two, red

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...

You and Jean had already finished a couple of drinks as you wandered around your house, still unable to find the picture.

You were extremely frustrated.

You and Jean regrouped, shuffling to the island empty-handed and sitting across from each other on stools. After a second of silence, you rubbed a hand down your face and gestured to the folder, "Well, maybe we'll have more luck with this."

Jean gave a sympathetic smile, his brows furrowing as he opened the folder and pulled out notes and documents. He sighed, "I forgot my laptop."

"Jean, you need to align your priorities," you huff, a slight smile playing on your lips. "You didn't have to bring the alcohol."

"Yes, I did," he states as he arranges the papers on your island. "Nothing would have gotten done otherwise."

"That's a lot of notes," you commented. If you turned your head to the side, you could see the stairs. But the higher the step, the darker it got, until you couldn't see past the cloud of shadows hovering at the top of your stairs. You refrained from looking, knowing you wouldn't be able to see anything anyway.

"Yeah," Jean said sheepishly.

"We need to condense this. It's too wordy. For a presentation, it should be concise," you state. "I need my highlighters."

"Okay... where are your highlighters?" he asks, still looking over everything, trying to see what doesn't need to be said.

"Uh, in my room," you said. Neither of you had looked upstairs because you insisted it wouldn't be in your room or anything.

"Alright," he replies, glancing up at you.

This time, you turned to look up your stairs, leaning back a bit to get a better view. Your eyes searched as if waiting for something to pop out of the darkness. You didn't feel anything. You were scared, but it didn't feel like someone was up there.

You hoped that your intuition, or whatever it was, wasn't failing you now.

"I'll be right back," you mutter, unaware of Jean's strange gaze.

When you stood up, you considered bringing a knife with you. However, you realized that whoever was in charge of your fate had failed to write the part where you had a weapon for your protection. As you reached the beginning of the stairs, you grabbed the railing and looked up at the creatures who may have been watching.

Even if someone wasn't in your house, you were still fully convinced that there were demons or something else lurking about.

As you walked up the stairs, the higher you went, the more you could see. It was like a horror game where you couldn't see anything until you were right on top of it.

Your eyes immediately found your room, then you looked further down the hall where other rooms resided: your art room, your guest room, and finally, up at the built-in square on your ceiling.

Your attic.

You shook your head and quickly opened the door to your room, searching for your highlighters.

As you shuffled to your nightstand, your toe stubbed against something. You paused, dreading the contact, reluctant to look and see what it was—

But that didn't prevent you from instinctively looking down and noticing something poking out from under your bed.

You inwardly sigh.

You swear, if there's a monster or clown or some creepy thing just chilling under there, you're going to lose it. You backed up and squatted, staring at the object.

Okay, so far so good. But you knew better.

Reaching your hand under there? Yeah, so you can get snatched? Yeah, right.

You got up and opened your closet to retrieve a hanger. You paused, realizing how lucky you were that no one was lurking in there.

You huffed and squatted back down, using the hanger to quickly drag the object out. You barely registered what it was for a second as you picked it up.

Your eyes widened as you saw a man smiling back at you.

Tears welled in your eyes and your fingertips gently brushed the man's face, longing for real contact. You got up, opened your drawer, searched for a couple of highlighters, and hurried out of your room and down the stairs, not even thinking to look behind you.

"Jean," you call, and you hear the stool screech as he gets up. He only makes it to the threshold of your kitchen when you're in his face.

"I found it!"

In your hands was the one and only missing picture frame.

"Where was it??" he asks incredulously.

Then you paused, the air around you stilling as you thought it over. "Under my bed..." But the thing is, you've checked there hundreds of times, -reluctantly each time-, as if in hopes it would just pop up.

"What's wrong?" He asks, noticing your wide eyes and the slight trembling of your jaw.

You pull yourself together and look down at the frame. You clear your throat, smile albeit with trembling lips, and shake your head. "I finally found it," you say and suck in the traitorous flesh that is your bottom lip. "I'm so happy." Your eyes are glossed over with tears.

But you weren't sure if you were ecstatic to be reconnected with the object or if it was the chills running down your spine, leaving you with a cold feeling.

You didn't know what to do with your thoughts, and you didn't have time to figure it out because Jean was pulling you into a side hug and dragging you back to the island before you could.

"Oh, here are the highlighters," you say and hand him one. "What is this even about?"

Someone could be in your house, but you haven't seen anyone. It's making you feel like you're going crazy.

Are you... going crazy?

No, you're certain this picture was never under your bed before Jean came over. Does that mean it was placed there while he was here?

"It's a presentation about budget reviews and expense tracking. The documents are business letters and company reports, but I don't have to present them. I just stuck them in here to keep them safe and look over them a few more times," he explains, to which you nod and pretend like you know a bit of information about what he's talking about.

Honestly, you are so proud of him and wish to be as successful as he is. All you do is paint and sketch, but lately, you've been feeling stumped.

Your art can cover a wide range of subjects, yet you struggle to find inspiration. Picture having the entire world to inspire you, yet still feeling uninspired to create.

"Some of these are mainly visual," you observe.

"Yeah, it's easier for people to understand when they have something to look at to represent what I'm saying," he says and then slides a paper over to you. "Do you still think that's too much?"

You look it over and then look up at him with a deadpan expression. "Jean, you crossed out like three things."

"I know, I know! It's so difficult. I've put my blood, sweat, and tears into this, and now you're telling me it's too wordy," he complains, with his lips sticking out in a pout.

"Here, look," you lean in to show him. "You can still keep this sentence, just make it shorter. Make it more concise. You know, sound confident in what you're telling these people. You're smarter than me, Jean, I'm sure you won't have trouble crossing out the extra words.

He looks at you and the paper before smiling. "Okay, fine. You're right, let's do this."

You smile and take a couple of papers. "Who knows? Perhaps by the end of this, you might have one less paper to present."

For the next 35 minutes, both of you switch between working independently and collaborating. After highlighting and reviewing the material, he's prepared to compile everything into one document. "Hey, can I borrow your laptop?"

"Sure," you nod and rise. Fortunately, your laptop is in the living room, so there's no need to go upstairs.

Thank God.

It was resting on the coffee table when you reached for it. As you bent down, a creak echoed right above your head.

You looked up as if trying to see through the ceiling. Was the house just settling?

You decided against investigating the noise at the moment. You grabbed the laptop and returned to the kitchen. Frankly, the idea of someone roaming around your house as if they were the ones paying the bills irked you.

But, still, maybe that wasn't them.

That's right. You should stay optimistic.

"Here you go," you hand Jean your laptop. He has already poured another glass of alcohol for both of you. He swirls his glass a bit before taking a sip and then starts typing on your laptop like a madman.

"You're going to type all of this out??"

He looks up for a moment and says, "Yes, then I'll email it to myself so I can print it at home."

"You've been drinking. You shouldn't drive home right now," you say, noticing how quickly he's emptying his glass.

"True," he says. "I'll just drink lots of water to sober up. I don't want to intrude on you all night. How many glasses did I drink?"

"Like three," you smile.

"Then I'll drink four cups of water just for good measure."

"Jean, I really think you should stay here tonight," you say, looking away. The idea of him drinking and driving sends shivers down your spine.

He looks at you with a frown before nodding. "Fine, I'll stay. Don't worry, okay?

Your shoulders relax and you nod, "Thank you."

You recall him mentioning something about printing, and your eyes find the note that still taunts you from your fridge. Jean catches you staring at it and asks, "What's he like?"

"Huh?" Your brows furrow.

"Your boyfriend," He grins. "Are you happy with him?"

Happy?

"I... we're not dating yet," you tell him. "He's just someone I see now and then."

"To fuck?" He asks bluntly.

"What? No! It hasn't gone that far. Jeez," you retort. "Way to catch me off guard."

"I don't recall you ever getting so flustered about these kinds of things before," he says, raising an eyebrow at you.

"I'm not. I just wasn't expecting it, okay? No, I'm still getting to know him."

You know nothing about the fucker. And you don't intend to.

"Hm, okay," he nods. "That doesn't answer my first question though."

"He's... great?" you cringe, looking at him as if you don't know what to say.

He nods in understanding. "But he's not—"

"No, no one could be as sweet as he was. He kept me grounded, and now that he's gone, I feel like I'm floating around with no purpose in life," you say, the conversation taking a darker turn.

Jean grimaced. "Hey, you still have me, okay? Don't talk like that," he said. He perked up as if he suddenly thought of something. "How's your art going? Have you created anything new?"

"Don't even ask," you groaned. "The last piece I made was in his honor. After that, I haven't had any motivation."

"Hmm," he hums in thought. "How did you get motivated before?"

"I don't know," you shrugged, your voice quieter. "I just was."

"Why don't we take a trip to your art room?" Jean grinned, setting your laptop aside.

You swallow softly, hoping to maintain your composure. "Ghosts have probably taken over the place by now," you say.

"Please," he said, rolling his eyes. "Let's go. No excuses."

You knew it was futile, so after taking a deep breath, you stood up and followed him. Your eyes were wide as you both walked up the stairs. You expected to see some movement or hear a sound that would indicate someone was upstairs.

As you walked past your bedroom to your art room, Jean casually whistled, oblivious to the thoughts plaguing your mind, nothing happened.

He opened the door, walked in, and immediately froze, causing you to bump into him. "What??" you ask frantically while flipping on the light switch.

He sputters, "Ugh when was the last time you came up here?" he asks as he wipes at his face. "Just stepped into a damn cobweb."

You chuckle sheepishly and rub your arm. "It's been a few months. Or so."

"Seriously? But you paint so well," he complimented and walked around to look at some. He turned, and you saw his furrowed brows.

"What are you looking for??"

"Where's— aha!" He walks over to a covered painting and pulls the sheet off of it. "There it is. Why is it covered?"

You give him a look and ask, "Why do you think?"

"You shouldn't cover it. It's too beautiful. I understand why you wouldn't sell it, but keeping it locked up? Foul, Y/n, foul." He folds the sheet.

You roll your eyes and cross your arms. "Like I can focus on painting with him in the room."

"Hang it up," he suggests.

"Yes, like a plaque reminding me of all the grief and tears that I've cried. Thanks, Jean, good idea," you snap.

"Fine," he sighs. "Pick up a brush and start painting. Just see what comes out. Don't think about it."

You hesitated, but when he nodded at you, you squeezed your eyes shut and then gave in. You walked over to a stool and sat in front of the canvas you've been trying to fill for months now. All of your supplies fill the room, but your essentials and go-tos are right by you. You picked up the brush and instantly felt odd.

Something trickles up your arm and crawls around to your back, settling on your body. You look at Jean who's watching you and he doesn't say anything, so you turn back. 

"You just want me to paint? No planning, sketching, or anything?" You ask, but you do it more so to stall.

"No thinking. Just paint," he clarifies again.

You exhale and choose a random color. Red.

You start at the top right corner of the canvas and fill in the majority of the space, leaving the edges white. Maybe it was just natural for you to start with a base or background color, but to be honest, you still don't know what it is you're going to paint as your subject.

It was relaxing to feel and see the strokes of the brush working, that's one thing you'll admit. It just feels like this is what you're meant to do.

You gasp lightly, feeling this weird sense of dread. Seeing his face in the back of your mind.

You dropped the brush into your bundle of supplies. You couldn't do anything, aside from mixing another color into it, because it has to dry, but you can't right now. Your skin feels extremely warm, yet on the inside, you're cold. It's hurting you too much.

Jean must've sensed that you're done for the day because he places a hand on your shoulder and kisses your temple. "Good job. This has potential, you know? I can see it being something."

"Thank you, Jean," you sniff. "That means a lot."

"Both of you don't linger in your art room for long, and instead walk back downstairs to rummage through your fridge. "What are you feeling? Leftover spaghetti?" Jean asks as he looks through your overly full refrigerator. "Sandwiches?" He then grabs a mysterious white take-out box and opens it. "Or what looks to be 2-week-old fried chicken wings—okay, girl, seriously??? You need to go grocery shopping. It also looks like I'm going to have to check on you more often. This is not okay behavior," he scolds.

"Okay, Mom, sheesh," you joke.

He sighs and stands up straight. "I'll order something, how does that sound?"

"You don't have to baby me, you know?" You cross your arms.

"I'm not. I'm just being a good friend. Sometimes that's all someone needs," He says, pulling out his phone. "But I will be choosing the meal."

"Deal," You laugh. What would you do without him?

-

An hour later, the two of you are laughing at the show you selected and finishing up your meal. "Well, I guess we can call it a night? What do you say?" you ask.

"Yeah, I got work tomorrow," he groans. "I'll have to get up extra early to finish typing out the presentation and stuff."

"Sorry," you frown.

"It's not your fault, let's get ready for bed," he gets up and throws away your trash.

You stretch and nod. It's been oddly quiet and... so far, not entirely scary. After the small painting session, nothing else that made you feel weird happened. So, you'll take that as a good sign.

After brushing your teeth and washing your face, you ended up taking a picture of the mirror and then wiping it clean. It's hard to see the words in the photo, but if you try it's noticeable. You're not sure if it'll help later on, but you can never be too sure.

Jean had already gone off and made himself comfortable in the guest room and now it was only you wandering around, cutting off every light. You did grab that piece of paper, but you don't think it'd help much if you reported to the police, seeing as the person who put it there was smart enough to type it out.

Once you quietly made your way up to the room, your heart pounding in your chest due to anxiety, you put the paper in one of your drawers and got under the covers.

You only slipped your pants off when you were covered, just in case someone was watching.

You don't know if they're even here, but you'll be damned if you allow yourself to get naked out in the open.

You fell asleep with the picture frame right where it should be on your nightstand, and after you read one of your favorite books.

However, that night, you woke up in a cold sweat. You could've sworn you heard someone say something to you in your sleep.

It's a bit blurry to you right now, but it sounded like something along the lines of, "We'll be seeing you soon, Love."

LilReaper_

Originally written 07.07.24

Published 07.07.24

Total words; 2958