bedroom, which we were luckily awarded by chance, although the room is cold and the floor is hard. I’m so exhausted from traveling and panicking, and meeting so many new people that it doesn’t take long for me to start to fall asleep. Neil lays a few feet away from me so it isn’t too awkward, and the last thing I notice about him is the fact that there’s a candle-lit lantern sitting next to him.
“It’s for safety reasons,” he assures me after he catches me staring. I think it’s dorky and adorable. He’s not like the others. He’s quiet and gentle. I really hope he somehow ends up with that scholarship. I pass out while I think of him. I’ve never had a boyfriend, probably because I’m always worrying about something, never in a mentally stable place to be in a relationship, and I’m just an awkward person, anyway. I’m not saying I think Neil is gonna end up being my boyfriend because that’s so incredibly forward and I literally just met him about an hour ago, but to be honest this is the closest I’ve ever been to a boy, mentally and physically. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I don’t know him. But I somehow end up drifting off while dreaming about him.
I awaken in the middle of the night and feel some sort of excruciating pain in my leg, but I black out almost immediately after. Probably around an hour or so later I wake up again and see Neil kneeling right in front of me. I don’t know exactly what he’s doing since I’m still groggy and half asleep, but his lantern is close by, in the middle of us and the slightly open door, and I eventually make out his medkit on the other side of him. He’s wrapping my leg with a scratchy, white bandage uncomfortably tight. I manage to whisper his name before an unhealthy amount of blood pours out of my mouth like drool and there’s a cracking sound, like broken glass. The two of us both look over by the door, but whoever has knocked the lantern down becomes invisible by the time the light is gone. I close my eyes and don’t open them again until morning. I fall back asleep with little memory of what just happened, other than the fact that someone has just attempted to kill me. It finally sinks in. The murderer has just stabbed me.