Lugosi dragged through Monday morning in a state of listlessness that was completely unlike him. Some guys are zombies when they first wake up (and for hours afterwards), but not him; he greeted each day like Spongebob Squarepants - bursting with positive energy and ready for whatever life threw at him.

Alright, that wasn't exactly true, but he never, ever shuffled around like a corpse.

Today he did, though.

Sitting in second period math, staying awake was a struggle, and keeping his head up took so much effort he almost collapsed. He didn't know why he felt so drained - he got at least seven hours of sleep the night before - but he was, and he didn't like it. At lunch, he bought a Monster from the vending machine next to the bathroom and drank it slowly, consciously trying to imble and utilize every single molecule of energy in it.

Instead, he gave himself indigestion.

Sigh.

Sitting at the cool kids' table and fighting to stay awake, he gazed across the lunch room and people watched. The jocks laughed and roasted each other (all white hats stand up); the homeboys blared rap from their phones; and the skaters...yawn. Maybe I'll put my head down and…

Ramona Santiago came out of stage left, a tray in her hands, and sat at an empty table facing the double doors to the gym. She looked angry, as always, her brows low and her eyes seething with evident disdain for life. Picking up her fork, she crossed her legs, tossed her hair, and stabbed a piece of salisbury steak like it just insulted her mother. He could feel her from here, a dark, crackling tide of negative energy; he felt it flowing into him, and a deep frown creased his face.

I should just stay here and let her be. Too tired to play rent-a-friend.

On second thought, getting my ass verbally (and maybe physically) kicked might wake me up a little.

Getting up, he walked over, ducking around a kid in a striped shirt. The closer he got, the more powerful her aura; it filled him like gas filling an empty tank, and the strangest sensation overcame him. He didn't know how, but he was somehow siphoning her emotional energy or something.

Strange.

But after being dead on his feet all day, it was nice too.

She glanced up as he sat across the table, her mouth stopping in mid-chew and her eyes narrowing dangerously. Her effervescence rolled off of her like heat from a fire, metaphorically warming Lugosi's flesh, and emotions that were not his own surged through him, chiefly among them fear. Dull and muted, but fear nonetheless.

Afraid. She was afraid of him.

That didn't come as a surprise - he'd already pegged her as being scared shitless of people because, perhaps, people treated her poorly in the past. A sharp pang of sympathy rippled through him and he seriously considered getting up and leaving her alone. He couldn't, though; call him what you want, but he wasn't the kind of person to walk away and leave someone lying on the ground in a pool of blood...even if that blood was symbolic and they were sitting up rather than lying down.

Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath through her nose. "What the fuck is your problem?" she demanded. "You got a crush on me? Your boyfriends not doing it for you?"

On the surface, she wanted him to go away. He felt that as clearly as he felt warm autumn sunshine on his back. Deep down, though, he didn't think she did. "Just wanted to say hi," he said. "You looked kind of lonely over here." He lifted his arms to indicate the vast, empty table around them.

"I'm not," she said. She darted her eyes to her tray and jabbed another piece of beef with her fork. She looked up at him and rolled her eyes. "Go away. I don't hang with fags."

For some reason that made Lugosi laugh. Maybe he was a masochist. "Come on, you don't even know me. I might be pretty cool."

"You're not."

Ow.

She slipped her fork into her mouth and chewed, looking pointedly down at her food. Lugosi watched her and tried to come up with a response. Would it be best to be straightforward, or to beat around the bush?

He mentally flipped a coin. Heads, small talk. Tails, he'd get serious.

It spun through the air and came down on tails.

Well, if you insist…

"You really care what people think about you, don't you?" he asked.

Ramona tensed and looked up at him. "No," she said, "I don't give a shit what people think about me. Now leave me alone." Only that was a lie, she did. She cared what they thought about her teeth and her ratty clothing, cared when they made fun of her, cared far, far more than she should.

Ignoring the last part, he nodded. "Good. You shouldn't. People can be cruel sometimes. And judgemental. And stuff like that. Don't let them get to you."

She furrowed her brows and tilted her head to one side in confusion. "Who the fuck are you, Doctor Phil?"

"No," he said, "I'm just a guy who wants to be your friend."

For a moment she gaped at him...then laughed in the back of her throat. "So you do have a crush on me. What a loser. I'd rather lick the bathroom floor than go out with you."

"I'm being serious," he said, "I just wanna be friends. Hey, we don't even have to be actual friends, just acquaintances."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because your bullying's getting to me and I want you to stop," he said and grinned to show that he was joking. "I figure if we're cool, you'll leave me alone. Stop hitting me with those nasty zingers."

Ramona shook her head and went back to her lunch. After a moment, Lugosi asked, "How long have you worked at Home Depot?"

She ignored him.

"Two years?"

Ignored.

"One?"

Ignored.

"Saturday was your first day?"

"Six months," she sighed. "Okay? I've been working there six months."

He sensed he was wearing her down. At this rate, they'd be chatting excitedly about cute boys in no time. "Cool," he said with a nod. "Do you like it?"

"It's fine," she grumbled and took a bite of her food. Now we're really making headway; see how she replied clearly and directly to my question? This is how you open a dialogue, folks. Or maybe not. See, I'm picking up her energy, maybe...she's picking up on mine too. I don't know, metaphysics and the parapsychological aren't really my strong suit; I know a little, but not a lot. Either way, it looks like we're getting somewhere.

"Did you choose to work in the garden department or did they stick you there?"

She sipped her milk and glowered down at her tray. "Chose." Maybe it was imagination, but her face seemed to waver in uncertainty, as though she were fighting a battle with herself and starting to lose. "I like being outside."

"Makes sense," Lugosi said. "I'd rather be outside too. My dad works in an office and I pity the guy so hard. Sitting at a desk? Yeah, no." Something occurred to him. "Do you like gardening and stuff? Like, on your free time?"

That's a reasonable assumption to make, right? Maybe she just wanted to be outside, or maybe she was into plants and stuff. Lugosi had a fern once. He called it Freddy - you know, Freddy the Fern? Yeah, it was lame, but whatever. Anyway, it died after, like, two weeks.

Dipping her fork into her mashed potatoes, Ramona sighed. "If you wanna ask me out, grow the balls and fucking do it so I can turn you down already."

"I'm not trying to ask you out, I promise," he said, "I just wanna get to know you better."

"Why?"

Lugosi didn't have an easy answer for that, so he spread his hands. "Why not?"

She very easily could have gotten up and left, but she didn't. Surly or not, her staying where she was told him that he was right in his assessment. She was scared of people...but way down deep in her soul, she still cultivated a spark-like flicker of hope. Lugosi's pity grew, and he found himself wondering if teasing was the only bad thing people had done to her.

Sighing, she shook her head. "Whatever, fag." She picked up her roll, broke it into two, then ate one piece looking down at her tray.

For a moment, Lugosi didn't speak, then: "What do you do for fun? Besides pick on people?"

"Nothing," she said, mouth full and voice muffled.

"So you just pick on people?" he leaned forward and folded his arms on the edge of the table. "I don't really do that, but I can try." He glanced over his shoulder, spotted Paul watching him quizzically (why are you hanging out with Ramona the bitch?) and waved. "Hey, Paul, I don't like your shirt."

Paul blinked in confusion. He wore a plaid short-sleeve button up the likes of which he wore everyday. Lugosi turned to Ramona, who favored him with a blank stare, and grinned. "See? Gottem."

"That's not how you pick on someone," she said.

Lugosi blinked as if in surprise. He knew that, but come one, he couldn't go too hard. "Sure it is," he said. "His grandmother bought him that shirt and he loves his grandmother, so that was pretty devastating."

He hoped she'd buy it, but from the look on her face, she didn't. "Yeah, I'm not very good at picking on people. Sorry. I tried."

Rolling her eyes, Ramona turned in her seat and faced the cool kids' table. "Hey, fatso!" she called. There was no doubt she was talking to Kayden; he glanced over his shoulder and she tilted her head back. "Nice breasts."

His face turned red and he whipped away, fat jiggling under his gray T-shirt. Lugosi winced because, wow, that was fucking harsh. Ramona turned to Lugosi and smirked coldly. "That's how you pick on someone."

"That...that was brutal," Lugosi admitted. "You know, he's really sensitive about his weight. That kind of stuff really hurts his feelings."

Ramona shrugged. "I don't give a fuck."

"Why, though?"

She opened her mouth to reply, seemed to reconsider, then looked back down at her tray. "Just leave me alone," she mumbled. "I don't need your pity."

Lugosi flinched. Well...yes, he did pity her, but that was beside the point. "I don't pity you," he lied soberly. "I just…" how should he continue? "I was serious when I said you looked kind of lonely over here. You don't really hang out anyone, and you seem alright. I mean...you come up with some pretty sick barbs. That means you're quick." He tapped his temple. "Quick people are cool."

"It comes natural," she said. He could sense rather than see her flush of of pride.

"You make good grades?"

She shrugged. "Eh. In subjects I like."

"What do you like?"

She thought for a moment. "Anything but math. I fucking hate math."

"I'm not huge on math either," Lugosi said. "I like English class." He nodded to himself. "English class is okay."

Ramona lifted one shoulder. "Eh."

"You never answered my question earlier. Do you like gardening and stuff? For fun?"

She picked up the other half of her roll and regarded it thoughtfully. "Yes," she finally said, "I like gardening."

"That's cool," Lugosi said, "I had a fern once. It died. I dunno what I did wrong."

Lifting her brow, she asked, "Did you water it?"

"Yeah," Lugosi said, "all the time. Like...five times a day? Maybe six?"

Ramona stared at him. "You over watered it, retard," she said.

"I did?" Lugosi asked dumbly.

She flashed a tight-lipped smile and nodded slowly. "Yes. You're not supposed to water them that much. You basically drowned it."

Oh. He had no idea a plant could drown. People and animals, yeah, but vegetation? Well...actually, yeah, that did make sense, but it's not like he held it underwater or anything. "I didn't mean to," he said.

"Yeah, well, that doesn't bring it back. It's still dead." The corner of her mouth twitched up into something resembling a smile, at the death of a plant or at his stupidity he didn't know.

"I know," he said and hung his head in contrition. "I feel like shit about it."

Before she could respond, if she was going to, the bell rang, signifying the end of lunch. He glanced up at her, and their eyes fleetingly met. In hers, he glimpsed a swirling mixture of confusion, trepidation, and...dude, was that mirth? Looked like it...like maybe she enjoyed hanging out with him. "Alright, it's been real," he said and got to his feet. She tracked him with her gaze, a skittish dog still expecting a blow even after being fed and petted. That made Lugosi feel even worse for her. "Maybe we can hang tomorrow?"

By way of reply, she got up, grabbed her tray, and walked away.

Lincoln sat in his armchair with his leg propped on his knee and his arms crossed over his shoulder, his eyes staring sightlessly at the TV set, where Kevin Thomas read the day's events on the CBS Evening News. Lucy was curled up on the couch with a paperback novel and Lugosi was in his room. At least Lincoln assumed that's where he was; he vanished after dinner and Lincoln hadn't seen him since.

The living room was a pool of shadows held at bay by the flicker of the television screen and by the warm, muted light of Lucy's lamp. The empty bookshelf stood against he wall flanking the entrance to the dining room, boxes of books and DVDs stacked next to it. Neither he nor Lucy had the gumption to do much unpacking today - they both worked and the idea of manual labor daunted them.

Well...that wasn't exactly the truth.

Lincoln didn't know how or why, but he had the strangest urge to dig. He couldn't say he'd ever felt the need to sink a blade into soft earth simply for the hell of it, but right now he thrummed with energy like a high tension wire, and the most beautiful thought he could muster was of him holding the splintered handle of a shovel in his hands and feeling the vibrations racing up his arms as the head slammed against a rock. A shiver went down his spine, and he shifted uncomfortably.

His mind flashed back to the dream he had the night before, the one where seething red light spilled through the cracks of the stones in the basement. Even though he knew there was nothing behind the cellar wall, he was compelled to go down there and see for himself...to run his fingers over rough rock, dig his nails into the earthen mortar, to pull…

A frown creased his lips and he opened then closed his fingers; they ached, literally ached, to rend soil and stone.

On TV, two teenage girls, hands cuffed behind their back, were lead into a courthouse by police in Stetsons and sunglasses; their gazes were downcast and their faces crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions, one brunette and roughly seventeen, the other blonde and twelve ish. "...murdered their captors in self-defense. The body of one, however, shows signs of torture that police say cast their story in doubt."

"This is really nice," Lucy said, rousing Lincoln from his reprieve. She stared at him over the arm of the couch, her mouth turned up in a tiny smile that somehow still managed to light up her face.

"It is," Lincoln said. Despite the bizarre and incessant urge to dig, it was nice. They'd passed a thousand evenings like this, but here, in their dream home, it was different; more...satisfying. "It'll be even better when we're all unpacked."

The boxes in the living room weren't the only ones still hanging around. There were a few in their bedroom, two in the kitchen, and a few they shoved into the upstairs hall closet to get out of the way. Towels, extra linens, things of that nature.

"I know," she said. "I'm putting in for some time off." She glanced down at her book with a guilty expression. "I'm kind of savoring it. Once we're moved in it won't be so new and exciting anymore."

Lincoln chuckled. She wasn't wrong. "We can't stay packed up forever," he pointed out.

"We won't," Lucy said, "hopefully I'll be done by the end of the week. Maybe Monday depending on when they approve me. Which they probably will."

"Maybe we can grill out this weekend," Lincoln suggested.

Lucy hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe."

Later, after they made love in their own bed, Lincoln lay awake staring into the darkness, Lucy's head and hand resting on his naked chest; the gentle evenness of her breathing told him she was asleep.

The ball of hot need that had knotted in his chest all evening was gone, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the cellar wall painted across the backs of his lids, that strange, eerie light throbbing like hellfire. Several times as he laid there, he almost broke and went down there...just to see. Of course he'd find nothing, it was just a dream, but feelings are irrational things, and sometimes strong, too.

Case in point: His love for Lucy.

Incest is not normal. Not only is it socially frowned upon, but the human body evolved with certain biological functions to specifically discourage it. Lincoln was a pragmatist, the meaning of life, he believed, was to create life; the human race was a self-feeding fire whose primary goal was to spread. Sex is such a major part of who we are as a species and as a civilization because each one of us is hardwired to want it, and often want it badly. Why?

To breed.

Children born of incest are at a significantly higher risk for various genetic diseases, and as the point of existence is to bear healthy offspring, the human body developed ways to dissuade it. By all rights, Lucy should never have fallen in love with him and he never should have fallen in love with her, but he did, based not on chemicals in the brain, but on emotions in the heart. There was no real way to justify it, and long ago he stopped trying. He loved her and that was the end of it. What else could he say?

Right now, he wanted to go downstairs and see for himself if there was a red glow permeating his basement. That was the end of it? What else could he say?

At some point, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, his mind drifting on dark tides. Then, all at once, he snapped instantly awake, his mind clear and his eyes wide. In the night, Lucy rolled off of him, and curled up on her side, facing the closet door...which stood ajar even though he distinctly remembered closing it earlier.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:00am.

Again?

Sighing, he drew himself to a sitting position and tilted his head back. The urge to go into the basement returned, stronger this time, pulsing in the center of his chest like a malignant tumor, and he blew a sharp puff of air through his teeth.

He knew it was stupid...knew it was an exercise in futility…

But he swung his legs out from under the covers and got up regardless, finding his way into the hall by the light of the harvest moon. He snapped the light on, filling the second floor with weak amber brilliance, then went down the stairs, stepping carefully like a boy sneaking out to see his girlfriend...or to inject tokes of weed with his buddies.

He crossed through the darkened living room and into the kitchen, flipping the switch as he went. Standing before the basement door, linolium cool under his feet, he sighed, feeling like the biggest jackass in the world. There was nothing down there. A water heater, an old furnace, some rocks. That was all.

Even so, he reached out, unlatched it, and flipped the switch on.

Nothing.

Darkness reigned supreme.

No, this is nothing like every horror movie I've ever seen.

His resolved flagged, but he forced himself on anyway. You're gonna see once and for all that there's nothing behind the wall and then you're going to go back to bed. Okay?

Sure, Linc.

Taking a deep breath like a man preparing to jump into icy water, he went down the stairs, his passage swirling dust and his weight making the treads creak underfoot. At the bottom, thin, silvery moonlight fell through the slit window on the far wall and painted the cellar in a cold, corpsey half-glow. He hesitated and his heart began to inexplicably race. Why does it feel so much different down here? The atmosphere in the rest of the house was light and buoyant, but here it was heavy and cold, like the hand of a living cadaver pressing against your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs.

His fingers closed unconsciously around the bannister and his eyes shifted to the wall; it stood dark and cold, the spectral luminescence of the moon casting it in shadows like the face of a freshly risen ghoul. It pulled him forward as if by magnetism, and he stepped off of the tread, the sole of his foot sinking into cold dirt. His heart thundered and dread coiled in the pit of his stomach like sea sperant. He let go of the railing and crossed slowly to the wall. He stopped when he was close enough to touch it, and gazed into the cracks around the stones, seeing only darkness.

Nothing.

Go back to bed.

He started to turn, but froze when a damp draft of air washed over his face from seemingly nowhere, the sound of it rushing through the cracks like the chilling whisper of voices drifting from the black recesses of an open crypt. He frowned, reached out, and ran his fingers over one of the stones; it was cool and rough to the touch.

Something had to be back there, otherwise where was the wind coming from?

The realtor did say that the house was built in the twenties, smack dab in the middle of Prohibition. Gangsters, highwaymen, and crooks did a brisk business smuggling hooch in from Canada. Maybe the original owner (what was his damn name again?) imported illegal booze and kept it in a secret room behind the basement wall. It would make sense, especially being so close to the Canadian border.

He lingered for a moment...then broke away and went back upstairs. In the morning, he would not be able to tell if it really happened...or if he was only dreaming.

After dinner, Lugosi retreated to his room and tried to do his homework, but the pervasive feeling of being watched broke his concentration. He constantly looked over his shoulder, but nothing was ever there, save for the shadows that seemed to perpetually nest in the corners. He could almost believe that it was them watching him, waiting, plotting, biding their time until he was asleep…

He also had something else on his mind.

Ramona.

He'd been thinking of her all evening. She was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and though he couldn't explain why, he was compelled to learn her secrets. Earlier, at the end of the school day, he went to get on the bus but stopped when he spotted her in a crowd of kids making their way down the sidewalk, her head bowed and her books pressed to her chest. During lunch, he felt a pull toward her, and now it was stronger, tugging incessantly at him an urgent grasp. He glanced indecisively between her and the bus - it'd be a long walk home, but the urge to follow her was strong indeed.

Making up his mind, he went after her, weaving through kids until he caught up to her at the corner. She looked up at him and rolled her eyes. Please go away, she begged, only her lips did not move. Her voice, however, sounded as clearly as though she had spoke. His friendly smile faltered and for a beat he was completely taken aback, then recovered when she threw back her head and groaned. "Why do you keep bothering me?" she asked, a strained edge in her voice.

"I'm not," he lied, "I live down this way too. Just trying to get home." That was not untrue; he did, technically, live in the direction she was walking. Way, way, way in that direction.

"You're full of shit," she said, "you're either into me or you're playing some kind of sick game."

They were crossing the street now, a line of cars idling at the light. "Game?" he asked, genuinely confused. "What kind of game could I be playing?"

One that involves me getting hurt.

"I don't wanna hurt you," he said casually because, hey, he didn't. She whipped her head up and narrowed her eyes to suspicious slits. "What?"

She started to reply, then turned away and started walking faster. He sped up to match her pace and wondered if she actually said that last part, or if he was imagining shit. Given the events of the past couple days, he couldn't entirely discount the possibility. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded sharply.

"I told you, I wanna be friends."

"You don't even know me."

Lugosi shrugged. "That's why I'm trying to find out more about you. You can't make friends with someone if you don't interact with them."

Ramona sighed.

"Look, I'm serious, okay?" he said, "I'm not asking you to put all your trust in me or anything, just...shoot the breeze."

Slumping her shoulders in defeat, she said, "Fine."

"Great," Lugosi grinned.

They walked together for five blocks and made small talk along the way. The atmosphere surrounding her, dark and oppressive when he first approached her, seemed to lighten the farther they went. Thoughts flashed through his mind and though it might sound crazy, he didn't think they were his - they came from her, none fully formed, but rather vague sensations. He pieced them together and arrived at the conclusion that he was wearing her down...and it annoyed her.

Lol, what's that Japanese term for a girl who's a bitch but likes you? Parker used it all the time. Man, that chick's a real…? Lugosi couldn't remember. Laundry?

At a side street, she stopped. "Alright, there," she said, "we interacted."

Lugosi nodded. "Yeah, we did."

"And now I'm going home."

"Okay."

She lifted her brow, then turned away. "Bye," he said.

For a moment she didn't speak, then: "Bye."

Presently, he pondered the way he felt her aura and picked up on her thoughts. Maybe he was overthinking, or maybe he was going crazy - he didn't know, and right now he was more confused than he had ever been in his life. He did know one thing for sure: He was drawn to Ramona Santiago and perhaps...perhaps she was right and he was into her.