“I want to book my flight, but I’m just a student,” typed Becca, writing as Emilie. “My internship barely pays [crying face emoji, heartbreak emoji].” Becca deleted the heartbreak emoji, but after a moment's consideration, jabbed it back into existence.
Emilie was a fashion student in France. She was very talented, showed lots of promise, but she wasn’t from money. That was where Rurik came in. For all Becca knew, he also had a fake persona, claiming to be a businessman in Moscow working on some contract with an archaeological museum. She didn’t care, as long as he kept wiring her rubli.
Rurik was typing.
Rurik stopped typing.
“Can I call you?”
Becca sighed at the green chat bubble and looked out of her apartment window at the red traffic lights. She had used her real voice, with photoshopped versions of her real face and body, with this one. She had made Pittsburg look like a Parisian suburb. But she wasn’t in the mood for all that staging just now. She didn’t want to see Rurik, his buzz cut, his sad, irritated eyes and hard face. He was older, too. Rurik claimed he was thirty-five, but that number sounded too crisp. She guessed he was a decade older. Emilie was twenty-six. Becca was twenty-three.
“Shit! I told you to enter through the other gate, dude,” Max laughed into his headset. He was twenty-two, coding for PlanetTech Web Developer when he wasn’t gaming. If he had an online dating profile, that was what would be on there.
If Becca had a real one, she would write that she worked remotely as a virtual marketing analyst. She only had to fly to Chicago for big events. That was what they told her when they hired her, anyway. There had been one big event in the past two years, and Becca couldn’t go because she had slipped on ice and broken her leg. She had only sprained her ankle, really.
In Pittsburgh, it was 5:22 PM. In Paris, it was 11:22 PM. In Moscow, it was 1:22 AM. It was a Sunday. Rurik had to get up and drive his black Niva SUV to work, didn’t he? He was vying for a ‘big promotion.’ She wondered if he was drinking. Or caring for his grandmother.
She wondered why she was wondering about him. She wasn’t attracted to him in any way. Rurik padded her savings account, that was it—like her other ‘lovers’ around the world had done. She saved all of her money from scamming, and she lived below her means. The scamming was her (highly entertaining) security, more comforting than a teddy bear.
Nothing she was doing should be illegal, she thought. These were grown men, they had a right to spend and send their money however they chose. Sure, she’d promised to marry all of them, but they couldn’t actually believe that deep down. Becca assumed they just liked the attention, the occasional picture, and, if they paid big like Rurik, calls and videos.
Becca opened her “Emilie” album of prepared pictures and selfies. She found one she had taken in bed and edited weeks ago, looking pouty and tired. “I’m soooooo sleepy, sorry. Can we call tomorrow?” she wrote him.
He responded immediately with a heartbreak emoji. Becca rolled her eyes. “I want to book your flight,” Rurik texted. “Give me your email.”
Becca spent the next six minutes watching Max’s video game from where she lay on the floor. He was slashing through giant, zombie-wolf things with a flaming sword. Her phone buzzed again.
“please”
Becca weighed her options. If she pushed him to just send her money for the flight, that might be tad too suspicious, though none of the men who had actually entertained the idea that Emilie or any of her other personas were real were the type to interrogate their fantasies. Rurik was one of her younger, and thereby more technologically adept, ‘victims,’ though. He also had real money, and seemed willing to spend it if she sent him enough reassurances by word, image, and voice.
Perhaps giving him Emilie’s email would be such an assurance: that Emilie was really coming to meet him, that they really would get married in an Orthodox church and then (and only then, because Rurik was a traditional guy) fuck on the waterbed in his apartment. Becca didn’t know people still used waterbeds until Rurik, but he was somewhat of a waterbed advocate. He was a swimmer, apparently, so maybe his preferences had something to do with that. Here she was, wondering about him again.
It was like her own little video game. But instead of collecting pixelated gold coins, she got real, hard numbers in her account. That was real security. That rising number was the realest thing in the whole world.
Max groaned in defeat as the wolf-things bloodied his avatar: “You left me, man! You left me.” He had never had to worry about money. He grew up with his own bedroom, playroom, and theater room. That was real security, too: a fat inheritance.
With incredible speed, Becca created an email account for Emilie and sent it to Rurik. “OMG how can I ever thank you enough?”
“By being here.”
So he was feeling a bit insecure. But he still bought the tickets, so he remained a complete moron. Becca switched her VPN before shutting off her phone entirely.
She stared at Max’s side, his thin frame, dark hair, and long fingers. Everything about him was familiar. Even back then, in seventh grade, Becca knew he was a catch. He wasn’t ‘cool,’ but he was nice and smart and well-off. He had an older sister. He actually liked girls—just hanging out with them. He had more girl friends than Becca did. She took off her shirt and threw it at him. It landed over his controller.
“I—gotta go.” Max grinned at Becca and removed his headset. Best of all, he still looked at her as if it were the first time. Becca couldn’t imagine not having him next to her, not having the person she loved near but across oceans and time zones. She felt bad for Emilie and her other personas, pining away, lonely and staring into a portal of promises that would never be fulfilled. It made Becca want to touch Max, as if to remind herself that he was real, that she was real, and to remind him in wordless ways to propose to her by winter.
***
The dates for Emilie’s boarding at Charles de Gaulle and landing at Vnukovo International Airport had come and gone. Becca had thought about coming up with some excuse for why Emilie couldn’t come, but Rurik’s messages had grown more desperate, despairing, angry. She had to delete Emilie’s number, email, and Instagram. He had texted Emilie “I want you dead,” so Becca obliged.
She didn’t think about it for weeks. Then Max stepped in front of the reality show Becca was watching—the contestants were putting their hands into boxes of spiders and snakes (none poisonous, to Becca’s disappointment.)
He waved a thick, crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “Becca, what is this?”
She paused the show as snakes hissed and people shrieked. “What is what?”
Max turned on the harsh overhead light and handed her the paper. Becca blinked at the black, scrawled letters:
I would take the fat from two doves in love, knead it into a dough and feed it to you I WOULD TAKE THE FAT FROM TWO DOVES IN LOVE KNEAD IT INTO A DOUGH AND FEED IT TO YOU BUT YOU ARE A THIEF REBECCA IS A THIEF AND A THIEF IS DISHONEST. IT IS NO CRIME TO STEAL FROM A THIEF. I BURN YOU LIKE WOOL. I SLAUGHTER YOUR FLOCK. SPIRITS SPIRITS COME STEAL REBECCA’S LIFE REBECCA’S TIME REBECCA’S ABILITY TO RUN AND STARVE HER SOUL IN HELL.
Rurik’s handwriting was terrible.
“Becca,” Max’s tone softened with an attempt at calmness. “What the hell is this?”
Becca burst out in laughter, but this was actually serious. Rurik knew where she lived. Rurik knew who Becca was. Rurik knew Emilie never existed. But how?
This had never happened before. This had never come close to happening before. Most people she scammed were too ashamed to do anything but lick their wounds or live in denial afterwards. Some made threats, but those felt as fake and distant as the promises Becca made on her personas’ behalves.
“This is the Russian guy.”
Max’s expression made him look unfamiliar. He had also recently shaved and gotten a haircut, so that wasn’t helping. “Oh my god.”
Becca read the note again. It reminded her of the Bundy-Dahmer-serial killer documentary binge she had last year with her friend Amari. Amari was a little too into that stuff, but she was a goth.
In fact, the note was goth. It was fucking theatrical. Over the top. Hilarious. Rurik’s threats had landed differently over text, voicemail, and email. They were much more grounded in reality. This message, talking of spirits and hell and… doves’ fat, was not. Amari would get a kick out of this.
“Oh my god,” Max repeated. “I’m calling the police.”
“No!” Becca cried.
Max shuffled away, tapping on his phone. Becca sprang upon him, ramming him into the fridge and throwing his phone into an unwashed pot of tomato water in the sink.
“What the fuck?” Max screamed as if Becca had just drowned a baby. “What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” Becca admitted. “I’m sorry. I just…” She let off of him, and he fished his phone from the pot, groaning. “The romance scamming thing isn’t exactly legal.”
“You said it was!” Dirty water flicked from his phone and into Becca’s face. It smelled like garlic.
“I mean, it is. It’s not like I forced anyone to do anything, but…” Becca sighed. “People have gotten in trouble for it before.”
“What kind of trouble?” Max groped up for the rice, tipping the bag and spilling a waterfall of grains onto the counter. “Fuck! We’re going to my parents’ house.” He slapped a handful of rice over his phone and snatched up his keys. “Let’s go.”
“What are we going to tell them?”
“We can talk about that in the car.”
“Can I pack?”
Max looked at her as if she were insane. “I don’t think you need your makeup bag right now. Jesus fucking Christ.”
His comment elicited more emotion from Becca than the death threat. “You’re such a pussy.”
“Yup. Let’s go.”
Was he right? Were they in danger? Mailing a letter was one thing, traveling to America was another. “We can’t do this every time someone threatens me,” Becca muttered as they walked out the door.
“Have you gotten threats in the mail before?”
“No. But, like, I have in every other form of communication…”
“Stop. You have to stop the scamming. This guy, he’s fucking crazy—”
Becca shushed him as they speed-walked down the apartment hallway.
“I can’t deal with this. You know I have anxiety,” Max said.
“Who doesn’t?” Becca held down the power button on her phone, and it glowed into life.
“You, apparently!” Max exclaimed. “I’m scared you’re a fucking sociopath sometimes.” He swung the building’s door open, and they stomped to the parking deck.
Becca didn’t respond because she didn’t know whether she was a sociopath either. She thought the threats were funny or captivating like roadkill or car accidents. She loved scamming. It was lucrative, interesting—she always had to research and photoshop herself into some foreign man’s heart and it was new every time, like a big, abstract puzzle.
Becca didn’t speak again until they were in the car.
“I’m sorry,” Max whispered before turning the ignition. “I’m sorry, I’m just freaked out, and I’m freaked out that you’re not freaked out. It’s like you don’t care if you’re unsafe. If I’m unsafe. I love you, Becca. But this isn’t normal. This can’t be our normal.”
Part of Becca wanted to be like Emilie or Camille or Tabitha or another persona and reassure Max: I love you too. I am scared. I’ll stop scamming. But really, she was resisting the urge to cringe at the phrase “our normal,” (perhaps she had left on one too many Hallmark movies).
Max had been dramatic like this when Becca first told him about the scamming two years ago. Then he saw the money, he saw how happy it made her. Once he was able to think rationally again, after the Zoloft entered his bloodstream, what’s the harm? was written all over his face. She wished that was written all over his face now, but his eyes were wide and lips tight as if the road had insulted him.
Stop scamming? Becca imagined her thoughts on the matter resembled a smoking addict’s after a doctor advises them to quit. To stop scamming was impossible. It got her up in the morning and kept her up at night, in the best way. It was her passion. Not her boring marketing job.
“I’ll stop scamming when you stop gaming.”
Max looked a little surprised, but sobered. “Fine.” He backed up the car. “Deal.”
Becca did not expect that acquiescence. She wondered if he was serious. He had literally spent so much money on gaming and had friendships forged solely around certain video games. But, unlike Becca, he didn’t make any money from it.
“I wish you’d told me about the threats,” he mumbled.
“They’re just stupid.” Becca had thrown out Rurik’s note. It soaked up grease and banana juice and coffee grounds.
“They’re serious.” Max’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. “All we have is an alarm system, but an alarm won’t stop someone who wants us dead.”
“This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“God, Becca.” Max shook his head. He looked slightly ill. “Can you just—can you text my mom? Please? She’s probably still up.”
This would all blow over. Becca counted on that. “I’ll tell her we have a water leak.”
“Thank you,” Max exhaled as he turned left.
Once she finished typing, Becca stared down the near-empty road as their headlights carved a path through the darkness.
***
Max’s mom never responded. They were pulling into the driveway now, behind the convertible Max’s dad still didn’t trust him to drive despite the fact that Max had never even gotten a speeding ticket in his life.
“I can’t believe she’s already asleep,” Max said, exiting his nonconvertible. “She’s never asleep before midnight.” His face looked white under the moon, his eyes two shifting, shining pearls of panic. Becca couldn’t wait until this was over and they were back in their bed. Max outstretched his hand. “I’m gonna call her.”
Becca unlocked her phone and gave it to him. She changed her password every other week. “Maybe her phone is dead.”
But the phone rang and rang and rang. Max kept Becca’s phone in his hands, unlocked. Ready to call 911, apparently.
Becca sighed and brushed past him to ring the doorbell. Nothing.
“Their cars are here!” The anger in Max’s voice didn’t match his expression. He was following the perimeter of the front of the house, as if searching for clues. Clues of what?
“They’re just sleeping,” Becca intoned. “Can we go home?”
“Christ, Becca!” Max stepped between bushes and peered through a window. “What if that Russian guy, I don’t know, came here?”
“Impossible.”
Max hit the bushes with his arm. “It isn’t impossible, it isn’t!” His voice sounded strangled. Becca rang the doorbell again. Nothing. She knocked.
“Becca,” Max whispered. “Becca come here and unlock your phone.”
Becca strode off the front step and onto the pinestraw to peer through the window beside him. A red light was flickering steadily, on and off, dimly visible behind the drawn curtain.
“That’s probably their camera charging.”
“It isn’t that bright!” Max shoved Becca’s phone into her face. His hand was trembling, and for the first time she felt a real stab of guilt.
She dipped her chin at her phone’s screen to unlock it. “If you really think someone is in there—”
The window exploded. Becca’s head hit cold, spiky grass. When she rose, wincing from her cuts, she saw the window had burst outward, the glass shattered everywhere, the wooden frames broken and leaving a gaping hole. There were pieces of the window in the bushes and Max—Max was nowhere. Then Becca heard a dragging sound, glass scraping against wood, and familiar, struggling gasps.
She had always wondered what she would do in a horror-film-type-situation. Scream like a maniac and run, waving her hands in the air in the cul-de-sac? Bang on a neighbor’s door and scream for help? Call the police?
She didn't have her phone.
Warm liquid trickled down Becca’s face. She touched her cheek and hissed. A shard of glass was lodged beneath her right eye, but thank god not piercing it. Max was inside, presumably against his will, and she didn’t have her phone. Max was inside, but he was supposed to propose to her in a couple months. He would.
There was no other option.
As Becca staggered to her feet, glass slipped off her shirt, and she noticed her silk button-down pajamas were slightly bloodied. She shivered. She hadn’t worn a jacket, and the wind was merciless on this September night. She climbed through the busted window, avoiding glass spicules and spurs, and emerged in the darkened dining room. A glint from the wall flashed on a long and curved shape. It was Max’s great grandfather’s Mameluke sword from when he was in the Marine Corps in World War II. Even then, it was just for decoration. Becca reached up to remove it from its metal mount and threw off the sheath. Maybe it could deflect a bullet?
Staggering zombie-like, Becca followed a wet, crimson line into the kitchen. She found Max slumped over against the yellow light of the oven, blood soaking the front of his shirt, emitting faltering gasps. There was a chunk of glass in his neck. She stared at him with an opened, dry mouth. She couldn’t believe that much blood was coming out of him. It looked fake.
Becca was so stunned by her deflating boyfriend that she wasn’t paying much attention to the woman in the kitchen. The stranger wore a red, skintight felt onesie, and her blonde hair rolled in loose curls down her back. The kitchen smelled overwhelmingly of bread. Becca eventually noticed fresh, braided circle-loaves of it on the granite countertop. Kolaches.
The woman turned. She shared Becca’s face, the shadows from the yellow light below her following the familiar curves of Becca’s cheek and jaw, her lips closed yet relaxed in a small, strange smile.
It broke Becca from her stupor. She shrieked, raised the sword, and swung it down on her doppelganger, cutting off part of her forearm with surprising ease and… dryness. The woman was red felt on the inside, too. Now closer, Becca saw that the face staring back at her was her own, but slightly photoshopped: lips, cheeks, and eyelids heightened and enhanced, some inspiration taken from French models.
This was Emilie.
Becca gripped the woman’s arm and dug her fingers into the dense felt. “Impossible.”
Emilie gripped Becca’s throat in response—damn firm for felt. Becca’s vision went red, her mouth cottony as she struggled for air. She jabbed the sword into Emilie repeatedly, stabbing so many slits into the deep, dense felt that the oven’s light began to shine dimly through. Becca twisted the blade through Emilie once more, jamming it into the crack between the oven and the counter. She finally let go of the hilt and scratched at Emilie’s face until her skin rolled like silicon under her fingernails and she felt fibers. The hand around her neck didn’t loosen its grip. With burning lungs, Becca pawed at the gas stove and turned the knob: click, click, click.
Emilie’s face was now scratched into red featurelessness as fire rose from the gas stove, catching on her blonde curls and back. Becca fell backwards as Emilie began to flail futilely around the kitchen. When the blackened outline of herself lurched towards Becca, she slid away on the kitchen tile, watching Emilie collapse in a flaming heap while she caught her breath.
Max was slumped against the oven, unmoving. Becca crawled to him, the sight of his ruined neck painful. He was barely breathing. “Max? Max?” She patted his pockets. “Where’s my phone, Max?”
His eyes were glassy. He’d look drunk if he weren’t so pale. “I dunno. My mom,” he choked on the last word.
“Okay, okay. I’ll find them.”
“No,” Max whimpered. “They’re dead.”
“Max, my phone?”
“Don’t… don’t look for them. Take my car.”
“You need an ambulance.” Becca was afraid to move him because more blood could come out. His skin was clammy and cool.
“It’s not safe… please… leave.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The heat from the fire was dying behind her. Becca stood and almost fell forward. She stepped over the smoldering pile, sprinted semi-aimlessly down the hall, and stared up at the staircase. Something dark was smeared on the walls. Hair on the bottom stair. Becca picked up a clump of it and convulsed. Thuds rose from the basement steps, growing louder until Becca was forced to acknowledge them. She ran back into the kitchen.
“Max!”
His head hung. “Be-ved… ma.”
Becca scrambled to the oven, clutched the hilt of the sword with both hands and pulled. She strained, pressing her foot against the counter for leverage. The footsteps slowed, then clacked against tile. Rurik. Had to be. Becca ground her teeth and twisted until the blade came free. She whipped around with it, everything dull and confused.
There was a woman with an ancient face and sad eyes. It was framed by a black scarf tied under her chin. She wore a vest, long sleeves, a skirt, and thick-soled wooden shoes. She held out Becca’s phone. Its screen glowed red. The old woman bowed her head slightly.
Becca snatched her phone and backed away, blade outstretched. She turned her phone off and on again and was relieved it was back to her home screen, a portal to reality and normalcy. She dipped her chin to unlock her phone.
Face not recognized. Face not recognized. She typed in her password and saw her thumb was not her own, but wrinkled. Her nails were far too long, the sword in her hands suddenly heavier than it had been. There was crippling discomfort in her body as the floor had risen closer, her skin had dried and shriveled, her clothes smelled of dust. With diminished vision, Becca looked up from her phone and saw herself standing where the old woman had been. She saw herself standing, wearing her clothes. She watched herself go to Max, who could have been lifeless, and push him carelessly aside to pick the car keys from his pocket.
With her new, weakened body, Becca attempted to lunge at herself with the sword, but a sharp pinch in her shoulder blades caused her to crumple amongst the ashes of Emilie. She remained there on the cold tiles, listened to Max’s car engine start, and watched the headlights' rays rise up the walls until they disappeared.
Holy cow this was incredible. Masterful suspense and horror!