This town is weird. It's the only way I can describe it. Straight up strange. Now, I've always been one to fall in love with the small towns; the ones with cute little downtowns, old shops, unique architecture and buildings, but… While this town has splashes of what attracts me to places, the people throw off every sense of soon-to-be-home balance I can find in it.

When you visit a destination in the hopes of, say, vacationing there, there are some things you immediately notice: as mentioned before, the buildings would be something to catch a normal person's eye. Perhaps the second and most important would be the people inhabiting said destination. If your vacation spot tends to be a place well visited, it's hard to tell your fellow tourists apart from the natives. But if it's a sleepy a place as Abenshire, there are no tourists bustling this way and that, hurrying to get to the next attraction before you do. There are just natives. Natives sending sideways glances your way when you go grocery shopping. Natives that, when you happen to notice those glances, look away quickly and try to pretend that No, I wasn't rudely staring at you and sizing you up, and No, I will not grow any sort of balls to welcome you to our fine town.

And this, my friends, is exactly how I was greeted upon moving into my new home. My name is Annabelle Crooks, and I just finished my undergraduate for Psychology at Clemson University. Please don't assume me a southern belle, though, I promise you that while I do have my southern moments, I am nowhere close to hosting my future daughter's debutant ball. Down south there are some, I guess, rules that everyone somehow knows, but really, Abenshire could really benefit from them. Like… Saying hi to people you know are new in town. Really, you walk down the street in Clemson, and you'll get smiles and one or two 'hi''s… These people walk around like they'll slap you if you speak to them! Anyway, I'm sorry; the grocery store is still on my mind. I had this older woman literally, wide-eyed, stare at me as I loaded my food onto the belt… She didn't stop until I turned and stared at her the same way. Really, is it so hard to just say something…?

Alright, alright—I digress. After graduating, I was itching to just go. To just move. To be out in the world by myself, to take it on like the matadors take on a crazed bull! And so, confident that I could do just that, I took the first offer I got from the head psychiatrist of Abenshire Hospital—the town's only medical provider with its own psychiatric ward. Everyone in town goes there, whether for their physical or mental maladies. I would have plenty of opportunities to advance, he said. Oh, naturally, the nightlife of the town can keep anyone entertained until the wee hours of the morning, he said. Come and we'll give you your own client list immediately, he said (okay, so the first and third are completely true, but the town dies as soon as it hits 9 o'clock).

Believing all that Dr. Wates told me, starry eyed and oh so happy to explore my new life, I took the offer and bought the cheapest house in town—an early 1900's red brick house with green cast iron fencing on the roof and surrounding the front yard. Green shutters and a green door came with it, solidifying my growing hatred for the color. Maybe I'll renovate once I get more money, but until then, I'm stuck with this color scheme—along with, I've found, even more rudeness from the town's citizens. Oh, yes, it gets worse. I'm not the most religious of people, no, you could call me… Not exactly atheist, because I am quite fine with the idea of higher beings watching over me and listening to me if I need them, but I honestly would rather keep it out of my daily life. If it makes sense… I imagine myself looking up to the heavens, and shouting, "God, you're doing a great job with whatever it is you're doing, but I'm going to keep going with my life, okay? Thanks!" We've got a pretty good relationship I think.

Though maybe the citizens can tell I'm more interested in the history of Greek gods than the history of their all-powerful and omnipotent God, because soon after moving in, I got crosses chucked at my front yard. Yes. Crosses. Many of them. I really feel I can start a collection now, and maybe sell it on eBay, I'm not quite sure yet. But they've graciously made it rain crosses on my not-so-green grass (that's not my fault either, come on people) every night, or morning, or whenever it is they drop the things off (maybe casually in passing? "Oh, this yard needs more cross, luckily I have one in my pocket.") and I have graciously accepted every one of them. Because with my southern upbringing, why would I not accept a present so thoughtfully given to me?

I won't pretend to understand these people.

But, I will help them with their disorders, which I am sure they have in the same abundance as their crosses!

It's been four days since I've moved in, and boxes are still scattered haphazardly around the house. Some in the living room, some in the kitchen, some in the room I've claimed as my sleeping chamber (imagine a vampire awakening from its' coffin, mist surrounding it and arms crossed—this is what I hope to accomplish with labeling it my "chamber"), and some in a room I've dubbed my office. Luckily for me, poor college graduate as I am, the house came to me partially furnished! The living room, for instance, is exactly as it was for the last owner, as well as the bedroom. But oh, don't you worry! There is no way, no way, I will be sleeping in someone else's bed—that thing is heading straight to the dump. Or Goodwill (I can get tax deductions from this option, so… Yay, saving money!) I've already had the movers set up my simple little kitchen table, my TV (with my Xbox, of course), my office desk, bookshelves, and filing cabinets, so all I have to do is what no one ever wants to. Unpack and organize. I start on Monday, and with it still being Thursday, this seems to be the only source of entertainment I can rely on until I can surround myself with paperwork.

And, with the sun still high though not offering much warmth on this cold fall day, I begin in the living room. The first thing anyone will notice upon entering my house is this disgusting old couch. It deserves to be torn apart by my cat (introducing King Louie XIV, the cutest thing on the face of the planet. He's currently running around and attempting to jump up walls, as is customary in his kingdom). I honestly hope he destroys it, because I want a reason to go and buy another one. His front claws were taken out a while ago, though, so my hopes are dwindling… The thing is an old burgundy color, with a checker board pattern of multicolored strings that pop up out of the couch as if to say, Color makes everything better! Well, I assure you it does not. Glaring at the offending sofa, I walk the few steps it takes to get to the back of it and rest my left hand on the top of it. Ugh. It even feels gross: scratchy and no doubt infused with the essence of its last owner.

It's with that thought that the room grows still. The scent of musk I'd gotten used to already invades my nostrils more than ever, and I'm stuck staring at my living room without really seeing it. Because I'm not focusing on the room anymore—I'm focusing on the overwhelming feeling of something else hovering all around me, engulfing me, pulling me under so far that the room is reduced to fuzzy figures that mean nothing.

And that is when the scene I described last time took place.

Go ahead, go and familiarize yourself with it, and try to imagine being in my place. Please, I would love to have someone else going through this with me right now.

Fuck, is all I can stand there and think after. What the fuck, my mind repeats, finally breaking out of the trance and feeling the room return to its' normal temperature. Okay. Alright.

"AHHH," I scream as I'm sprinting out the door, legs wobbling, the shriek a bubble of fear working its' way out of my body, "FUCKING HELP ME GODDAMN!" After bursting out of my front door, chest heaving, and into the sunlight of the real world, I stop short upon seeing my audience: two old ladies chucking two crosses with Jesus on them, and a young man casually strolling along past.

"Really?" I ask the ladies, my fear translating into anger, "Could you freaking stop with the crosses ladies? For the sake of the trees?"

They give me the meanest look I've ever gotten from a woman over the age of 60, and then rush off muttering "demon, hmpf!" I stare after them with my mouth agape, then turn to the man (who is laughing behind his hand at me and my woes) and ask, shocked, "Is everyone here like this? I don't need any more of Jesus's eyes on me."

He smiles some more, shakes his head (his back hair swaying slightly along with it), and shrugs, "Maybe you shouldn't be such a demon. Or curse so much."

I blink my eyes and shake my head a little in response, incredulous, "Excuse me?" The stranger laughs and shrugs once more, offering nothing else, "Well, thank goodness I moved here! I'll start my exorcism straight away!" With that cleverly sarcastic remark making me feel better about myself and my situation, I grab up the newest crosses to add to my collection and make my way towards my door before "… just wait…" whispers in my mind's ear again, sending shivers straight down my spine and stopping me in my tracks. There's no way I'm going back in there right now. One of the biggest mistakes people make when something fucking CRAZY happens to them is that, with some flash of brilliance, they go right back in the house, or the attic, or the basement. No thank you.

I look at my hands and realize I'm shaking; I'm lucky I didn't completely collapse like I usually do when I'm scared (it's a process I can write out in a couple of steps: first, I'm scared. Second, my legs go weak, and, depending on how scared I am, I will either wobble profusely or just sit down, unable to stand. I will not be surviving the zombie apocalypse.) I turn around and see the man still standing there, looking at me with a weird kind of smile on his face. "What?" I ask curtly, so tired of all the stares these people seem to think isn't rude at all.

Again he shrugs, that smirk on his face, "Wanna hang out some time? You don't seem to be making too many friends on your own."

I look at him with a spark of interest, because, I'm sorry, but I cannot resist an attractive black-haired (did I mention blue eyed?) man smirking at me and offering to hang out with me in a town full of crazed cross throwers. It's my turn to shrug and pretend like I have tons of other things to do, "… I guess… I do have a lot of unpacking to do, but I can squeeze you in somewhere." He smiles, actually smiles and I look on in appreciation. While I'm not looking for a relationship (I promise you!), I will always readily accept eye-candy as a good friend.

I traverse the yard and hold my hand out for his cell phone, entering it and my name when he offers it to me. "I'm Clayton, by the way. Clayton Ashby. It's nice to meet you Annabelle." He says all this with his nice smile and begins to turn and walk away, but a flash of panic goes through me and tells me to make him stop—if he goes, I'm going back in that house. I'm still not ready for that.

"I'm free now if you are…!" I say quickly and not as smoothly as I wanted to. He turns and takes a second to think.

"Mmm, yeah, I think I can squeeze you in." Clayton says, nodding before suggesting, "How about some coffee?"

Relieved, my shoulders relax a bit and I smile thankfully, "Yes that would be great. Oh, but I've got to feed my cat…" And I did, my mind throwing an image of the poor thing in there all alone. "Wait for me!" I order, and without looking back to see if he will, I run into the house with the intention of getting this shit over with as quickly as possible. My mind repeats "fuck" like a mantra designed to keep the ghosts I'm convinced are here away as I run to the kitchen and grab Louie's food. The house is silent enough, nothing to worry about, so I relax just a smidge enough to call my darling out to eat.

I don't get the usual response of a bell tinkling as I usually do when I yell dinner, so, naturally, with my newly fragile mind, I immediately become ten times as nervous. "Oh, Jesus," I whisper to the empty house, eyes darting around the kitchen.

I know, I know, 'If you're not religious, why you cryin' out to them so much?' Well, snotty reader, it's a habit, so chill out. (I'm sorry for being mean, but just let me have my habits!)

A rustling comes from the other room, startling me. My heart picks up speed and sounds in my ears, along with my blood rushing frantically. Going with horror-movie stupidity, I move slowly towards the sound… Which happened to come from the living room. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, I tiptoe to the wall separating the two rooms and sneak a peek around it…

"mmeee-OOOOW!" Louie pounces on my feet, batting at them as if they're mice needing to be exterminated. I let out a gasp, clutch my heart, tell my legs to be men, and shake my head.

"Louie. You crazy mother fucker." I pick him up and set him down in front of his food, which he happily devours as if he'd just finished a tough job, and pet his head a couple of times before he looks at me like 'okay, thanks, go away.' I take the hint and skip out of the house, locking the door behind me. Clayton stands there patiently waiting for me, looking at his watch.

"What took you so long?"

"My cat's crazy. It's okay though, he has a right to. He is ruler of the house after all."

He just looks at me, so I roll my eyes with a smile, "His name's King Louie XIV."

"Ah. Clever."

"I thought so."