I have a human in my house.

Well, I guess it's not really my house.

My dad and I moved into this dilapidated Victoria era cottage when we came up onto the mountain, years ago, at the beginning of everything. Well, I guess, moved into isn't the right term. We just tried staying the night. That was all it took.

Growing up in the town of Roanoke, I knew all the stories of these haunted woods. Of Devil's Pass Road. How no one dared ventured there, because the few who did, simply never returned.

There were stories about the house, of course. About a witch who lived in it. Or a goblin. Or a Demon. Or whatever else silly creature the human mind could create and comprehend. Depends on how it was told. But, no matter, whoever lived here, owned the mountain. Whoever lived here, killed anyone who stepped foot in her territory.

I had been so scared, being toted along behind my father. But the town had been overrun by the dead, the mountain was our last option. I cried silently the whole way up the road, thinking of all the tales and rumors that circled the classrooms and hallways in hushed whispers and wide eyes. I knew I was too old to believe in scary stories, but at that point with everything happening in the world, I honestly could not tell fact from fiction.

In the end though, the stories had some truth to them all along. Except for one thing. What happened in the woods was much, much worse than anyone could ever imagine.

I don't want to go into detail about what happened the night my father and I died. But, what can I say, the mountain is cursed.

No matter about all that now. It's in the past.

Whether it was dark magic or a demonic entity or who knows what; the house is here all the same. And the only thing that occupied it is me.

And, now, him.

He sits curled into the corner of the couch when I come back in from taking care of a few things. He's not shivering anymore, his arms are folded over his chest, knees pulled in close. I'm sure it's cold in here but he doesn't complain. It's better than out there.

I'll admit that my curiosity is piqued by this human, and I do move closer, I just want to get a better look, sitting on the coffee table in front of him. And despite me attempting to be very quiet and unnoticed, he's able to sense my presence. He straightens up a bit, moving his head slightly as if though trying to figure out which direction he's supposed to be looking.

"My name is Carl." He says unprompted, I wasn't planning on him going by any name but it's too late. Now, he is Carl. "What's yours?"

I don't give Carl an answer. He has a name now. The things humans call each other. And he wants to know mine. I have one, of course, it silently prays itself in the back of my mind. Tangled in cobwebs and tainted memories. Something I have not been called since I was still alive. I have a name. It just doesn't belong to me anymore.

"How do you secure this place?" He continues when my silence has gone on too long.

"What?"

"Do you barricade the doors? What weapons do you have-?"

"Stop." I say this sharply, without any intention of being mean, just overwhelmed with all this speaking and thinking and this human named Carl. I'm caught off guard with it. And I've never exactly been social.

He goes quiet, he takes in a breath between his lips. "I just... I'm used to being able to see what's going on. I'm not sure how much help I'll be if some Walkers-"

"Walkers?" I echo.

He nods. "Walkers." He confirms. "That's what we call them. The monsters out there."

I almost laugh. Little does he know, the monster is already in here.

The boy shifts a little, I'm sure in human terms, this whole conversation, whole predicament, is awkward. Or maybe even somewhat frightening. Alone with a stranger you can't see in a world with no rules. He treads very carefully. "When Negan comes back, we'll leave."

Oh, yeah. Negan? The one who I just dragged out into the woods for the other undead creatures to finish off. Rolled his truck behind the house to sit among the trees with a dozen other abandoned vehicles who's owners met the same fate.

"I told you. I'm pretty sure he's dead."

Carl rubs slightly at his wrist, still a little red and raw from where the ropes dug in. His long, pale fingers end with clean, neatly trimmed nails. It surprises me, whether it be because he's a boy or because he's what I'm assuming is a victim of kidnap. I glance back up at his face. His skin bears no dirt, either. Even his hair has been recently washed. But then there's the bloody blindfolding bandage.

I'm pretty sure I did a service to society with what I did to this Negan guy.

"Why were you with him anyways?"

"You know who The Saviors are?" It doesn't answer my question, but now I'm inquisitive. I feel like I might be getting a story. "The Sanctuary?"

I shake my head but then I realize he can't see me. "No."

"What about any of the other communities, safe-zones?"

"No."

"What about-?"

"-No. I haven't been off this mountain since the beginning."

"Really? Are you alone?"

"Yes."

His lips tightened, he gives a small tilt of his head, and I know what I'm looking at is his expression of sympathy. "How long?"

"Since the beginning." I tell him again.

"I'm sorry." I can tell he means it. But I don't want his pity.

"You never answered my question?"

"What?"

"About that man. Why you were with him."

The boy presses his lips together, but ultimately decided to tell me anyways. "He hurt my family. I was mad. I tried to do something stupid." He stops for a moment. He's not sure how to say this next part. "But I got caught. And he decided to keep me." The last part catches a bit and he stops again.

I don't wait for him to continue and I don't plan on asking him anymore questions.

But he keeps talking anyways.

"I was there for months. And finally, finally, he was going to take me home but..." He shakes his head. "Shit. I could be seeing my family right now-Well, not seeing-"

"What's wrong with your eyes?" I don't mean for this question to come out but it does anyways. I'm almost horrified by my intrusiveness but most of me doesn't care. Most of me is also, still, very curious about this human. "Did he do that to you?"

"Not my right eye." It's half an answer. I wait for the other half, despite not being warranted to it. And just as I'm thinking that he is taking being-what I'm guessing is-completely blinded very well, his lip quivers. Only a minuscule amount but enough for me to notice and I suddenly influxed by the feeling of sadness. Mourning. Grief. Echoing off of him and greeting me with a hollow knock.

It sits bitterly in my throat as I remember the tender, crestfallen haze of my human emotions. Something I am still capable of but choose to repress. But to see it expressed before me, by this boy, this Carl.

He quickly covers, coughing into his shoulder and shrugging. He doesn't say anything more about it and I feel a small sizzle of shame that I had pressed for the information.

"When the snow stops, I have to get back to Alexandria. Are you sure Negan's dead?"

"...I think so."

"Well, you think so or you know so? Did you see even him?"

I do that thing again, where I stop talking. It's like becoming self aware, realizing that I'm conversing with this random human I just plucked out of the clutches of his captor and, by doing so, unintentionally dampened his chances of getting back home anytime soon. I can only stare at him for a moment.

I bet you're wondering, how I can be so close and yet have self-control, suppress my appetite by not mindlessly attacking this vulnerable victim within arm's reach of me. But I'm not suppressing anything. There is no appetite to speak of.

I don't feel hunger. I don't feel pain. I don't feel anything.

I guess, the only reason I take out any unlucky traveler who comes into the vicinity is simply because it's the curse of my being. I want to be alone. I don't want to be seen. I don't want company. I don't trust humans. I don't want them around.

So, the real question is, why him? Why does he get to live? Why haven't I felt the animalistic urge to strike hard and strike fast? Why am I more curious about him living than curious about him dead?

I try not to think so hard on it. Thinking always just gets me irritated. It's too human for my liking.

"I don't think he's dead." The boy surmises after a long moment. "He's out there. He said he was going to find some tire crap. Then he'll come back. And he'll take me to my dad."

I decide to build him a fire.

It's embarrassing almost. Gathering together the meager branch pieces left over from when my father and I collected it for this exact purpose, despite never having the chance to do so. Now it's collected dust in the small box beside the untouched fireplace. I stack the wood in. Crumbled up magazine inserts get stuffed into all the little cracks to act as starter. Humans need to be warm, I suppose. And the storm of snow has only just begun.

I take Negan's lighter from my pocket, flick it open and flick it on. The flame dances eagerly and I run my finger over it, holding it in place a moment, just because I can. No burn. No pain. I turn back to the brick alter and ignite my carefully arranged display of wood and paper. It's a gentle light, it does not roar to life, but slowly makes its way across. Blackening everything in its path.

"Thank you." Carl says, blowing into his hands for warmth since the fire is taking its sweet time. His face is cast in the flickering light only, now that the sun has set, his skin glows orange and yellow and red. He feels his way closer, perching himself beside me and leaning back against the coffee table. "You should dress warmer."

I'm caught a little off guard by this and it's almost like he can hear my silent puzzlement because he explains himself.

"When you undid the ropes. I've never felt hands so cold."

I look down at the offending limbs he spoke of. Facing palm up in my lap. Fingers gnarled and boney, blackened with death at the tips, dried blood crusted into every crevasse. Nails overgrown, nearly claw like. These hands belonged to someone who was very much dead.

"Michonne used to make me carry gloves in my backpack. I wish I still had them, I could have given them to you." He says this so casually that the kindness behind it almost goes unnoticed. I forgot that was something humans did. The act of giving. I suppose during all this time, I had forgotten more about those who live than I had given much thought to. "Do you have winter clothes?"

Only what I packed to bring with me years ago. And I suppose all the clothes trespassers had been wearing when they met their fate, I keep all of those kinds of things in the claw foot bath tub upstairs. I don't need winter clothes, though, is the thing. "Yes." I tell him, anyways. Just because I don't want to explain.

"Are you wearing a jacket right now?"

"Yes." I falsely confirm once more. It's a long sleeve shirt, but it's not like he needs to know that. What I'm wearing affects me in absolutely no way.

"Okay, good."

I feel stupid then because he's not wearing a jacket. He's only got a flannel on. This whole time. I think about the nice sturdy leather jacket I pulled off of the man. I can not give it to Carl though, because he might start asking questions again.

There a moth bitten quilt folded neatly on the back of the chair, nestled in the corner, a reading nook. I take the blanket and give it to Carl. He blindly runs his hands over it, confused at first, before slowly unraveling it. "Thanks." He says. "...I appreciate all of the help with... You know, everything." This is an awkward thing for him, it's awkward for me, too. I am the last being on earth he should express gratitude towards.

"It's fine."

"I didn't use to need help before." He adds, as if it makes a difference.

Suddenly, I feel very bad for him. I can not even imagine what it might be like. To be sightless, guided only by voice. The world dark and uncertain and frightening.

I wonder what's under the bandage.