The Red Bottle Cap

Beep the PlayStation 5 light flickers from a white, to blue, then settles on a steady orange.

Clive Clifton shuffles towards his bed, pausing at the poster on his wall. He kisses his fingers and places them on the lips of a pixelated Lara Croft. Flicking the light switch, he jumps under the covers, rolling onto his side. Phone in hand, he thumbed open Reddit. Headlines about the latest Xbox handheld and platinum trophies blurred together as his eyelids grew heavy.

Plop.

A sound behind him. By the window. Clive froze, then slowly turned. He unplugged his phone, flashlight on, and slid towards the edge of the bed. Something was moving. His heart pounded. He sprang for the door-

Crunch

Pain shot up his leg, he collapsed clutching his foot, under his sole he felt a sharp edged and ragged indentation. Hopping, he lunged for the switch. Light flooded the room.

Bruce, his orange cat, licked his paw, unimpressed. “Fucken cat,” Clive muttered. He bent down, picking up the culprit, a root beer bottle cap from last night, forgotten on the floor. With a sigh he cracked open the door for Bruce. His phone buzzed and a notification lit the screen:

Dylan: Yo dickhead, pull up. Just cracked open the old PS2. Gran Turismo’s loaded and ready.

Clive smirked, slipped into his Converse All Stars, and drowned himself in Axe body spray until the air was sharp with it. Before leaving, he blew one last kiss to Lara Croft. Then tiptoed down the stairs, silencing his phone so his parents wouldn’t wake up.

Clive pulled his gray hoodie over his head, exhaling into his cupped hands until a faint mist rose against his knuckles. The night air had that early-winter bite, enough to make him shiver before he even left the yard. Before starting his walk, he typed a quick message to Dylan.

Clive: On the way ass hole, loser buys next month’s Ps plus subscription.

Shoving the phone into his pocket, he set off. The street was empty. Silent, except for the steady slap, slap of his sneakers on the pavement and the restless push of the wind between houses.

Up ahead, a tall figure moved steadily down the road, its outline swallowed by the shadows. Clive slowed. To his right, the iron gate of the graveyard stood crooked, half-swallowed in weeds. He hesitated, eyes darting between the empty suburb road and the shortcut through the graves.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, gripping the gate. “It’s cold anyway. And what harm can the dead do to me?” The metal was ice-cold against his palm. When he pushed, the rusty hinges wailed a long, broken cry into the night.

The graveyard felt like another world. On either side of the path lay rose tall marble crypts, their polished surfaces gleaming faintly even in the dark. They blocked out the wind completely, muting the air until the silence felt heavy, unnatural.

Clive walked on, his pulse steady until something flickered at the edge of his vision. A pale, gray blur. He froze. His heart climbed higher in his chest, but he forced himself to keep moving.

Another step. The blur followed.

He slowly raised his hand. The blur raised a hand too.

Crack.

Clive jumped, spinning. An owl burst from a weeping willow overhead, wings beating frantically into the night. Heart hammering, he finally saw the truth. His own reflection, shadowing him in the glossy marble of a crypt.

“Fuck this,” he hissed aloud, and started jogging. The gravestones blurred past cracked, leaning, eaten by moss-until one made him pause. This one was different. Newer. Cleaner. Too clean. Its lettering gleamed, cut sharp and fresh:

Jonathan Meyer- 1818

Clive frowned. That wasn’t possible. No stone that old should look untouched. He stepped back, breath uneven, and scanned the dark. That’s when he saw it, just beyond the graves, a figure leaned lazily against a tree, watching him.

His eyes widened.

Double take.

Gone.

The hairs on his arms stood up, and suddenly the air felt suffocating, like a trap. He bolted forward, lungs burning, pushing himself harder, as though distance alone could free him from the unseen gaze.

Clive fumbled up the white wooden trellis of Dylan’s garden, hands slipping on the worn paint, legs burning with leftover adrenaline. He reached the open window, too frantic to notice it was already ajar, and tumbled inside with a Thud.

“Jesus, what the fuck dude?” Dylan spun around, eyes wide. Clive lay sprawled on the carpet, chest heaving, eyes darting left to right. He closed them for a second, trying to steady his breath, thankful the heavy fog of Axe spray masked the sweat and fear.

“Bro, you’ll never believe it,” he panted, sitting up. “Someone was chasing me through the graveyard.” Dylan crossed to the window, leaned out into the still night, and looked around. Nothing. With a shrug, he slammed it shut. “Yeah, you really need to lay off that skunk weed,” he said, tossing Clive a transparent blue PlayStation 2 controller. It landed on Clive’s stomach with a soft plop.

“Come on. Let’s play. It’s already half past twelve and we got school tomorrow. I reckon we can squeeze in a few races.” Clive sat up, tension slowly unraveling in the warmth of the room, the familiar buzz of the TV, and the hum of the console. He smirked, gripping the controller. “Get ready to lose, motherfucker.”

Four races later, it was tied. Two wins apiece. The last one would decide it. “Mama didn’t raise no bitch, Dylan. Hope your cards ready for next month’s subscription.”

The screen flashed red. Countdown. Start. Dylan bolted ahead, hitting every line perfectly. “Suck my dick, bitch,” he laughed. Then Clive’s phone buzzed in his pocket. His stomach dropped. “Fuck. My mom.” His voice cracked. “You think she knows I’m here?”. “All I know is, we’re not pausing. Either you answer or you forfeit.”

Clive faked a yawn, pressed accept. “Hey, mom what’s up?” Her voice roared so loud Dylan heard every word. “Clive! Where are you? It’s a school night! You get home right now!” The line cut.

Clive groaned, dropping his head. “I am so grounded.” When he looked up, Dylan was grinning at the screen. Race over. He had won. “Fuck that,” Clive muttered. “We need a redo. It’s still two-two.” “Tomorrow,” Dylan said, stretching. “Get your ass home.”

Reluctantly, Clive climbed back down the trellis. The night air hit him hard, stripping away the warmth of Dylan’s room. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, hunched his shoulders, and glanced over his shoulder at the darkness. Somewhere behind him, in his memory, the figure from the graveyard still watched.

Clive cut back through the graveyard, moving fast, eyes fixed ahead. The path stretched long and empty, but every few seconds he glanced back, pulse racing. He forced himself to walk faster, almost a jog. His sneaker snagged on a tree root. Thud. He hit the ground hard, catching himself on his palms. A sting shot up his hand. When he pulled it back, he saw something pressed into his skin- a bright red Coke bottle cap.

The metal burned warm against his fingers, as if it had been waiting for him. Flipping it over, he squinted at the tiny stamp: 1818. Clive frowned. That was…impossible. Coke didn’t even exist back then, and even if it had, there was no way a cap could look this perfect after two centuries. The red paint was so bright it could’ve been dropped yesterday. He ran his thumb over the ridges again. Warm. Almost pulsing.

A chill trickled down his spine. Slowly, against his better judgement, he turned his head left. A tombstone stood there.

Johnathan Meyers.

He swallowed hard and pocketed the cap. No more looking around. No more stopping. He whistled the first dumb thing that come to mind –making my way down town- his voice cracked halfway through the tune. He didn’t stop until the iron gate of the graveyard clanged shut behind him.

Clive climbed the front porch steps. His mother stood in the doorway, shaking her head. “Really, Clive? On a school night? Grow up” she hissed. He slipped past her without a word, eyes fixed on the floor. On the worn down white leather sofa, Bruce lay licking his paws, judging him with a lazy stare. Fucking cat, Clive thought. Guess you can sleep downstairs tonight.

He trudged upstairs, no need to tip toe now, and opened his bedroom door. The air still sharp with Axe. Blowing a kiss to Lara on his poster, he collapsed onto the bed. A low vibration stirred in his pocket. Warmth spread up his body. Thinking it was his phone, he reached into his pocket. His hand closed around the bottle cap. He sighed, exhausted, and set it on the bedside table before rolling over and drifting off to sleep.

Darkness.

Clive opened his eyes. He tries lifting his hands to rub his eyes, but with a faint thud they hit something wooden. Is this sleep paralysis? he thinks to himself. He tries to roll to the left, but something wooden blocks him. He tries to roll to the right, but again is blocked. He tries to sit up, but only manages to move an inch before his head softly hits a rough wooden surface. Pulse quickens.

He lies back down and takes a deep breath. The air is stale, stuffy, almost suffocating. In a panic he begins screaming for help, but nobody can hear. He begins kicking his feet making a steady thump thump against the wooden surface. Loose soil falls onto his face the more he kicks. In a scramble Clive feels something sharp and metallic on his chest, it’s the bottle cap.

Knock knock. “Clive, it’s time to get up or you’ll be late for school,” his mother’s voice called.

The man in the bed sat up. He turned towards the mirror. His face was different, but becoming familiar. He smiled knowingly into the glass.