With the money I earn, I pay some bills, refill my gas tank, and drive back to my shitty apartment building called Emerald Cove. But to tell you the truth, I'm not looking forward to it.

Before I dropped out of college, my ex-girlfriend saw the place in a newspaper article and told me all about its rough brick texture, its incredible view, and its cheap rent. But as I look back, I wish I had moved to Greenwich Village.

Couples yell behind locked doors. Unsupervised teenagers cruise across the cracked concrete with skateboards, blasting Nirvana from their giant boombox. Older adults steer their rusty cars to the parking space until there is nowhere else to park.

Falling beside me are men's clothes, underwear, and personal VHS tapes. A tweaked man looks at them in horror and yells at his angry girlfriend, who pushes a large suitcase out of the five-story window. Shaking my head, I open the door, move past a boring couple, and trot to the lobby, where the elevators are.

The entire floor smells like lemons. Dark streaks tarnish the brown tiled floor. Pushing the UP button with her thumb, I wait for the door to open until the rancid odor of body spray tumbles inside my nostrils.

It came from my Romani-American landlord, Stanley, who marches out of the bathroom, attempting to buckle his belt. His short, gray hair hides behind his ears. His head appears to have been replaced by a misshapen pumpkin. Dark, greasy stains sit on his white tank top. Once he saw me waiting near the elevator door, Stanley held out his hand.

"You're three weeks behind rent, Theresa!" he shouts.

"Look, Stanley," I sighed, removing my backpack. "I literally paid you yesterday—"

"I. Don't. Care." Stanley says harshly. "Where's the rest of it?"

I take a deep breath and exhale a sigh. "Relax, it's in my backpack."

Stanley lets out a pig-like snort and leans his sweaty back against the wall next to me. His tank top reeks of cow piss, and God knows what else. I try to move away, but Stanley keeps violating my personal space. It's like he wants me to strangle him.

"Will you drop the sarcasm, Terry, and give me what you owe?" Stanley demanded. "Your folks might think its funny, but I can't stand it one bit."

"You do know there's a technique called 'sitting', right?" I ask, opening my bag. "Maybe if you sat down, it'll fix your disgusting breath."

Snarling, Stanley is about to say something nasty when I reach into my bag and shove the envelope into his hands - just in time for the elevators to open.

"Here you go," I tell him, slowly boarding the elevator.

Stanley's eyes widen. He counts the cash inside the envelope and asks me where I got the money.

"Easy, I had sex with your mom last night," I answer sarcastically.

"Funny." my landlord snarls. "Well, don't act cute. I'll need the rent paid by next month, or else I'm throwing you, your friends, and your fucking cat out of the apartment."

Bobbing my head, I walk to the elevator shaft, but just as I push the third button, I stare at Stanley until the doors close.

Removing the pager from my back pocket, I stare at the green screen and scroll through the old messages my friends and family sent me. Some were jokes; others were reminders about picking up groceries and joining study groups.

The more I push the UP button with my thumb, the more anxious I become. Since there aren't any recent job offers, monsters, or people to track down, I think about the website I created at St. Hawthorne and decide to broaden my search at the New York Public Library tomorrow.

Last year, I was in this crime-obsessed group called The Maltese Investigations. The team comprised four people: Lea Tanaka, the medium; Benji Horowitz, the psychic; Casper De La Cruz, the shapeshifter; and yours truly.

I wrote the ideas down, Benji made the website look professional, Casper created these beautiful flyers and hung them all over the campus, and Lea gathered information. We solved dozens of abduction cases, murdered countless monsters, and got paid for our talents until the principal became aware of Casper's flyers and shut down the agency.

After we split, my old friends went separate ways while I became invisible. I didn't know anyone at that stupid college or join any "awesome" clubs because I had my neck up in student debt. While most people were friendly, others were still slightly sore about what I did three years ago.

I know you want me to fill in the details, but since I am tired, I'll tell you about it another day.

DING!

The sliding door pulls away as I shove my pager inside my pocket, head down the soft yellow corridor, and trot to the left hallway, where I find my apartment three doors down from me.

Pushing my hair back, I fight to stay awake, but since my legs are fucking tired, I stumble to the entrance, slide the key inside the knob, and force my way into the small living room.

******
My apartment is a fucking mess.

Boxes of my shit are scattered all over the small living room. Filthy dishes stack in the sink. I didn't notice the pile of bills on the small coffee table until I approached the couch.

After locking the door, I stretch my arms. My dark green bag glides down my aching back as I kick my shoes off and collapse on the red living room couch.

My arms are as limp as wet noodles. They stretch like withering vines growing in the jungle until my cat enters the living room. Its yellowish-green eyes stare at me. Its tail twitches until it pounces on the couch's arm and nudges my left buttock with its paw.

This is Ichabod, my familiar, but sometimes, I call him Crane to piss him off. He has been in my family for about seven generations now, and yet all he does is lie on the couch, watch TV, and eat all of the snacks in my apartment.

"Hey, Crane," I greet him with a yawn.

Ichabod doesn't answer. He climbs to the cluttered coffee table and demands, "Where were you? It's nearly six thirty."

"Like I told you before," I groan. "I was working with Vincent Russo."

"Are you kidding me? He's a gangster, T!"

"A gangster with enough dough to pay the bills." I point out with a yawn.

Shaking his head, Ichabod curls up into a black, fluffy ball and then leans his head a bit closer to my nose.

"You said you were going to quit this job," he reminds me for the eighth time. "You said that you were going to stop offering your services to every loser in this shitty town."

"Oh, come on," I groan. "If I keep doing this, then the fucking landlord won't bother us for another year."

"Your mom's going to be pissed at you again."

"She doesn't give a fuck about me anymore, Crane. She cut me off."

"Oh, yeah, and why do you think that is?"

I pretend I didn't hear him. "My parents aren't going to be pissed at me because we aren't going to tell them what happened tonight."

"So you'd rather lie to your family?"

"I'd rather keep doing what I am doing than look at them in the eye."

Removing the ruby and sapphire rings from my fingers, I gently place them on the floor and briefly close my eyes. I thought about pawning the rings off for extra cash, but I went to the shop, and the owner refused to take them because the rings were cheap.

I rub my thumb against my eyelids and see Ichabod jumping from the wooden table. Please pick up the rings with his teeth and place them on the bills. I, on the other hand, snatch the small remote. I then turn the TV on to Moesha, stretch my left arm, and drape it behind my head.

"Ugh," Ichabod moans. "Well, if you are going to bribe me with anything, can you at least buy me a new cat toy or better food?"

Lifting my head from the couch cushion, I give him a weird look. "What about your other toys? Why can't you play with them?"

"Because those toys are fucking old, Reese," Ichabod tells me. "And they scratch my claws."

I shift my back on the cushioned seats and stare at the ceiling again. "Since when did you become such a fucking drama queen?"

"Uh, since you became a shitty cook?" the cat retorts. "I mean, do you ever cook anything that isn't ramen or ravioli?"

"No," I answer. "But I did put a plate of "Go Fuck Yourself" on the table. I think I left you a piece in the fridge. Why don't you have some?"

Ichabod swears until I get off of the couch. I float towards the fridge, open it, and take out a half-eaten chocolate muffin.

"Hey!" he cried. "What's that?"

"A muffin," I say, grabbing a chunk from the wrapper and sliding it in my mouth. "I'm fucking starving."

"What about me?" Ichabod whines. "I want some food!"

Finishing my cake, I glance at the sack of cat food below my hovering feet and ask, "Want kibble or tuna?"

"Kibble."

"Alright."

After tossing the wrapper in the trash can, I walk to the sink full of dirty dishes, activate the faucet, and scrub every plate and utensil I see, including Ichabod's blue food bowl.

Excited, Ichabod leaps off the coffee table. He ignores the overdue bills scattered across the floor and nips at my heels. His tail brushes against my bare ankle as I dry the bowl with a dish towel and fill it with cat food.

"Here," I say, yawning. "I'm going to take a bath. Do me a favor and don't disturb me, alright?"

******
Entering my bedroom, I switch on the pink desk lamp to see The Gits, Bikini Kill, Bad Brains, Ani DiFranco, Fiona Apple, Death, X-Ray Spex, and Tori Amos posters on my dark green walls.

Next to my bed is a small bookshelf of paperbacks by Daphne du Maurier, Edgar Allen Poe, Christopher Pike, Shirley Jackson, Joyce Carol Oates, and every horror author I loved growing up in Louisiana. Crumpled cigarettes, old spell books, books written in different languages, a camera, pencils, jars of herbs, and notebook paper cover my desk.

Worn cassette tapes — from Minor Threat to Alanis Morrisette — sit on my dresser drawer. At the same time, my vanity mirror is covered with illustrations of black witches, late-70s and 80s punk posters, and a collection of zines I gathered from my assignment in Orange County.

French vanilla stings my nose as wax candles stand on the drawers. Old horror movie posters are tacked near my closet, while my white laundry basket contains dirty clothes.

Removing my clothes, I let them drop to the floor and collect a faded green Frank Zappa t-shirt with bold, black words yelling, "My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama," clean underwear, tampons, and orange shorts with panda bears on them. I stumble over to the bathroom and place my clothes on top of the toilet lid.

Loosening the belt, I pull my pants down and see the enormous red spot staining my white underwear and jeans.

"Shit!" I cry in frustration.

Throwing them on the floor, I lean my back against the bolted door and rub my exhausted eyelids.

The faucet groans. Steam appears on the bathroom mirror as the hot water rises to the tip of the small bathtub. Removing my shirt and bra, I climb into the water and shut off the faucet. Water spills on the floor towel as I reach for the soap bottle off the shelf.

I squirt thick, green liquid on my brown shoulders and hands, then place the bottle on the wet floor towel.

Darting my tired eyes to the porcelain bowl of tiny, shriveled cigarettes, I levitate one from the pile, stick it into my lips, and light the end with the tip of my index finger. As soon as the green smoke tumbles out of my nose, I lean my head back and sink into the soapy water.

While my cat is busy getting fat, I have bills to pay and an apartment to clean. Though my chores hang heavy on my shoulders, I decide not to let them bother me.

Sure, tomorrow may bring more challenges, but for now, I'm going to rest and recharge, ready to face whatever may come my way.

If only I can figure out what it is.

Staring at my Walkman on the bed, I push the PLAY button with my mind and listen to the The Standells. While the tape starts skipping over Dick Dodd's singing, it helps me take the edge off after my shitty night with Jake Nesser.

Putting a cigarette to my lips again, I exhale a long sigh, then sink my head into the soapy water until I can't hear the music. After I finish, I pull the stopper, climb out of the tub, and dry myself with a towel.

I spend an eternity blow-drying my hair, insert my tampon, throw on some clothes, and open the door to let the steam out.

"Okay, Crane!" I shout, pushing the sink stopper with my thumb. "It's time for your bath!"

I open the wooden sink cabinets and retrieve colorful bottles of cat soap and sponges. As I call the idiot's name again, I hear frantic footsteps sprinting down the staircase.

"Crane!"

"I don't want to take a bath!"

"If you don't want a bath, then I guess you don't want to play with your new toys!"

"Really? You bought me some toys?"

"Yeah, come up here!"

I lean my back against the countertop to wait for his arrival until Ichabod burst into the bathroom, panting as if he ran a marathon.

Anxious, Ichabod looks around for his new toys until I quickly shut the door behind him without touching it.

Ichabod gasps, "You fucking bitch! You lied to me!"

"Oh, tough shit!" I respond, turning on the sink. "You knew this would happen the second you walked through that door. Now, get in the sink."

"But Teddy—"

"Now."

Ichabod swears under his breath, but he leaps onto the toilet lid and pounces on the sink countertop.

"Fine," he grumbles. "But no funny business, alright?"

*******
Washing Ichabod was a long and stressful process. I made sure the water was warm, scrubbed every inch of his body with flea-killing soap and a tiny brush, and made sure none of the gunk got into his eyes. But on the other hand, Ichabod hated water so much that he tried to scratch my arms off with his claws.

Lines of blood trickle down my brown skin. I briefly pull away to stare at the cuts, regain my composure, and continue scrubbing the flea dust off his fur and dry him off with my hair dryer.

"Ta-da!" I beam, shutting off the appliance. "Now, you're all clean!"

Ichabod looks at his fluffy body in the mirror with contempt. "I look like a fucking marshmallow."

"Yeah, a fucking adorable one."

"Screw you."

Running my fingers against my scratched arms and cheeks, I manage to heal every cut Ichabod gave me during his bath. While the pain still lingers, I wash off the blood from my arms and then dry them with the bath towel.

As I carry my protesting cat to my bedroom, I think of mountains of bills on the coffee table and vow to find another client with a massive pile of cash.

Still holding Ichabod with my left hand, I crawl under the covers, rest my head on the pillow, and kiss his head until I doze off.

© kstorm68q