Contract

Contract
By Tobie Abad
Genre: Horror
Archetypes: Evil Albino, Tomboy
Keys: Betrothal or Contract, Cries in the Night, Split Personality, Grandfather Clock, Arabian Perfume, Transformation

She was late. Either that or she was not showing up at all. Megan flipped back on the dating app and checked if her date, a woman named Chelsea, had sent her any additional messages. All it contained was the last few exchanges they made the previous night, in which they agreed to meet up for dinner after work at this specific coffee shop. Coffee shops were like mushrooms, sprouting out of the ground all over the city, and so Megan carefully narrowed down which one they were to meet at. It was nearing midnight, and there was no sign of her.
Chelsea.
It was an interesting name, to say the least. Megan liked how the name rolled against her tongue. Even just saying it now made her smile. Some words just seemed to have that effect on the speaker, the way they made the tongue dance against the teeth: moist, cellar door, slump. Another digital chirp sounded, and Megan realized it was her phone notifying her of a message that just arrived.
“Almost there.”
Megan considered replying. Her fingers were already moving back and forth, anticipating the words her brain was going to direct them to type. But she hesitated. If she replied too soon, she might seem too eager. If she didn’t reply, however, she knew the other might worry she wasn’t going to make it. She was new to this online dating thing. She remembered how dating used to be about getting introduced to someone by mutual friends. And then learning more about each other over a meal and before a movie. But then again, it also meant being out with a boy. Megan only learned to accept she wasn’t really into men a few years after she finished college. And that story included her having to tell the guy she thought she liked that it wasn’t really emotionally working out on the day he asked her to marry him. It was her being honest, she always reminded herself, not cruel. She promised to never hurt anyone that much ever again—which meant having to be brutally frank if she didn’t feel the emotional connection that the other might be hoping they shared.
In many ways, this was a moment of transformation for Megan. She never really had non-straight friends, nor did she really know any personally. Back in school, there were a few classmates who were out and proud, but she never really felt a connection with any of them. It wasn’t like the moment you realized you were gay, all the gay people made sense to you. And sadly, Megan wasn’t someone people could simply connect with. She wasn’t comfortable with being open about things she enjoyed. She did not like opening up to others about herself. Once, during her younger years, a teacher went around asking each student to share what object they think best represents them. Her schoolmates excitedly answered the question with different responses – a book, a garbage compactor, a camera, a playground—and it didn’t take much to think of why they chose that object. When the teacher came to Megan, she whispered her answer and told them, “I would be a grandfather clock.” None of the other kids knew how to react. The teacher asked Megan why she chose that object, and all Megan said in response was, “Because it’s always ticking.”
Another chirp sounded. Megan realized she was so lost in her thoughts she never sent a reply! Sliding her finger across the screen, the messaging app lit up and showed the new message:
“I can see you.”
Megan looked up and glanced, hoping to see the woman looking in her direction. Seated in the café, there were a lot of possible suspects in the area—from the people waiting in line for their turn to talk to the barista to those already seated—but Megan wasn’t exactly searching blind. She did some stalker sleuthing on Chelsea after their first conversation online and found her social media profile page after the first two wrong tries. Chelsea had pale white skin that looked almost translucent; blue veins could be traced without effort. She had long, wavy hair but had it bleached and dyed to an almost platinum-blonde tone. Her photos always were cropped at the nose level, never showing her eyes. Megan wondered if that was to maintain a level of privacy. Or perhaps security. “White as a ghost, and I can’t see you,” Megan mumbled to herself as she scanned the area, finding no sign of Chelsea. A brief moment of panic hit as she suddenly worried if she was catfished. The term wasn’t that well known yet, but gained popularity from a movie documentary about couples who formed relationships online but had never met. From that movie, the idea spun off to create a television series looking for similar cases of false identities in online relationships. Maybe this person calling herself Chelsea looked nothing like the woman in the photos. Or worse, maybe she-
“Sorry, I’m late. I had some trouble finding a place to park,” the voice broke Megan from her thoughts. She turned around to find a pale-skinned woman in a black knit sweater standing behind her chair. A tight pair of jeans hugged her curvy body comfortably. She smelled of a strange, familiar, but odd scent. Like something foreign. An unusual perfume. Brown boots completed the ensemble. But what caught Megan was her eyes. Chelsea had been cropping her face off with reason!
They were the darkest black eyes she had ever seen. A light-devouring pair that seemed to draw her in. Swallow her. Consume her.
“Chelsea,” the woman offered as she held out her hand. Megan reached for it and shook it gently, fascinated with how the woman seemed almost surreal to her. She mumbled out her name and tried to say something else, but the words faded away. She felt like she was falling.
“Oh my,” Chelsea called out as Megan slumped towards the floor, her own hand still holding hers. “Someone, help?” she gasped as she wrapped her arms around Megan’s shoulders. The woman had fainted, it seemed. Her body was now a dead weight. A waiter rushed close to help. A few customers voiced some concern. Someone asked what happened. Chelsea just admitted, “We only just met today.”

“That was how we first met,” Chelsea smiled and took a sip of the chamomile tea she had steeped while Megan told their story. Megan wanted to reach out and hold Chelsea’s hand, but she was too far. There wasn’t that much mobility available when one was strapped down to a bed. Chelsea sensed Megan’s need however and set down her tea cup, stood up, and walked to Megan’s side. She slid her pale arm beside Megan’s and entwined her fingers against hers, taking care not to pin down any of the tubes. It was late in the evening, and the doctor had opted to do one final round. He arrived to see Megan having a rather intense coughing fit. He was able to calm her down but realized the coughing might be signaling a possible complication in her lungs. Chelsea suggested Megan get some sleep, but Megan insisted she wanted to stay awake. She began telling the doctor of how they met and thankfully, this seemed to have calmed down her cough.
“And how long have you been together?” the doctor asked. He stood by the foot of the bed, hands crossed over his chest with the lower hand still holding Megan’s chart.
“Two years now,” Megan answered, “She made sure I got to the hospital after the… after it…” Megan started to shake. Her voice quaked and her hands began to clench. Her breathing went irregular.
“Shh, it’s okay. We got through that,” Chelsea held Megan’s hand tighter, reassuring her she was there. “And you’re doing better.”
“Am I doing better, doc?” Megan turned to the doctor for an answer. The doctor did not give a reply. He glanced at Chelsea, then back at the chart, and hesitated some more. Megan threw Chelsea a worried glance. Chelsea shook her head as she closed her eyes and whispered, “I’m sure it is not that bad.”
“We remain… uncertain on what is causing the weakness. Your immune system continues to be compromised. All our tests, however, do not show any bacterial, parasitic or viral involvement. We need to continue observing and running a few more tests,” he explained. Megan could see how much the doctor seemed very frustrated with giving that response. She could tell he wished he could say more.
“It isn’t…” Megan hesitated to continue her question. She glanced at Chelsea for approval. Chelsea, rather than give it, continued it for her, “It isn’t HIV?”
“We haven’t been,” Megan blushed but knew it was best to be open about things. This was not the first time she was at the hospital needing assistance in boosting her immune system. Nor was this the first time she was confined for a few days since that first spell at the coffee shop. “I mean we haven’t done it. But before I met her, I was. Well, I didn’t think to needed to use protection because I was on the pill. And I thought only gay people got it.”
Chelsea turned to Megan, and the two broke into a laugh. Perhaps at some point in time, that statement would have led to an argument on stereotypes and homophobia. Today, however, it just sounded like a silly thing to think.
“No,” the doctor reassured her, “You did not test positive for that. To be honest, most of your tests show you’re actually pretty healthy. It is just strange how you remain weak despite having normal results in your other tests.” He stopped when he realized Chelsea and Megan were exchanging a kiss. Perhaps it was to make up for having to talk about past lovers. Or perhaps they just wanted a moment. The doctor looked down at the chart instead and eyed its details. Her T lymphocyte and white blood cell counts were both low, but she was not showing any issues with the lymphoid tissues of her body. “Where was it all going?”
A cry broke out in the distance. The voice sounded like a woman screaming in utter fear. The doctor turned to the two and apologized, “I better go check on that. Please, just get some rest and don’t stress yourself out. Maybe this time you won’t have to stay confined for too long.” Megan gave the doctor a nod in reply. The doctor hurried out the door.
“He means well,” Chelsea tried to reassure Megan, “But I guess he really just doesn’t know what to say.”
“I’m worried he doesn’t know what to do,” Megan sighed. She hated being on the hospital bed. She hated having tubes shoved into her body. She hated having needles stuck into her skin. She wanted so much to head home, but she had another fainting spell, and this time, the doctors insisted she stay confined. It was now two weeks. “How are we going to pay for all this?” Megan felt the tears welling up. She knew medical bills were always costly. They sort of made it a business, and all these medical health plans and stuff were made to look more attractive by reducing the already preposterous prices to something a bit more manageable if you were willing to pay the monthly dues. Having no stable job since the condition started, Megan had no health coverage to speak of.
“I’ll handle it,” Chelsea reassured her. “I have money left over from my previous job. I can pay for this.”
“It’s too much.”
“Nonsense. It is for your health.” Chelsea squeezed Megan’s hand as she said this, then stood up. She walked back to her teacup and held it to her face. It was empty, save for the teabag that Chelsea left inside. “I’m gonna go get some hot water. Will you be okay here?”
Megan nodded. She threw out a joke. “I can walk with you.”
Chelsea stuck her tongue out. “Not with all those tubes, you won’t.”
Megan watched as Chelsea slid out the door and found herself wondering when Chelsea had her hair colored again. Since they got together, Chelsea’s platinum crown of hair had slowly begun to embrace a darker shade of gray. Megan used to tease her that Chelsea’s hair was no longer pure – an inside joke that usually led to them shushing each other before other people overheard what they were saying. Today, the black hues were more dominant. Were her dark roots finally showing? Did she finally forget to have them treated before they grew out? Or maybe it was just the light.

Chelsea followed the nurses’ instructions to head down the hallway to find the water dispenser for her tea. But the truth was, she already knew where she was going. The tea was just an excuse.
She reached the end of the hallway and looked down the adjoining corridor. Down that way, a door was left partially open. Chelsea set down the teacup atop the water dispenser and quietly walked towards the room. She tried to move as quickly as she could without making a sound. She didn’t want anyone to know she was eavesdropping.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” a voice sighed inside the room. “She was already doing so well.” Chelsea pressed against the wall and resisted the urge to crane her neck and peek inside. She focused on the words coming from the room she had visited earlier that night.
“She knew she didn’t have that much time. But none of us expected her to pass away tonight. He had a few more weeks, at least. I’ll handle informing the family,” the doctor’s familiar voice replied.
“Doctor, do you see that… her hair?”
“It’s gone white.”
Chelsea hurriedly headed back to the other room where Megan was confined.

“What happened to your tea?”
Megan couldn’t understand why Chelsea seemed a bit nervous. She was pacing back and forth, like a caged animal, and began grabbing her hair with her right hand over and over again. Was she trying to soothe herself? “I thought you had gone out to get some hot water for your tea? Where is your cup?”
“There was a woman. A few rooms down. I saw it earlier when I was on my way here. Her door was open…”
“You’re not making any sense,” Megan felt worried as she said those words. She always knew Chelsea was more introverted than she was. That was why she was late for their first meeting. She kept having anxiety attacks at the thought of meeting a new person. She was worried her questions might make Chelsea feel like she was doing something wrong. And they might drive her to just leave. Megan knew she was in no position to follow her. “Just tell me what happened.”
“The woman. She was dying. I mean, that’s what she told me. And I felt so bad for her…” Chelsea dropped to the ground, her back pressed against the wall. She cupped her hands over her face, fighting the coming tears.
“What… what are you talking about?” Megan never understood why Chelsea was always afraid of being in social events. She always turned down invitations to join parties or other celebrations. She never wanted to go out with friends to a bar or pay them a visit. Megan thought it had to do with her achromia, or what she understood was a congenital disorder she had in the production of melanin, which explained her almost unnatural-looking paleness. “Did you do something?”
“She was dying and I couldn’t help it. I just had to,” Chelsea began to weep. She struggled to stay calm. Her hands began to claw at her own face and hair. Megan slowly began to see a side of Chelsea that she never had before.
“What. Did. You. Do.”
“I took her,” Chelsea felt the world crushing her as she admitted those words. She knew there was no turning back now. But what could she do? The secrets she sought to keep to herself were unraveling. She had lost self-control, and the price of her failure was the truth. She looked up and saw Megan’s frightened eyes. She heard Megan’s voice as she demanded an answer, and despite each word being heavy with courage, there was no hiding the growing terror she fought to stave away. “I took her. Away. The way I was supposed to take you. But you were so beautiful.”
Megan tried to sit upright. She always felt more focused when she sat with her back straight, but the tubes that snaked across her face and those that were plugged into her skin kept her from moving. “Chelsea, please. I don’t understand.”
“You weren’t supposed to. Our existence was never meant to be known by anyone,” Chelsea slammed both fists against the wall behind her in frustration. Megan froze in terror at the sight before her. No longer covered by Chelsea’s hands, Megan could see the jet-black streaks of what should have been tearing upon Chelsea’s face. The black oil traced every curve and fold of Chelsea’s skin, down her face and neck. But the oil continues to flow, weeping from her emptied eye sockets. Megan wanted to scream, but it was as if her voice was caught somewhere just before her throat. All she could muster were choking sounds as she struggled to breathe and scream.
“RUINED! It is all ruined now!” Chelsea reached up and tore at her own scalp. Her nails dug at her hairline, incessantly clawing until the skin began to tear. Once again, black oil instead of blood began to bubble from the wounds. “I did not want to go back! I did not want to return. I wanted to stay with you. WITH YOU!” Megan’s eyes widened in fear as Chelsea slid her fingers underneath the skin of her forehead and began to tug at it. In some odd moment, perhaps Megan’s brain sought to make sense of the sight, but she found herself remembering how she would tug at a turtle neck sweater and found it similar in nature. Megan did not realize how close to the truth her wayward thoughts were until Chelsea yanked her own face off with a single downward tug.
“Now I have no choice! The secret of our existence must never be exposed,” the faceless horror shrieked, its voice the howling wind of a growing storm. More of the black oil gushed forth, pumping like an uncapped geyser and spilling all over the once-grey floor. It rose back to its full height, unnaturally maintaining perfect balance as it twisted its back in a spine-breaking curve to assist in its ascent. With each step, the thing once known as Chelsea left messy footprints in her wake as it lumbered towards Megan’s bed.
Underneath the perfect white skin was the true face that Chelsea had never shown before – muscle-bone and sinew slick with an oil that glistened like a starry night sky, with dark looming pits where the eyes once sat. It had a skull that grinned the way human skulls do, but a second set of teeth could be glimpsed rising from fleshy alcoves behind the first set of teeth each time it spoke, much like those of a great white shark. Where its skin had ruptured elsewhere on its body, the black oil teased between fleshy tears, threatening to flow.
Then came the crunching sound of bone breaking free.
Like skeletal fingers unfurling, great spindly wings spread from her nape, tearing free from long being folded between her ribs. Translucent ribbons of what may have once been skin hung in tatters between each bony arc.
“I was supposed to claim you as well. I was supposed to take you. But I… I couldn’t.”
Megan finally found her voice. All the fear and helplessness she felt was balled up in her throat and with a single gulp she swallowed it all away. She shut her eyes tight, took a deep gasp of air, then opened them to stare straight at the thing. At Chelsea. That thing was… is… that thing is Chelsea, she told herself. That thing is her. That thing is…
“Chelsea.”
The sterilized prison of the hospital room suddenly seemed very silent. Though the tiny television screen was still on, the flickering image on its face babbled on an incoherent drone. Even the eternal hum of the air conditioner seemed muted.
It could not believe what it had just heard.
“That is you, Chelsea.”
But it heard her again. Megan was still talking to it, reaching out to it with her words, using the name it had borrowed. Taken from the last life it had ended.
“I am not Chelsea,” it growled, hissing air escaping from strange organs in its body that were nothing quite human. Its wings slightly folded, betraying its uncertainty on what was happening. “You. You are not afraid?”
“Terrified,” Megan swallowed audibly, “Scared sh*tless. But I’m not exactly able to run away, am I?”
It nodded slowly, and it cocked its head to one side, perhaps thinking observing Megan at an angle might help make sense of what was happening now.
“I don’t care what you are. What… you really are. But you said something that I need you to answer,” Megan’s courage was beginning to falter. Her legs were sliding back, away from it as it reached her bed. Her breathing began to quicken in pace. Her body had brief eruptions of fear-borne trembles. But in the face of death, Megan realized there was nothing to lose in trying the insane choice. “You said you were supposed to take me. But you didn’t.”
It lowered its head once. Megan took it to mean yes.
“Why.”
It began to hiss loudly. It was a sharp intake of breath that Megan knew would lead to an outburst. She, however, felt she could see the cards in this hand. “Chelsea. Please. Just calm down and answer.”
It went silent. It could not be denied that Megan was still referring to her by that name. It felt conflicted. It felt… hope?
“I saved you,” it responded, its wings folding back down, and its digits sliding back against her ribcage. The patagium pulled back over them to smoothen them as her torso. “I did not take you.”
“Why. Why were you going to?” Megan now was genuinely curious. And there was nothing more powerful than fear except curiosity. Especially one that was fed by hope. Remembering her outburst about the woman in the other room, Megan added, “Was I going to die?”
It nodded, this time more like how a human would. The jagged bony spikes that emerged from her fingertips began to slide back under the skin. Megan never even noticed when they first erupted. It began to hold its fingers against its skinless face. Megan could still imagine Chelsea in that very same position, the one she would hold when she was lost in her thoughts.
“You were. It is not our place to know how. But only when it was close. And we come. We take a breath. We bring the rest.”
“But for me, you didn’t,” Megan saw her vision blur. But the tears this time were different than those earlier. “You saved me. You said you fell.”
“I.. did. I did not want you to die.”
Megan still felt the same love she felt when she finally admitted to Chelsea years back that she wanted them to move in together. The months that followed were with their ups and downs, but in the end, they were magical. Save for those times when Megan would have her attacks. And she would be stuck in the hospital. Each time a bit longer than before. Tears fell now, but Megan did not wipe them away. She started to understand. “You stopped me from dying. But it isn’t working. I still am.”
“Yes.”
“Is there a way-”
It lunged forward, clamping its fingers around Megan’s face. For a brief moment, Megan raised her hands, intent to push back and fight. But just as quickly, it was over. Her hands dropped back down to her sides like a puppet that had lost its strings. Their lips were locked together. An unpleasant sound rose from Megan’s throat, almost like a half-enunciated groan. It hung in the air for a few seconds then fell silent. Her eyes lost their focus. But remained open.
A knocking sound issued from the door.

“At least she went quietly,” the doctor held Chelsea’s hands between his own, perhaps in a futile attempt to help her feel some warmth. The nurses were working behind them, preparing Megan’s remains to be moved to the morgue below. Since Chelsea and Megan had no legal status, Megan’s remains would have to remain in the morgue until someone from her family came to collect them. “The fact you didn’t hear anything and only woke up to find her already dead just shows it was a peaceful passing.”
Chelsea nodded quietly, her eyes shut tight. She motioned for her bag, which the doctor reached over to hand to her. Chelsea fumbled for the sunglasses she kept inside. “May I have.. a moment with her before you… take her away?”
The doctor said yes and asked for everyone to step outside with him. Closing the door behind them, Chelsea slid one hand atop Megan’s and ran her fingers against Megan’s knuckles. “Oh, Megan. I wish things could have ended differently. But I guess I have never learned. We can never make more of… us. Nor can we cheat the death we are fated to serve.”
Chelsea leaned close and brought her face almost against Megan’s as if to kiss her. She closed her eyes and the dark liquid squirmed from Megan’s now shock-white hair, like a sentient worm of ink, and darted back into Chelsea’s skin. Chelsea walked to the restroom, flicked on the lights, and pulled off the sunglasses on her face. She stared at her reflection as the oil found its place in her body and once more reformed into the missing eye she had been hiding since the doctors knocked at the door. She blinked a few more times to make sure the eye was crafted perfectly. Now whole, it was time to go.
“Goodbye, Megan,” the thing that used the name Chelsea walked back up to Megan’s dead body and pressed her hand gently against her cheek, “I’ll remember you. I promise.” She stopped, however, and her hair shifted in hues. “Fine,” the thing agreed, “That’s enough goodbyes. Let’s just get back to doing our thing for the next few centuries.” The thing that was once Chelsea slid the door open and as she left the doctors to do their thing, she slowly transformed to wear a whole new face. By the time she reached the automatic doors of the hospital, there was no trace of the woman named Chelsea.
“Trying that social network was a stupid idea. No more social networks this time,” it told herself, “From now on, we will stick to the Agreement. And nothing more.”
And with that, Chelsea was gone. Her account soon vanished from the internet. And no trace of her remained save for the print of her lips left upon an empty tea cup atop a water dispenser.
But beyond that, nothing.

She was gone.

About the Author:
Tobie likes to write about terrible things and about beautiful things. It is not uncommon for the lines to blur. He is a storyteller and a game designer, spending his day job creating games for children, his weekends running games for friends, and when time permits, celebrating time with his loved one, Rocky, or his ever-supportive family.