Invitation Only

Charlie heard the giggle on the other side of the door just as he was about to ring the doorbell. Someone cut the laughter off with a harsh “shh!” and there was the shuffle of feet.

Charlie sighed. He hated surprise parties. When Mitchell had invited him over for a quiet game night, Charlie had been nervous and pleased. He didn’t make friends easily, but Mitchell had been jovial and breezy since Charlie’s first day at work two weeks ago.

Since he'd never mentioned that his birthday was this month, he had hoped he was in the clear.

The windows were all dark, the curtains still. The house seemed to be waiting, holding its breath after that sneaky laugh. There was no way he could back out now.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced at the battered game of Risk tucked under his arm. It was the only game Charlie had in his apartment, a relic that he didn’t realize he had packed when he moved out. The box had tape around all the corners. At some point, he or his sister had scribbled the word “fartz” next to the illustration of a soldier with his back turned. He hadn’t even bothered to count the pieces to see if all the tiny plastic figures were accounted for. Not that it mattered now.

He rang the doorbell and tried not to wince at the chorus of “Surprise!” when the door swung open.

“Just give it another five years. You’ll see!”

The small group around him laughed and Charlie pulled his face into a polite smile. He cast his eyes around the living room again, bouncing from one person to another, looking for Mitchell. His friend hadn’t been at the door to greet him, but Stacy—or Macy?—had said he was out getting more ice.

“Hope you’re ok with lukewarm punch until then,” Stacy-Macy had said cheerily, holding out a paper cup decorated with rainbow confetti print.

That was twenty minutes ago. The cup in his hand was still half-full, the punch too syrupy for his taste. The inside of the cup was stained a faint red and he worried the color was on his teeth.

Someone had taken his game of Risk and put it with the large pile of gifts on the dining table, next to which was a homemade, white-frosted cake with unlit candles stuck on top. Looking at it all made Charlie uncomfortable. He didn’t know anyone here, but they bought him gifts? They baked for him?

The man who had joked about Charlie’s age said something else that made the group around him laugh again so he laughed too, wishing there was a clock somewhere in sight.

Charlie managed to extricate himself from the circle of people with a mumbled excuse and went upstairs looking for a bathroom. When he got to the landing, he heard a footfall behind him. He looked back down the staircase and thought someone was leaning into the stairwell, big smile still on their face, staring after him, but when he blinked, they were gone.

He wondered if that punch had been spiked.

All the doors in the hallway were closed and Charlie cringed. He didn’t want to snoop but he did have to use the bathroom and he didn’t want to wade through all the people clustered around downstairs. He tried the first door on the right, which opened to a small linen closet, shelves empty.

The second door on the right was locked. When he knocked, he saw the light under the door shift as someone behind it moved.

“Hello?” he asked. “I’m just looking for the bathroom.”

There was a rustle—maybe a whisper? He leaned his face closer to the door, turning his ear to the wood.

“Hello?” he said again, his fingers floating up to the doorknob again. There was definitely someone on the other side. He could almost make out words--

A hand landed on his shoulder and Charlie whirled.

“Hey, man,” Mitchell said, a smile on his face. He dropped his hand and tilted his head. “What’re you doing up here?”

Charlie swallowed, his heart still pounding in his ears. “I was...I needed a bathroom...” He looked behind him at the door, now silent on the other side. The light underneath was gone. “I thought I heard—”

“Bathroom’s downstairs, buddy,” Mitchell told him. “Come on, we don’t want you wandering off at your own party.”

Charlie nodded, rubbed at his neck to ease the goosebumps there. “Sure.”

When he descended the stairs, two dozen smiling faces turned to him.

“Just give it another five years. You’ll see!”

The group around him laughed. Charlie frowned but gave a tight smile when Mitchell clapped him on the back.

“Time to blow out the candles on the cake, buddy,” Mitchell said.

“Don’t forget your punch,” Stacy-Macy told him, pressing another cup into his hand. “Lifesaver over here finally arrived with the ice.”

But when Charlie sipped it, the punch tasted even warmer and the cloying sweetness was thick against his lips. He set it on the table as he sat down behind the white cake. It was pretty, if a little lopsided, with white piping around the edges. Someone had turned off the lights, making the dozen candles on top the only source to see by.

He looked up from his seat at the smiling faces watching him, their eyes flickering with the reflection of flames. With the limited reach of the candlelight, he couldn’t tell how many of them were standing there.

“Go ahead and blow out the candles, my man,” Mitchell said eagerly, leaning close. He licked his lips.

Weren’t they going to sing? Charlie decided not to ask. He cleared his throat. “Okay.” He took a deep breath and blew out the candles in a single, huge huff.

In the sudden dark, Charlie swore he could still see all those eyes glinting at him.

Charlie was thirsty. He had taken an obligatory bite of the cake while everyone waited for their own slice, leaning in with bright expressions. He’d hurriedly excused himself to get some water from the kitchen. He had to shove his way past people as they crowded close to Mitchell who cut little slices and handed them out on confetti-printed paper plates. Charlie didn’t mind if they finished it. He hated red velvet.

In the kitchen, he tried to open a couple of cabinets, but they were painted shut. He wondered how long Mitchell had been living in this house. Surely he would have fixed this by now? He began to reach for another cabinet when Stacy-Macy appeared at his elbow.

“Hiya, Chuck,” she said brightly. “What’re you doing?”

“Oh, I, uh, I’m just thirsty.” He had to press his back against the counter to get more space between them.

Her smile was wide and he had to look away from it. She had so many teeth.

“No worries—I found your punch.” She brought the paper cup up to his chest.

“Oh, water is fine. I just need a glass—”

“Ooh, tough luck, cutie. The water’s been turned off.” She shrugged. “Guess Mitch is bad with the utility bills.”

Charlie frowned. Was that right? He looked around and the electricity seemed to be working fine. And he had used the bathroom earlier, hadn’t he? He wanted to check the nearby faucet but it would be rude to basically accuse Stacy-Macy of lying. And she was Mitchell’s friend, right? She would know these kinds of things. But he really needed a drink—

“Good thing we’ve got this punch, huh?” Stacy-Macy prodded, snagging his attention from the kitchen sink. Her free hand trailed down his arm, lifted his fingers and wrapped them around the cup.

He looked down at it, the liquid inside thick and almost sloshing over the brim. He licked his lips. They felt so dry. “Yeah, I guess.”

Her grin widened. “Drink up, then, Birthday Boy.”

“Just give it another five years. You’ll see!”

Everyone laughed. Charlie backed away slowly, looking for Mitchell in the crowd. He edged toward the stairs, nodding and smiling whenever he caught someone watching him.

“Where you going, Charlie?” Stacy-Macy asked as he placed one foot on the stairs. Her lips were stretched across her face so wide that it looked painful. A small crack in the dry skin seeped a drop black-red of blood.

“I...I’m just looking for Mitchell,” he said as friendly as he could while he continued up the stairs. Someone behind Stacy-Macy turned to look at him. Then another. And another. There were so many people here. Had more arrived through the course of the night? Had he met any of them before? He couldn’t think straight past his racing heart and the scratchy dryness in his mouth.

“He just went out for some ice,” Stacy-Macy explained, climbing the first stair. The others were pressed close behind her now, all staring up at him with the same frozen delight on their faces.

Charlie reached the landing before he turned and ran.

He went for the second door, determined to ram his shoulder into it until it gave. Then he could climb out the window or something. Get to his car. He just had to get through the door.

When he twisted the doorknob, it turned easily and he stumbled inside. Fumbling in the dark, he slammed the door behind him and thumbed the lock. He heard footsteps, many footsteps, climbing up the stairs and slowly treading down the hall toward the door.

He skimmed his hand along the wall to find a light switch but cut himself on something—a nail? He cursed and clutched the wound, wrapping the bottom of his shirt around it. It felt deep and the pain seemed to throb with his pulse.

Someone was knocking on the door, calling his name softly, asking him to come back to the party.

“Hey, man.”

The new voice came from the other side of the room. In the dim light of the window, a shadow moved closer. He could just make out the gleam of eyes and the muted impression of a wide smile with too many teeth.

“M-Mitchell?” Charlie rasped. His throat ached and his hand burned. “Something’s wrong...I think I need...” He coughed.

“Thirsty, buddy?” Mitchell was closer now. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, Charlie watched the long drag of Mitchell’s tongue as it swept from one corner of his mouth to the other.

Charlie shook his head, but the problem was, he was thirsty. It crackled in his throat like dead, dry wood. It hurt to swallow. It made his lips stick to his teeth.

“Here you go, Chuck.” Mitchell held out a cup. Whatever was in it was warm and thick. “Better not waste it—it’s an old recipe of mine. Special guests always get the last bit left before we restock.”

Charlie took the cup with his uninjured hand. He was shaking with the desperation to drink. When he brought the cup to his lips and tipped his head back, the relief of the warm liquid was enough that he didn’t mind it when Mitchell reached out and sealed his mouth over the still-bleeding cut.

Charlie burned with thirst. He stumbled with the others in the almost dark. There were dozens of them, shifting against each other, trying to find a spot to hide. He limped to the table and ducked behind it, his head hidden behind the pile of presents.

He heard the approach of footsteps right outside the front door. Someone let out a high, delirious laugh that was cut off with a hiss.

The clang of the doorbell stung his ears and as one, all the bodies flinched. His hand bumped the corner of a box. The many tiny pieces inside rattled. He knew that sound, didn’t he? He could just remember the tumbling of colorful little soldiers onto a board before the memory winked out.

He gripped the edge of the table as his face began to stretch and crack into a rictus grin. It was almost time.

A long, leathery arm reached for the door and they all held their breath, silently counting the seconds before they could finally, finally drink.