I’m sitting alone. I usually end up sitting alone. It’s safer.

         The party’s okay. It’s not something I’ll think about after a few days. It’s a typical Sarah party: an opening salvo of snacks and drinks to punctuate the obligatory “How are you?”s and “It’s been too long!”s followed by more substantial food. Tonight’s feature is empanadas and tacos. Eventually, everyone meanders off into small clusters and I find myself alone. It’s by choice. None of the conversations interest me tonight.

         “Hey.”

         I look up at the voice. It’s soft, but edgy. The woman is too: distressed denim, red dress shirt, dark lips and nails. Not black. That would be too cliché. I give her a casual nod, the kind that says I’m not in the mood to talk, and scooch over so she can get around me. She considers me a moment, then shrugs and tosses me an afterthought smile. 

         “Sorry,” she says as she passes. “I want to freshen my drink before they get into books,“ she gestures at the three people talking contentiously behind her, “but I’m betting they’re more Goosebumps than House of Leaves, so no rush.”

         “House of Leaves?” The words pop out before I realize.

         She looks back at me. “You’ve read it?”

         I nod. “It was good.” I glance at the small group she left behind. “Figures. Someone finally hits on something interesting and I’m wallflowering.”

         “You like horror?” the woman asks.

         I shrug. “Some.”

         “Interesting…” She lets the word trail off while she looks back at the talkers. Then she turns back to me and holds up her glass. It’s empty but for ice. “Let me get another drink and we can chat. I think you’ll be more interesting than that lot.”

         “Doubtful.”

         She smirks, rattles the ice in her glass, and walks off toward the half-wall between the kitchen and the family room that Sarah uses as a bar. I look at my glass. It’s empty enough. I stand and follow her.

         “Jessie,” I say as she notices me following.

         “Leah,” she says back. She drops a loose handful of fresh ice cubes into her glass and scan’s Sarah’s liquors, settles on a bottle of Smirnoff. She wrinkles her nose and picks it up with a shrug. “Not my favorite,” she says, twisting off the cap, “but it’ll do in a pinch.”

         Leah tosses me a playful wink as she pours vodka into her glass, then reaches for the one I’m holding. Her fingers touch mine as she takes it from my hand. They’re long and cold. She sniffs my glass and shakes her head. She doesn’t bother to empty the dregs before she sets it aside and grabs a fresh one. This one she also fills with ice and vodka.

         Leah hands me the new drink.

         “I liked my rum and Coke.” It’s a timid protest.

         Leah ignores me and pushes the drink into my hand, then clinks the glass with her own. “To being scared,” she says. Her eyes glitter. They’re green.

         “To being scared,” I echo and sip my drink. The vodka is cold and sharp. It seems strangely appropriate, and I know in that moment that cold vodka will always remind me of Leah.

         “So, you liked House of Leaves?” Leah asks.

         “Yeah,” I say.

         “Why?”

         I shrug. “It was a good book.”

         She shakes her head. “You can do better than that, Jess.”

         “It’s Jessie.”

         She looks at me intently, like an appraiser studying a stone under a lens. Or an epicure considering an unknown fruit. I feel at once diminished and singular. Her green eyes hold mine, then slide slowly down my nose to my lips. She lingers. I start to blush.

         “Jessie’s a child’s name,” she says, her eyes tracing my jaw to my cheek. “And rum and Coke’s a kiddie drink. Jess is a woman’s name. Vodka’s a woman’s drink.”

         My lip twitches. She has to notice.

         “The structure,” I whisper, then again, a little louder.

         Leah’s eyes flit back to mine. She cocks her head ever so slightly; the left side of her mouth pulls into a hinted smile.

         “House of Leaves,” I say. “I like the book’s structure. I like the way the page formatting reflects the madness settling in.”

         Leah smiles and nods. It feels like approval. It feels like all the approval I’ve ever wanted and never received.

         “Fascinating, isn’t it?” Leah says. “How the way a page is formatted can affect a story. Like in Dhalgren. Have you read it?”

         “A long time ago.”

         “Remember Kid’s journal entries?”

         “Yeah,” I nod. “Toward the end of the book, they’re printed sideways alongside the main text to mimic Kid writing in the margins of his notebook. But it’s not the same as House of Leaves.”

         “Oh?” The question sounds innocent enough to hide the challenge behind it.

         “House of Leaves uses formatting to heighten anxiety,” I explain. “Dhalgren uses it to imitate reality. And that makes sense: House of Leaves is a horror story about a house that’s bigger on the inside than the outside; Dhalgren’s a sci-fi story about a guy exploring his identity while he wanders around a ruined city.”

         “Isn’t that horror?” Leah asks.

         “How so?”

         “What breeds more fear than exploring one’s identity?”

         I tighten up. She doesn’t seem to notice, but I know she does.

         “It’s really the purest existential horror, isn’t it?” she continues. “I mean, post-apocalyptic badlands and zombie apocalypses make for accessible story foundations if you can’t wrap your head around extraplanar evil or interdimensional predators… but that horror derives from threats to existence writ large. It’s too big, too… impersonal.”

         She pauses, thinking, then catches my eyes again.

         “Identity is personal,” she says. “Intimate.”

         Leah takes a sip of her drink, lets her eyes fall away from mine and drift to my lips, my neck, my breasts. They’re not large, but sweaters lie.

         “Don’t you agree, Jess?”

         I realize I haven’t moved since our toast. I try to pass it off as attentiveness, but we both know I’ve been mesmerized by her manner, her voice, her so-green eyes. I drink my vodka and try to act more relaxed than I feel, but her scrutiny feels different somehow. My rapture wanes, withers.

         “Sarah?” I ask.

         “Yeah.”

         I groan and try not to feel betrayed.

         Leah chuckles. “How long have you known her, Jess? You know how chatty she gets when she’s had a few. Besides…” Her eyes glide along my sweater to my waist, down the inseam of my jeans, past the toe of my black pump and back to mine. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

         I believe her.

         “And I stand by what I said,” she says smartly, taking another sip of her drink. “The greatest existential horror is based in identity. Not magic. Not zombies. Not aliens.” She leans closer, smiling. “And you know I’m right.”

         I can smell her breath, still sweet despite the tacos and vodka, and a hint of Black Opium from her neck. Her skin is smooth and natural, no foundation, no blush, no imperfections. Her lips… what would they –

         “I’ll prove it,” Leah says, straightening. She clacks her glass against mine and takes a long swallow. “But first, I need a refill. You?”

         I want to say no, that I’m not much of a drinker and I’m already feeling the alcohol. Instead, I down my drink and hand her my glass. Even watered by melting ice, the vodka is sharp and aggressive.

         “Find us a place to sit,” she says, reaching for my glass. “I’ll find you.”

         I let her take it from my hand and start looking for a place to sit while Leah busies herself at Sarah’s makeshift bar. The room is noisier when I turn away from Leah. At least it seems that way. I ignore the people and their palaver and spot an open window to the fire escape. Perfect. As I cross the room, I wonder what kind of argument Leah will make to support her claim. The dominant part of me wants it to be weak and easily dismantled; the submissive part of me wants it to be masterful and unassailable; the rational part of me wants to know who Leah is and how she knows Sarah. I push the questions aside. The rum and vodka have softened my reason. The gentle buzz feels nice.

         Leah spots me and I motion for her to join me on the fire escape. She hands me my drink as we step through the window, then sits beside me on the rusty stairs. It’s quiet outside the party.

         “Good choice,” Leah says.

         “Thanks,” I say. “So… you want to back up your claim?”

         “Wow, right into it, eh? Okay.” She sips her drink. “But you have to bear with me while I lay out my case.”

         “Fair enough.” I taste my drink. “Citron?”

         Leah smirks. I chuckle and offer up my glass. Leah clicks hers against mine, takes another long sip, and sets it on the stair beside her.

         “I’m going to present three situations followed by some questions,” Leah says, holding up her thumb and two fingers as she leans back on her elbows. The top buttons of her shirt are undone. I can see the swell of her breast and the edge of her bra. Red lace.

         “Not fair,” she says. “I can’t see yours.”

         I start to stammer something and Leah laughs. It’s musical. I wonder if she finds me ridiculous or cute. I wonder why I care so much.

         “To start, think about the most terrifying media you’ve ever experienced, past or present. Movies, books, stories, what have you – The Exorcist, Hereditary, Midsommar, Who Goes There, Idiocracy, Something Wicked – “

         “Wait. Idiocracy?”

         “Yeah. It’s fucking terrifying.”

         I shrug and sip my drink.

         “Anyway,” she says. “Think about all the horror media you’ve consumed in your life and the way the most compelling of it made you feel. All of it: body horror, emotional unraveling, psychological ruin, nameless dread, everything. Now…” She leans in closer. Just a little. “I want you to imagine the before times. Imagine a man you knew then, a man who exemplified the traditional, bullshit male esthetic: straight, fit, macho – the kind of guy who talks about conquests and keeps a body count. Got it?”

         “Yeah.” I know exactly what she means.

         “What would’ve been scarier to you back then?” Leah asks. “The most terrifying media you’ve consumed to date… or that man learning who you really were inside?”

         I try not to squirm and force myself to stare straight ahead. The vodka plays with my head. “The man,” I say quietly.

         “Okay, let’s move to today. Imagine you’re walking to your car late at night in an empty, poorly lit parking garage. You’re ten yards from your car and you hear a sound behind you that you don’t recognize. What would terrify you more, the scariest media you’ve consumed to date or being in that garage?”

         “You know the answer.”

         “I do. Do you?”

         I look at the drink in my hands and tap my long nails against the glass. I know she’s right, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. I take a long swallow of vodka and turn to face her, hoping I look more settled than not. “I would never put myself in that situation, Leah.”

         “Not now…” Leah says. “Not who you are now. But before?”

         I sigh in defeat. “I wouldn’t’ve thought twice about it.”

         “That’s what I thought.” Leah picks up her glass and takes a drink. “I rest my case. Identity is the ultimate basis of true existential horror.”

         I hate Leah for being right as much as I love her for being clever. I hate the way the vodka fogs my reason as much as I love the way it enhances our proximity. But I know she’s not done.

         “That’s only two,” I say.

         Leah takes another drink and puts her glass at her feet. It’s almost empty. Somehow, mine is as well. She shifts on the stair to fully face me. She looks serene, almost regretful, as she moves a strand of hair away from my face with a long finger.

         “Third scenario.” She says, moving in closer. “Imagine that you’re alone on a fire escape with a shapeshifting monster that’s put god-knows-what into your drink… a monster that intends to take you home, rape you, kill you, and eat you.”

         I feel a ringing building in my ears as she talks. I hear her words. I understand what she is saying, but I’m not upset. I just feel fuzzy. Fuzzy and willing and lustful and sad. Profoundly sad. I want to blame the vodka but know it’s just me. It’s always me.

         “Now what’s scarier?” Leah whispers. Her teeth look longer, pointier. Her irises and pupils are gone. Her skin looks like painted glass. “The man in your past, the parking garage, or situation you’re in now?”

         I’m done fighting. I let the vodka have its way. I sigh and give her a halfhearted smile as I lean into her. Our foreheads touch. I rest my hand gently on her shoulder and run my finger lightly along her neck. It feels cold, like the vodka. No more pretense. It’s time. I let her see my eyes, my teeth.

         “It depends on the man,” I whisper. “And the garage. And the opponent.”